#Hems & Homicide

[kittenintheden]

how to lose your mind

WE HAVE LIFTOFF. yeah I. it's a companion piece to how to train your brat and can be considered a future NYS teaser-spoiler. read the tags. enjoy.

Rating: E Pairing: Astarion/Ori (female Tav/OC) Word Count: 5k Content: 18+, pegging Astarion into an absolute puddle, sex toys, anal, handjob, multiple orgasms, facesitting, oral sex, overstimulation, prostate stimulation, idiots in love and so horny about it, future NYS content

That old Harper druid is a bloody harpy. Sniping, judgmental, disdainful. Eager to tell him exactly where his shortfalls lie and rebuff him like a child, smirking all the while.

Heroes. Who has need of them? Certainly not him.

Astarion bursts into their private room at the Elfsong like there’s a storm cloud over his head. Ori’s reading in an overlarge armchair near the small fireplace clad in one of her short robes. Her legs dangle off the side of the chair.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I sense there’s a story here,” she says.

He flails his hands through the air in exasperation and stalks over to the cabinet, snatching up the crystal decanter he’s been keeping his spare blood supply in lately. He turns around and points the neck of the bottle at her.

“That Jaheira is nasty,” he gripes, removing the stopper from the decanter and turning back around to pour himself a glass. “She called me, and I quote, a ‘homicidal imp easily distracted by shiny things.’” He waves his hand through the air for effect and glances over his shoulder at her.

Ori lets the hand holding her book fall to her chest and gives him a fond smile. “Is that inaccurate?”

“She’s not allowed to say it,” he says. “She hasn’t earned the right.”

He picks his goblet up by the rim and turns, resting back against the cupboard and properly looking at her as he brings it to his lips. The hem of her robe rides up her bare legs and stops just before her arse. If he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“And what have you been doing this afternoon, darling?” he says, pitching his voice lower and taking another drink as he holds her eye.

Ori shrugs. “Sorting through our chest of assorted nonsense.” She holds up her book. “Reading a bit. Enjoying the lack of whinging.”

He tuts at her. “I come to my partner for support in my time of need and all I get is teasing,” he pouts. “Woe, for I am alone in all things.”

She lolls her head back and laughs. Rolling her body toward him, she lets her book dangle from her fingers and gives him bedroom eyes from beneath her lashes. The split in her robe separates between her breasts and gives him a peek at her cleavage.

“That’s too bad,” she says coquettishly, running the fingers on her free hand over the vine tattoos twisting over her collarbone. “Here I thought I had company and that he might want to spend quality time with me tonight.”

Astarion hums at her and knocks back the rest of his refreshment. “He’ll think about it.” He turns around to pour himself another, tapping his toe against the wooden floor as he does. Over his shoulder, he says, “What were you reading, anyway?”

“Something I picked up at Sharess’ Caress,” she says.

His mouth tics up in a half-grin as he watches blood refill his silver goblet. “Ah, it all makes sense.” He sets down the decanter. “Give you any ideas for the evening’s activities?”

“One or two,” she says, a tingle going up his spine at the sultry lilt in her voice.

He looks over his shoulder to throw another quip and it sticks on his tongue when he sees that she’s sitting perched on the edge of the chair. The robe’s untied and laid fully open, revealing her bare, freckled chest and full breasts, her legs stretched out in front of her. She has her hands on the cushion behind her and arches her back so he gets the full effect as his eyes follow the natural path down from her parted lips to the valley between her breasts to the plane of her stomach to-

Ori glances down to the place his eyes have settled and says, “I thought maybe, if you wanted to, you’d like to come sit on my lap while we consider our options.”

Astarion chokes a little on his own saliva and coughs to cover it, glancing away. He clears his throat and looks back to the space between her legs, feeling a wave of surprised arousal ripple down his torso, leaving heat in its wake.

“Is that, erm.” He gestures at the dark gray, exquisitely shaped cock she’s attached to her hips with a black leather harness. “Is that the one…”

She lets her head fall to one side and grins at him. “The one I saw you eyeing when we were out before?” she says. “It is. The D-”

He waves a hand in front of him and shakes his head. “Don’t… please don’t say the name again. I can’t handle it.”

Ori giggles, head thrown back and toy bouncing teasingly in her lap. When she rights herself, her smile goes soft. She lifts a hand and holds it out to him. “Come here,” she says.

He does, leaving his second drink on the cupboard as he approaches, taking her hand. She pulls him to her gently, just enough to indicate that she’d like a kiss as she tilts her face up for him. He bends at the waist and presses his mouth to hers once, then a second time. Then he drops his gaze to the toy and reaches down to touch it.

It’s hard in a way that makes his own cock respond in kind at its promise, but softer than he’d thought it would be, as if it’s covered in a thin layer of well-conditioned leather. He runs his fingers over it, mapping its shape. Good. Very good shape. Very good size.

“Mmmn,” he breathes before he can catch the sound in his throat.

Ori leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “It’s an option. If you want. Or we can do something else.”

He laughs through his teeth. “No, this, uh. This is. I like it.” He meets her eye. “I think I would like to do that. With you.”

She smiles and waits.

“Now,” Astarion specifies. “I would like to do it now.”

“Lucky you,” she purrs, twisting her fingers in the front of his shirt and pulling him against her for another kiss.

Their tongues tangle together and he falls to his knees between her legs. He pulls the robe off her shoulders so he can run his lips and tongue along her collarbone and up over the place where her neck meets her shoulder. Another rush of arousal throbs through his core as his body and mind remember that this can feel good, it can feel so good, and he trusts that she’ll take care of him.

Ori’s hands go up under his shirt and she helps him get it off over his head, their mouths only parting long enough to remove it. She twines both hands around the nape of his neck and strokes her tongue sweetly against his. He groans as he presses his body to hers and feels the cock pressed between their bellies.

Half-reluctantly, half-eagerly, he breaks away and pushes himself to standing, going to undo his fastenings. Ori’s hands fall over his and he lets her take over, loosening his ties. As she does, she presses soft kisses along the line between his navel and his pelvis, further igniting his need. It’s all he can do not to whine at her.

She chuckles and gets his laces undone, hooking her fingers under the hem of his breeches and pulling them down until his hard cock springs free, the head swollen tight and pink with want.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, observing him mere inches from her face. “I thought you might like this, but I had no idea.”

He murmurs his approval as she pokes out her tongue and runs it sweetly over the slit on the underside of him, his pre-fluid creating a tiny pool in the center of her tongue. Then she looks up at him and swallows.

“How would you like it, dearest?” she says. “This is for you.”

It fully hits him, then. His gaze shifts to the side table where she’s set out a few things – towels, a basin, vials. The toy she’s wearing won’t give her any pleasure of her own, at least not the way she’s offering it to him.

“You planned this,” he breathes. “For me.”

She nods.

His throat bobs, desire and adoration swirling together inside him. He doesn’t know how to thank her. For this, for everything. But he’ll figure it out. Every day until it all ends, he’ll figure it out.

“I can be on top?” he asks softly.

“Of course you can, love,” she says, running her hands up the outsides of his thighs. She helps him remove his remaining clothes and then reaches for one of the vials.

Astarion lifts one of his legs and sets his foot on the chair beside her, leaving the other on the floor. Ori takes his hint and applies lubricating oil to her fingers before she reaches between his legs, continuing to press open-mouthed kisses to his stomach as she runs her middle finger along the cleft of his arse. His breath catches when she finds the opening and massages it gently with the pad of her finger.

He closes his eyes and relaxes into the feeling, letting himself enjoy the way she’s touching him. His thigh falls open wider, giving her better access. She takes her time, completely unhurried, letting him shiver and sigh for her. She touches him, kisses him, sings him his praises.

When he begins to squirm impatiently and cracks his eyes to give her a heated look, she gives the head of his cock another lick and pushes her finger inside slowly, up to the first knuckle to start. He clenches on instinct, then in pleasure, then relaxes as she pushes deeper, past the second ring of muscle.

He didn’t have doubts about her experience, really, but any he might have had evaporate when she curls her finger and finds his pleasure center almost immediately.

“Oh,” he breathes, curling over her slightly and gripping the arms of the chair. “Yes, there, right there.”

She works him slowly with one finger, then two, stroking circles along the place inside him that makes his toes curl. A low, aching, insistent tension begins deep inside him. The feverish need for more.

Instinctively, hard-coded from years of experience, Astarion reaches out blindly for her cock to stroke along its length, to bring her in closer to his body. It takes him a murky moment to realize it’s likely for naught, but he does it anyway. He feels oil against his fingers and realizes she’s added more, this time to the phallus she wears. He swallows hard and spreads it, pumping like he would if she could feel him.

Ori reaches up to the back of his head with her free hand and presses their foreheads together. “Whenever you’re ready, love.”

“Ready,” he pants. “Gods, so ready.”

She carefully removes her fingers from him so he can crawl up onto the chair with her, his knees on either side of her hips as he straddles her. Ori puts her hands on his hips while he holds on to the back of the chair and helps him line up, the phallus held firm in its harness. He finds it and sinks down, his breath coming rapidly as the head of it stretches him.

He rocks softly down, down, and down again, and then she’s partway inside him, the curve of the toy hitting him just right.

“Uuuuhhh fuck me,” he grits out as he moves.

“Trying, baby,” she says.

She puts her forearm against the chair for leverage and rolls herself up into him, her torso undulating in a smooth wave. Astarion shudders out his breath and lets his eyes fall closed as she works the full length inside him, stroking firmly along his hot spot on the way in and out. His fingers tighten against the chair and he turns his head to the side to gently bite down on his own arm to stifle the noises threatening to spill from his lips.

He works his hips in tandem with her, finding an easy rhythm that feels absolutely delicious. Ori’s hands run up his chest and around his ribs to his back. She brings her face in close to him, licking her tongue over his pectoral until she finds his nipple, and pauses there to gently suck.

“Hmmmmn-ah,” Astarion moans, releasing his arm where he’s biting it and letting sound rise out of his throat once more. Too focused on the tension building within him to be anything resembling coherent. His head feels far too heavy as he presses it against the side of her face.

With his mouth near her ear, she can pick out a select few words – mostly Elvish, with her name peppered in for good measure.

She takes her mouth from his chest and turns to kiss him quiet. He continues to rock against her, occasionally bobbing up and down. His timing goes increasingly spotty.

When they break, she whispers, “This must feel good. You’re doing the garbled Elvish thing.”

“Mmmm sh-shhh,” he shushes her, leaning in to cover her mouth with his, kissing between shallow gasps. For once, he has no clever comeback on deck. The only thing currently top of mind is that the combination of riding good cock and knowing the good cock belongs to the person he loves is driving him out of his absolute mind with pleasure.

He releases a hand from the chair and lets one arm fall to his side, dangling it as he leans back and rolls his hips against her, panting out a steady stream of hah, hah, hah as he lets the sensations wash through him.

While she watches him lose himself from below, Ori rubs circles into his lower back and around his hips. “So beautiful,” she murmurs. “Beautiful and riding me so well.”

He brokenly cries out her name. The tension inside him is swelling and rising, threatening to burst. He reaches around to take his cock in hand and finish himself off, but Ori stays him, lacing their fingers together.

“I’m ready to come,” he gasps. “I’m… right there.”

“I know,” she says gently back. “You can. You can come for me, love.”

“I need to…” He tries to touch himself again.

She holds him. “Trust me, baby. You can. You can come, just like this.”

“I… I…”

Ori continues to slowly fuck him through his overwhelm. When he relaxes against her again to let the pleasure continue, she releases his hand and reaches between his legs, not quite touching his cock. She briefly cups him before moving a knuckle behind his balls to massage the spot right at the base of his cock.

Astarion’s eyebrows tick up and his jaw goes fully slack as the additional stimulation tips him over, the tension releasing from him as he clenches down around the toy, riding out the heavenly pulses sending ripples through his entire body.

His cock leaks a bit, fluid trailing over the tip and down the underside, but continues to stand rock-hard and at attention.

“Bleeding gods above and below,” he groans. He’s only had one of those a handful of times in his life. For good measure, his body gives one last mild clench.

Ori lightly runs her fingers over his skin. “Did I do okay?” she teases.

He heaves a breath and hums at the feeling of her still inside him, the need already starting to prickle at the edges of his awareness.

“I just came so well that I don’t think I could pretend I didn’t if I tried,” he says, deadpan.

“So, yes, then.”

“Yes.”

She takes one of his hands back in hers and brings it to her mouth to kiss. “Do you need to take a breather?”

“Also yes,” he says.

With her help, he gets his legs back under him and carefully rises up off her, whining a little at the loss. It felt good and he’s still so hard.

But he also genuinely needs a moment to catch his breath.

Astarion helps her to standing and she gives him a kiss before she moves to the side table. He moves to flop down onto their shared bed, flat on his back. The blankets are cool against his sex-heated skin.

Ori takes a moment to do a quick cleanup with her gathered supplies before she comes to stand between his spread legs where they hang over the edge of the mattress. She lays two towels down on the bed beside him.

With a pleased sigh, she runs the pads of her fingers down the dip in his abdomen, making him jump beneath her touch as she nears his leaking cock. She doesn’t quite touch and he flops his head back in mock disappointment, his blissed smile giving him away.

“I think…” she says as she crawls up to straddle him, holding his eye. “... you could do another of those. If you wanted.”

“Gods,” Astatrion groans, his core clenching in memory and anticipation. “I don’t know that I could.”

She places her hands on either side of his head and bends down to kiss him. He feels the rigid tip of her phallus against his hip and subconsciously nips at her lip with a growl.

“Would you like to try?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyes at him. “Before the big finish.”

A rumbling hum rises from deep in his throat and he reaches up to move a curl out of her eyes. “You don’t have to keep going.”

Ori smiles fondly. “I want to.” She lays on top of him and he gives a gravely moan as her weight settles across his erection, trapping it between their bodies. She reaches up and traces her fingers over his face, gazing at him like she’s enchanted. “If you knew how gorgeous you looked just now, you’d want to make it happen again, too.”

He barks out a laugh and swallows. “Always knew you liked them pretty.”

She puffs a breath out through her nose and leans in to kiss his cheek. “I like them well-loved,” she says. Another kiss. “And fucked the way they deserve.”

His body responds to that like a reflex, arousal stretching and purring under his skin, his cock insistently reminding him of its need. He kisses her with a hum, breaking to rest his head back against the bed so he can look up at her with lidded eyes.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love making you feel good. Will you let me?”

Gods, he adores her.

“I’ll allow it,” he says with a slow smile.

Ori raises her eyebrows. “Good.”

She goes to fetch another vial and spends a moment prepping them both again, running her heated palm over the back of his thigh and guiding him to bend his knee to open himself back up for her. When he’s ready, she puts her hands on either side of him and pushes cautiously back inside, careful not to go too hard or too fast as she lowers herself over his body.

Astarion instantly tightens his leg around her and draws her in closer, groaning out his desire. It’s wonderful, but it’s also overwhelming. He’s so gods damned sensitive, the head of his cock nearly purple with unspent arousal.

“I don’t know if I…” he whispers.

Ori slowly rolls one more time, brushing her hand along the side of his face and whispering into the opposite ear, “You’re all right, dearest. Whenever you’re ready to let go, I’m right here.”

He sputters out a tearful sound and arches into her, lifting his leg higher up to wrap along her hip. The adjusted angle makes him gasp, igniting the tension to build anew, higher and more maddening this time. With a whine, he grips her upper arm and turns his face toward hers.

“Love me,” he says, breath warm on her cheek. “Love me, Ori, love me.”

“I will love you so well,” she says, closing the distance to kiss him deep. “You remember our word?”

“Yes,” he breathes, nodding a little for good measure.

“Say it for me, one time,” she says, voice soothing.

Without hesitation, he says, “Weavemoss.”

Ori kisses him again. “Any reason we want to stop, no matter what, that’s our word.”

He presses hard into the kiss, then says, “I understand. Now fuck me again.”

“Whatever my sweetheart wants,” she purrs, pivoting her hips to set a slow, reverent pace.

It’s too much and not enough at once, sticky-sweet with an edge. He wants to both melt into the feeling and cling to it desperately.

He hadn’t exactly been quiet before, but he’d maintained a sliver of control over his utterances. This time, he doesn’t have the capacity to care. He leverages himself to grind back against her, whining and huffing and groaning out his pleasure.

“That’s it,” she says, her voice winded from the exertion. “You’re incredible. What a good, beautiful boy you are.”

“I am,” he agrees, huffing out a delirious laugh. She adjusts her angle slightly and gives him a series of quick, shallow thrusts followed by a long roll and he loses himself.

“Gods, arsurinyas, gods,” he gasps, head thrown back. “How are you doing that?”

“Practice,” she huffs, leaning heavily on her arms and increasing her pace.

From there, it’s only a simple of matter of time before his pleasure catches him again, the thread drawing tighter and tighter until it snaps once more. The whole of his pelvis and abdomen goes sore from its clenching, but in the way that feels like the high after a run, after a kill, after an unbelievable fuck.

And still, and still, his bullocks ache with unspilled seed. He’s nearly mindless from it.

While he comes down from his latest high, he feels Ori pull out and he tries to tell her no, come back, it’s so much but it’s also so wonderful, but he needn’t have worried. She takes his hands and uses her bodyweight to pull him up to sitting. He lolls there, blissed out and feral with need. 

“Think you can turn around for me, love?” she asks, giving his hands one more gentle yank. “I’ve got you.”

He groans and does as asked, thoughts too muddled to argue or attempt anything but her request. His leg is heavy as he lifts it and flips himself, feet now on the floor as he puts his palms on the edge of the bed. Ori approaches behind him and he barely registers her spreading the towels out under him, but then her hands are rubbing his back and he goes jelly-boned under her touch, a completely pliant mess.

“Ready?” she says. He feels her palms spread over his hips, holding him together.

He arches his deep in response. “Yes,” he breathes, barely audible.

When she enters him again, his mind hollows out and he instantly clenches down around the toy. She gives his body a moment to settle before she begins to move again. Her hands slide from his hips to the divots in his lower back, her thumbs massaging into the muscles there in the most deliriously enjoyable way, relaxing him and drawing a reedy purr from his throat.

Ori presses her breasts up against his back as she rocks into him yet again, kissing between his shoulder blades. He whimpers, overstimulated and desperate and continually dripping onto the towels below. 

“You’re being so good,” she croons. “Such a good boy. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” he sighs, rocking back into her. “I’ll be whatever you want.”

Another kiss on his spine. “Good boys get good things.”

His hair is damp with sweat, breath puffing from his lips in his lustful haze. “Please,” he whispers. 

Ori rolls up on her tiptoes and puts her mouth against his ear. She gives the lobe a little suck and enjoys his shuddering whine before she says, “Good boys get to come on my cock thrice.”

“Fuck,” Astation gasps, dropping his chin and feeling his cock pulse and twitch, his balls pulling in tight. 

Then Ori reaches around and takes him in hand and his mouth falls open with a guttural moan.

The remaining oil on her hand and his own slick spread under her touch, offering a splendid glide as she jerks him, making sure to brush up against the slit with her thumb as she works.

“Aaaa-aaaahh,” he manages as he thrusts into her hand.

She follows his hips with hers and together the set a rhythm, him fucking into her hand while she fucks into him, a perfect storm. There’s no drawing this out. He’s already hurtling toward the end, eyes squeezed shut until tears trail from the corners.

“Ori, gods, Ori,” he whimpers. “I’m going to cuh- gods-”

Like a shiver, it runs down the length of him from the crown of his head all the way to his toes. He breaks apart like so much stardust, his release spilling out in an incredible rush, then again, again, and again as Ori pumps him through it until it slows to a trickle. Everything goes soft and quiet, his body sated at last.

He doesn’t speak and neither does she, their heavy breathing the only sound. Ori wraps her arms around him and holds him close, peppering kisses over his shoulders, his back, his neck. Slowly, softly, she trails her fingers over his lower belly, soothing the soreness there.

When she pulls out, the only thing he feels fit to do is drag his burdensome body up onto the mattress and collapse into the pillows. He hears her soft laugh as she removes her harness and collects the messed towels, setting everything aside for a proper cleaning later. She takes some time to wipe herself down with water and mild soap from the basin, then brings a damp cloth over to do the same to him.

His breathing slows as she turns him onto his back, helping him tent a leg so she can carefully clean up the oil and spend from his skin. Astarion blows a breath between his lips and cracks his eyes open to look up at her, curls falling limp and sweaty against her head. Her skin is dewy with lust and exertion.

It’s been a minute since anyone’s fucked him so well, so selflessly. He reaches up a hand to brush against the side of her face, taking the cloth from her and tossing it aside so he can guide her down into his waiting kiss. They’re drunk on one another, lips and tongue and touch.

They make out for several minutes before Astarion runs a hand down her body and between her legs, finally. He finds her completely drenched with slick.

“Hmmm,” he hums against her mouth. “Someone enjoyed that almost as much as I did, I think.”

“What can I say,” she sighs, hitching her breath as he runs a finger along the seam of her. “It’s a bit of a rush to get your love off three times in a row, especially when he looks so pretty coming apart.”

“I can relate,” he says, voice low. He reaches around to palm her just below her arse and pulls her up higher. “Get up here.”

She chuckles. “This was for you, sweetheart.”

“The hells it was,” he lilts, pulling her with slightly more insistence. “If you think I’m going to let you get away with all that without making you scream your pretty heart out, you don’t know me at all.”

“Promises,” she teases. But she relents, letting him guide her as he scoots himself down the mattress and lifts her leg until she’s settled directly on his face.

He runs the entire flat of his tongue along her heated cunt, savoring the moaning gasp she makes, and moves his hands up over her sides, counting every rib as he goes before he lowers one hand to her waist and palms her breast with the other. Ori offers little resistance before she begins rutting against his mouth, chasing relief he’s all too happy to offer.

His tongue works magic as he curls it up into her, stroking along the rough place just inside before drawing back up to lave at her clit.

Ori puts her hand over his on her chest, making him squeeze her tighter there as she begins to bounce a bit. “Gods damn it, you have such a sweet mouth,” she pants.

He smiles and continues to work her, using everything at his disposal to light her up – the flats of his teeth, the whole of his tongue, the suction of his lips. Her clit goes pebble-hard under his ministrations and she whines out his name.

“Gods, gods, gods,” she huffs out between bounces, her voice tight with need. “Gods, Astarion, that’s so fucking…”

He redoubles his efforts, moving both hands to the globes of her arse and gipping hard so he can help her fuck his face to her content. And she does, she does and she does until her thighs quake.

Astarion rolls three circles in quick succession, a delightful swirl that he knows will drive her mad, and she throws her head back and gives a rewarding, sobbing cry to the ceiling as she comes, her slick coating his chin.

After, they lay side by side naked on top of the covers, Astarion wrapped around her from behind with a hand still palming one of her breasts, softly snoring.

They don’t wake until midnight, and they don’t talk about the fact that for all his disdain for heroes, he certainly doesn’t mind being fucked by one.

[b0ng05]

Pretty In Red - Amber Freeman

Smut MDNI 18+

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Word Count: 1630

Prompt: Amber Freeman comes home from her recent kill to find her girlfriend waiting for her with a pretty surprise.

Warnings: strap-on usage, fingering, oral, degradation, mentions of murder, lingerie.

Masterlist

Also, Not Proofread 💅

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A quiet almost inaudible dripping sound echoed through the large bathroom. The main light buzzing as it sheds luminosity on the horrors below. The once white tiles of the floor stained and puddled with crimson. Walls and mirrors splattered with fresh blood that sprayed along it. The metal clunk of a knife hitting the tiles brought Amber from her haze where she stood admiring her art in depth. Each slash and stab articulately placed along the man’s body, almost perfect. A sense of pride filled her chest knowing she took out the guy who had the audacity to flirt with her girlfriend. A smirk pricked the corner of her lips as she pulled the mask back over her face and picked her favorite knife up from the tiles. The knife had been a gift from Y/n, who was waiting for her back home. Amber rushed out of the house and into an alleyway nearby where she had hid her backpack. Hiding behind a dumpster, she stuffs the costume into her bag, successfully concealing both the costume, knife, and effectively, her identity. Once she got home, she didn’t bother sneaking her way upstairs like she normally would. Knowing her parents were both out on business trips, she had no one to question her whereabouts except her girlfriend, who was already aware of her homicidal tendencies. As she opens her bedroom door, she’s met with the sight of Y/n laying on her bed, half-asleep as she watches an episode of Criminal Minds. Amber can’t help the smile that crawls up her lips, seeing her girl cozy in her bed was one of the best feelings in the world. A privilege that she was proud and honored to have.

“I missed you,” Y/n mumbled tiredly, outstretching her arms for Amber to come cuddle. Amber lets out a quiet chuckle, walking over to her closet to switch into sweatpants and a different shirt before crawling to bed next to her girlfriend. Amber lays on her back and pulls Y/n into her arms, laying the woman’s head on her chest, softly stroking her hair. “I missed you too,” Amber whispers, kissing her girlfriend’s forehead. “What took you so long?” Y/n asks, nuzzling her head into Amber’s neck. “Things didn’t exactly go to plan. But I took care of it.” Amber vaguely answers, softly rubbing small circles on the woman’s back as a means of distraction. Y/n placed a soft kiss on Amber’s neck, leaning into her embrace. Her hand subtly trailing under the hem of Amber’s shirt to caress her stomach. Craning her neck up, she presses her lips against Amber’s in a slow but passionate kiss. Amber’s hand trails down from the slope of her back under the blanket to grope at her girlfriend’s ass. Thinking she would be wearing the pajama shorts that she normally would to bed, but in place was a lacy feeling that had Amber smirking into the kiss as she gently flipped their positions, pinning the woman beneath her. As their lips separate, Amber tugs the blanket off the woman’s lower half, revealing a dark red set of lacy panties. Ones that Amber had picked out for her on a trip to the mall weeks ago. “What’s all this for~?” Amber teases, a hum of amusement in her tone as her finger slips beneath the waistband to snap it back against Y/n’s skin. The sensation of Amber’s fingers trailing her exposed skin as well as the nip of the cold air had her feeling more awake, and more aroused. “Well it was supposed to be a surprise for when you got home~” Y/n muses, a playful mood arising. Amber lets out a soft chuckle, leaning over the woman to kiss her neck, her tongue trailing up to her earlobe that she took between her teeth in a playful and gentle bite. “How about you take off your shirt and let me get a refresher on how pretty you look in that matching set?” She whispers before kissing her jaw and leaning back, looking at Y/n with expecting eyes and an hungry amused smirk. Y/n bites her lip as she sits up, pulling the shirt over her head, revealing the matching lacy red bra. Small lacy embroidery just barely hiding her nipples beneath, making Amber go feral at the sight. Her girl lying beneath her, in lingerie that she picked out, looking so desperate yet still so shy to the feeling of eyes feasting on her.

Amber reaches her hand beneath the woman’s back, “You look so fucking sexy baby, but I think we need this gone.” She whispers, kissing Y/n’s chest as she unclasps her bra with ease. Amber’s lips greedily kiss at the woman’s chest before wrapping around one of her nipples, sucking and swirling her tongue around the nub as her other hand toys at the other. Smirking at the whines and moans emitted from the woman beneath her. She kisses down the woman’s stomach right to the waistband of her panties. Her hands teasingly and slowing trailing Y/n’s thighs. Her tongue playfully jolts out, licking a slow swipe down to the edge of her panties. “You look so pretty in red, Y/n/n,” Amber smirks, letting her hand trail higher to the wet patch that grew in the lace panties. Her fingers run along the soaked fabric. Y/n lets out a whine at the teasing feeling. “T-thank you, Ambs,” She breathes through a soft moan. Amber lets out a breathy laugh as her eyes dilate, she leans down to kiss her hip before tugging her panties down her legs. Amber licks her lips she leans down, and licks a broad strip up Y/n’s wet cunt.

Y/n lets out a soft moan, her hand reaching down to push Amber’s hair out of her face. “Taste so fucking sweet, baby.” She hums out against Y/n’s clit, the vibrations making a shiver run up the woman’s spine. Her hand tightens around Amber’s dark locks as the woman wraps her lips around her clit, sucking and licking with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as she stares up at Y/n. Amber’s other hand trails up Y/n’s thigh, slowly teasing her entrance with a finger. Y/n let’s out a whimper, “Please, Ambs,” She whines. Amber smirks, suddenly thrusting two fingers into the woman beneath her, smug as she writhes at her actions.``So pretty, baby~” Amber whispers, speeding up her fingers to match the pace her tongue had set. Y/n’s hips bucked up in pleasure, which Amber ends by holding her waist with her free hand. “F-feels so good, Ambs~” Y/n whines, her thighs twitching as she grows closer to her release. “Feels so good Ambs~” Amber mocks, her tone high as she mimics the woman’s moans before letting out a cruel laugh. Her fingers leave the woman’s pulsing walls. “You think I’m gonna let you come that easy?” Amber chuckles, flipping Y/n onto her hands and knees. Amber pushes Y/n’s face into a pillow, giving her a better view of the woman’s soaked cunt.

Amber bites her lip and spanks her ass, Y/n letting out a surprised whimper. “You’re getting my strap for being such a good fucking slut for me.” Amber leans over to the bedside table, grabbing out a large strap, one that Y/n hadn’t taken before. Amber secures the strap to herself, letting out a soft moan at the smaller dildo on the inside of the harness that slipped inside her. “I need you so bad, baby~” Y/n whines, arching her back to try and gain the woman’s attention back. “Oh you’re gonna have me baby.” Amber smirks, rubbing the tip of the cock along the woman’s slit. She slips into the other woman with ease, but slowing down as she gets close to the base. Y/n’s legs begin to shake as Amber goes impossibly deeper inside her. A heat in her stomach that desperately needed to be satiated. “Please baby~ Fuck me~” Y/n whines, pushing her hips back against Amber’s. “Good fucking slut.” Amber chuckles before speeding up her thrusts, angling her hips to hit spots that made the other woman's vision go fuzzy. The sound of the skin colliding, moans and grunts filled the room as the bed hit the wall. Amber’s hand showed no mercy on the woman’s ass as she spanked her, the sight of her red skin driving her into a frenzy. She goes faster as she feels a heat begin to build up in her own core. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” Amber groans as she feels it get harder to thrust, but doesn’t let it deter her as she goes even faster. Y/n’s legs tremble as she feels herself on the edge of release. “Please~! Please let me cum~! I’ll be such a good girl for you~” Y/n blabbers, unaware of her words, only thinking about the pleasure that Amber was giving her.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, princess,” Amber grunts, feeling herself about to reach her own release. Amber speeds up her thrusts impossibly faster, Y/n cums around Amber’s strap with a loud cry of her name. Amber doesn’t stop, continuing to chase her own release, and with two more deep thrusts, she comes with a groan. She lays on top of Y/n, strap still buried in her cunt as she breathlessly kisses at the woman’s spine. Her hands softly soothing over the red handprint on the woman’s behind. “Round 2?” Amber whispers with a shameless smirk, reaching up to push the woman’s hair out of her face.

[thediaryofaurora]

𐬽Kinktober - Day 2𐬾

Theme: Virginity loss / gentle fucking

Pairing: Homicidal Liu x virgin!reader

CW: NSFW, f!reader, anal

Word count - 1.1k

𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾

It was a little after midnight, you and Liu had been sitting on the floor of his room for a few hours now. He’s been your boyfriend for a little over a month, really he’s the only person in the mansion you can get along with.

Ranting about how hard it’s been to acclimate to your life as a creep was the main topic, spilling all of your thoughts.

“Do you ever get used to it?”

You sighed, laying on his bedroom floor and looking up at his ceiling fan.

“No, but it gets easier.”

Liu’s voice was solemn and sweet, it’s clear that he cares, even if you’ve only talked for a few weeks. His brown eyes flicked over to you, watching you mindlessly stare up.

You sat up, looking over at him, leaning your head against the footboard of his bed frame. He continued laying there somberly, all the talk of this being your life now taking a toll on him too. His past and relationship with Jeff were clearly on his mind, and you wanted to fix that.

“Liu?”

Your voice brought him out of his miserating thoughts. Slowly he sat up beside you, resting his head close to yours and humming in response.

“Have you ever… done it with anyone?”

His head perked up, looking over at you once again. A nervous, slightly shocked smile forming on him face. “A few times. Have you?”

The topic had never really come up before, he just assumed a girl like you had to have had some action by now. But when you innocently shook your head at him, he wanted to make sure your first time was with someone who really cherished you.

He let out a gentle exhale, leaning into you before putting a hand on your cheek. His lips met yours, kissing you softly.

“Are you wanting to?” He whispered into your mouth, grabbing your hips and guiding you to sit on his lap.

You nodded eagerly, placing either of your hands on his jawline and the other in his hair. He moved his hands, caressing your back while he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip. His mouth worked perfectly against yours, so smoothly. You could only imagine what else he could do.

He pulled away, helping you stand up and leading you to lay down on his bed. You grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and unbuttoning your pants before sliding them off. Liu looked down at you, your beautiful, almost bare form.

“Are you sure you want to do this, lovely?”

“Yes, yes please. I’m positive.”

With your affirmation he began undressing. He positioned himself at the bottom of the bed, spreading your legs before coming closer on his knees and aligning his hips to yours. Carefully he slipped off your underwear as you undid your bra, taking his pointer finger and gently caressing your slick.

His dick was already hard, the anticipation of getting to be your first overwhelming him as he slid his finger into your entrance. Stretching you out he eased another one in, you walls clenching his digits. A small moan escaped your lips, the feeling of his fingers working into you already enough to get you off.

He started curling his fingers, pressing right against your g-spot. You acclimated to the girth of them, grinding against his hand as he brought this thumb to your clit running slow circles. Just as he had started you were ready to cum, pulsating around his long fingers.

“Ah, ah…”

“That’s right baby, let it all out.”

His words tipped you off, your cum flooding around them. He brought them up to his mouth, licking your slick off of his hands before aligning his cock with your entrance.

He grazed his tip against your hole, feeling the pulses of your excitement before slowly pushing his head in. He leaned down to you, placing his forearms on either side of the mattress beside your head and shifting his weight to them as he slowly pushed it in. As delicate as he was trying to be it was still too much, his girth more than your pussy could handle.

“Wait wait wait-“

“I’m sorry, too much?” He cooed, placing a kiss on your cheek.

“No, no it’s okay.” You shook your head. You needed more, no matter how much it hurt.

He picked up his pace, easing himself in more and more with every thrust. Your moans and winces threw him off track, making his movements more and more eager to fill you.

“Liu, shit!-“

His dick finally hit your cervix, hitting it repeatedly every time he pushed back in. He was trying to be gentle, he really was, but it’s difficult to hold back when you’re on top of such a perfect body.

The knot in your core tightened, the pain finally melting away as your grind your hips up into him. Liu leaned closer, digging his face into the crook of your neck and yours into his. Your moans barely muffled by him, all shame you once had slipping away from you as you reached your climax. The feeling of your cum on his cock sent him over the edge, a few little moans escaping his lips and he pulled out.

He grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over, your ass sticking in the air, face first into a pillow. He rubbed his cock against your asshole, your come acting as a lube in preparation for him.

“What- what are you doing?” You were too exhausted to protest, your limp body perfectly relaxed for him to be able to slip his length in.

“Stay just like that, sweetheart.” His breath was shaky, eager to finish inside you as he ever so gently slipped his cock into your tight hole. You let out a loud wince, hands gripping his sheets beneath you as he continued to push himself in.

His movements started off slow, only forcing it deeper rather than pulling out. You quickly adjusted to it, his slick cock stretching you out with ease, and after a few thrusts his cum spilled into your hole.

Slowly he pulled out, picking you up and taking you with him to clean off.

𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾𐬽𐬾

Kinktober Masterlist

Creepypasta Masterlist

[spikedfearn]

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter IV

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

a/n: alright, the moment you've all been waiting for, it's nothing but smut from start to finish!! I took a mini-break to write something else but I plan on getting chapter v, maybe even vi out before I post part ii of let's make love!! this fic is gonna be around 8-9 chapters if I follow the outline I have laid out so we're at the halfway point now (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) also—always remember to wrap it up girlies!!

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, nsfw, non-linear narrative, trauma bonding, resolved sexual tension, praise kink (both ways), oral (giving), loss of virginity, dirty talk

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty @3arthtoeden @barnes70stark (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 2.8k

Masterlist Next Chapter

If this really is the end, maybe this isn't such a bad way to go out—making out with someone as hot as Bjorn. 

It's been awhile since you've kissed anyone, more than a little out of practice, not that Bjorn seems to mind, slipping his tongue in your mouth, overwhelming it. 

Your fingers thread through the sweaty tangle of his hair, dislodging some of the loose sediment and debris that had showered you both earlier, your other palm sliding up the side of his neck to cradle him just below the jaw, the slick, wet noise of your tongues meeting echoing through the limited space. 

This is the last thing you ever expected to happen, apart from the cave-in, swapping spit with your sworn enemy while you await your inevitable demise. Always assumed if anything were to go down between you two it would be homicide, with you in cuffs and Bjorn six feet under. 

In reality you are much, much further down below LV-410's surface, spending your last few moments alive with the last person you wanted to spend them with. At least, that's how you felt prior to you and Bjorn's little heart-to-heart, able to come to an understanding that whittled the strain down to almost nothing.  

Bjorn's hand drifts from where it's cradling your cheek down and over your grimy t-shirt, yanking the hem free from the cinched waistband of your standard-issued cargo pants it's tucked into. Slips it underneath the ratty fabric to touch your bare skin, skimming the flat of his calloused palm over your stomach up to the underwire of your bra, flirting along the edge. 

He slips his hand under that too, cupping the entirety of your breast, the dry rub of his thumb over your nipple hurting just right. 

“Bjorn,” you whine, watching him pull back, a string of saliva stretching between your lips, the lighting casting orange shadows to dance across his face, eyes heavy-lidded and narrow, “please.”

Immediately obliging, he rucks your cotton tee and bra up and over your collarbones so your tits are out, arms coming up to cover yourself on reflex when he stops you, pinning your wrists in the dirt above your head with one hand. 

“Don’t go shy on me now, princess, we've only jus’ started," except—it’s Bjorn's turn to go shy, cheeks turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink as he looks down and away, voice a little insecure when he whispers, “jus’—tell me if it feels good or not.” 

Then he's diving forward to close the distance between your body and his, the broad stroke of his tongue over your nipple making you writhe beneath him. 

What he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm, sucking with a fervor that has you feeling hot all over before he's switching to the other side, replacing his mouth with his hand to fondle your heaving, wet breast at the same time. There's a saying that passion is an extension of hatred.

“Oh—fuck,” you whimper, almost having forgotten how euphoric it feels to have someone else touch you so intimately, “so good. You sure you've never done this before?”

That seems to spur him on, gaining more confidence as he continues working over your chest, blowing warm air over the cool wetness of your nipples, starting to soak through your underwear as a result and you haven't even gone that far. Yet. 

“God if only ya’ could see urself right now,” Bjorn groans, low and breathy, “Lookin’ like a propa’ wet dream.” 

Bjorn lets your wrists go to rip both of your shirts off, pulling him down into another filthy, wet kiss, lifting your shoulders off the ground long enough to unhook your bra for you, swallowing each other's moans. 

You're aware that you're running on borrowed time, the shaky rumble of the tunnel you're hooking up in providing a morbid reminder. Breaking the kiss, you lightly push back against his naked chest when he tries to chase after you, sharing winded breaths between your barely separated lips. 

“Easy now,” you chuckle, tucking a sweaty curl behind his ear, over the little frowny face he has tattooed there,“you still wanna lose your v-card, don't you?” 

The nod he offers you is quick, eager—definitely virginal, turning you on more than you thought it would. There's just something insanely hot knowing you're the first to touch him like this, the only one so far to witness him desperate for more. 

“On your back,” you tell him, naturally taking charge, cutting him off right before he can interject, “now be a good boy and listen. Can you do that for me?” 

You watch the rapid flutter of his lashes at the pet name, the whites of his eyes showing as his pupils roll back into his head like he just came from that alone. Well—who would've figured Bjorn to have a praise kink; deciding to file that away, planning on weaponizing it to your complete advantage.

“Oh—did you like that? Me calling you a good boy,” you purr, reveling in the breathy moan he gives back in response, feeling a little powerful as he follows your instruction, sprawling out without any push back. “There you go, just like that. Look at you taking direction so well.”

Kissing down his chest and over the thin happy trail disappearing into his pants, you feel him shiver in anticipation. You pull the metal prong on his belt, unfastening the leather until the strap is lying on either side of his hips, hands a little shaky. 

You're just as nervous as he is, wanting it to be good for his first—and last—time, opening his zipper, the gold teeth revealing the tented fabric of his briefs as you yank it all the way down, damp from pre-come. He's looking forward to this just as much as you are. 

“I’m gonna go down on you,” you explain, Bjorn drawing a ragged intake of breath into his lungs hearing that, assuming neither of you have lube on you, “need you nice and wet, then you're gonna get me nice and wet if we're gonna make this happen. Okay?” 

A smirk stretches across his lips as his chin raises, a fraction of that familiar cockiness returning, finding it more attractive than you normally would, “Oh? Gonna gag on it, princess?” 

“I can't believe I'm seriously about to put your dick in my mouth,” you grumble, choosing to keep up the illusion of irritation, if only to slightly detach yourself from the situation you've found yourself in, from the exceedingly foreign flicker of your heart.  

You unsheath his cock from the unbuttoned fly of his underwear, eyes going wide when you finally lay eyes on him. Fuck. He's big. Of course he is, his grossly misplaced confidence making a lot more sense now. 

“Droolin’ already, love?” He laughs, loosely steepling his fingers together behind his head, face rearranging into something incredibly smug. 

Rather than saying anything you let a fat glob of spit fall from your mouth to make the slide easier, working your way up from base to tip, mixing your saliva with his pre-come, fueled by the continuous stream of moans he's feeding you. 

Your mouth closes around him, the few strands of hair that had come loose from your ponytail framing your face, hollowing your cheeks to pay special attention to his head, the bitter taste of salt spreading out across your tongue.

Bjorn's sensitive, you can immediately tell, judging by how responsive he is to everything you're doing, swearing a litany of curses under his breath as your tongue massages the underside of his cock, swirling around it, babbling things like, “fuck—jus’ like tha,’ ur a fuckin’ pro a’this, holy shit” and, “m’ gonna come if ya’ keep this up, princess.” 

You pull off with an audible wet pop, shushing Bjorn when he starts to whine at the loss, “now, now. Can't have you coming too soon, can we? Not when we haven't even gotten to the best part.”

He gets the hint to sit up after tugging on his wrist, chest heaving and flushed down to his navel like he just ran a marathon. You didn't think it was possible for Bjorn to look this devastatingly attractive but he's once again proven you wrong, not that you mind at all in this case.   

“Alright,” you say, getting on your knees to rip your pants and underwear down and off your legs, shuddering under the weight of his lustfully heedy gaze, staring at your soaking wet core as he licks his lips nice and slow. “My turn.”

Drawing his wrist to your mouth, you wrap your tongue around two of his dirty fingers up to the last knuckle so you can suck them clean, get them ready, “gonna teach you how to open me up, get me nice and stretched for your cock. Would you like that?” You check, words a bit muffled with your mouth preoccupied.  

Bjorn groans watching you, hastily nodding his approval, following the path your tongue takes as you curl it around and splice between, finding satisfaction in how much he's enjoying your little show. Which is brand new for you, never having gotten this turned on by giving your bed partner pleasure. 

Once you've deemed them sufficiently wet enough you lead his fingers down between your thighs, sliding between your folds, lashes fluttering at the contact, “ur fuckin’ drippin,’ princess. Allat’ jus’ fo’ me?” 

You don't even have it in you to deny it, whimpering “yes,” as the first finger goes in with ease, pushing and pulling his wrist to steadily fuck it in and out of you, twisting and telling him to curl it upward, hitting your g-spot dead on. 

“God that's—you're doing so good, such a good boy,” Bjorn diving forward and shoving his tongue down your throat in another desperate, filthy kiss, pumping his finger faster, repeatedly brushing over the same spot you told him about that has your thighs trembling and your eyes rolling. He's certainly a quick learner. 

His second finger joins the first upon your instruction, scissoring them apart to stretch you wide open, foreheads leaning against each other while you both watch them disappear inside you, fragmented breathing and occasional moans punctuating the shared air between you. 

It doesn't take long before you're pulling his fingers out, licking them clean to get him even more riled up, jaw getting tight as he grits his teeth, looking like he wants to devour you whole, causing heat to coil through you. Fuck, you've never wanted anyone more. 

“So howdya’ wanna do this?” He asks, reclining back, keeping himself propped up on his elbows so he can stare up at you appreciatively. 

Your answer is immediate, having already thought about it earlier, crawling over his body to straddle his hips and hover just above him, “gonna ride you.” 

You figure it'll be the best position to do it in, will give you complete control, being able to set the pace and angle while Bjorn can just lie there and reap all the benefits.  

He smirks hearing your answer, cocking his head sideways as his eyebrows raise, arches disappearing underneath his bangs, “fuckin’ knew ya’ wanted ta’ sit on it.” 

“Bjorn,” you scold, pushing squarely against the abdominal muscle in his solar plexus until he's lying flat on his back again, “be a good boy and shut up.”

That does the trick, moaning a “kay” as you get ready to sink down, feeling the blunt pressure of his head against your entrance when you realize something important—he isn't wearing any protection.  How did you almost overlook something like that? The arousal must be clouding whatever critical thinking skills you're still working with.

Wait,” you pause, grabbing his attention, listening to him whine in annoyance at you to “not be a fuckin’ cocktease,” lightly slapping his chest in retaliation, “do you have any condoms on you?” 

“Huh?” He blinks, moony-eyed, mirroring your dumbfounded expression, clearly also thinking with the wrong head, “nah, why would I?” 

“Damn it,” you groan, considering backing out of the whole thing, not sure if you really want to let him hit it raw. You've never let anyone fuck you without one, the only contraceptive Jackson's Star has to offer—is even willing to offer, their attempt to force a baby boom with how incredibly low the colony’s population currently is. “Why not?” 

“Well sorry ta’ say I don't jus’ carry rubbas’ on me babes, neva’ saw tha’ point since I wasn't gettin’ none ‘nyway. Besides—da’ we even really need one?”

“You're joking, right?” You give him an incredulous look, thighs starting to tremble from how long you've been holding yourself up, “I don't want a UTI, fucking in a mineshaft is already reckless enough.”

That and you're definitely not looking to get knocked up, especially by Bjorn of all people, preferably by no one at all. You just can't imagine subjecting a baby to such a miserably hopeless situation like the one you're doomed to die in. 

“Well tha’ won't really matta’ when we're squashed like a coupla’ bugs, now willit?’” he challenges, feeling your resolve waver, hating to admit that Bjorn’s been making solid points throughout the night. 

He's right. It won't matter, none of it does, not in the long run when your bodies are inevitably being dug out from under the rocks and support beams waiting to topple over onto you. 

So—you make up your mind and sink all the way down, only stopping once you're fully seated in his lap, listening to the drawn out groan that escapes him when he's bottomed out. 

“Shit,” he whines, eyes momentarily closing while he adjusts to the tight, wet heat hugging his cock, “ya’ feel fuckin' incredible princess.” 

You place both hands on his chest to keep you stable as you start to move, lifting all the way up to the tip before dropping back down, your shared moans echoing off the walls around you. 

His hands come up to squeeze your thighs hard enough to bruise, aiding you in the slick slide with his shirt balled up and pillowed beneath his head. You don't remember it ever feeling this good—this mind-blowing, your bodies molding together like they were made for each other. 

The wet slap of skin fills the air, angling your hips to repeatedly hit your g-spot again, your orgasm building quick, reaching down to massage your clit in time with your bouncing. 

Bjorn plants both feet on the dirt to fuck up into you harder, head falling back as your eyes close, slapping your hand out of the way to replace it with his own, “fuck. This is betta’ than I coulda imagined, takin’ ma' cock so well. Gonna come soon.”  

His arm circles your waist then, pulling you on top of him, taking the reins to thrust inside of you at his own erratic pace, moaning filthy shit into your ear like, “love tha’ way ya’ moan fo’ me,” and “ur such a plesha’ ta’ use.”

He sucks a hickey into your neck, your chest sliding up and down his from the force of his hips, signaling he's about to bust with a low grunt, offering to pull out and aim it at you somewhere instead. 

But it doesn't matter, right? Hearing an ominous grinding coming from the rubble behind you, blocking off the path leading to the tunnel’s entryway—the final collapse. 

So you shake your head no, begging him to come inside you, to consummate your relationship and make you his just before the end. And he does, sliding in deep as he moans your name and releases everything he has to offer, milking you into an orgasm of your own, sucking a matching hickey into his clavicle. 

Listening to the thump of his rabbiting heartbeat as your breathing starts returning to normal, you feel him press a kiss to your temple in a silent thank you. You want him to hold you, to keep you close and give you the illusion of safety as everything unavoidably collapses around you. 

Except—nothing ends up collapsing,  realizing the grinding you heard is the sound of drilling, excavating through the rock and splintered wood to get to you, sharing a bewildered look with Bjorn when you both recognize it. You're not dying like you both thought, you're being saved. 

Both of you barely manage to get dressed just as a sudden stream of headlamps flood through the hole that's been made, just big enough to accomodate one body at a time, your pupils going small under the bright white lights.

A small group of miners are crouched there, instructing both of you to quickly crawl to the other side towards them before everything ultimately comes down, rendering their little rescue mission futile.

You let Bjorn go first, still rooted to the spot, completely shell shocked as you watch him squeeze his way through with the help of some hands being extended out to him, not once glancing back your way.

You're gonna live to see another day. You just had unprotected sex with Bjorn and now you have no choice but to deal with the aftermath that tomorrow will inevitably bring.

[linghxr]

50+ fundamental crime, suspense, & mystery Cdrama vocab words

I'm currently watching 《模仿犯》, so I was inspired to put together this list of essential vocab for 犯罪剧/悬疑剧/推理剧. I tend to gravitate towards dramas that fall into these genres.

I've sorted the words into categories. These were determined by vibes only. Definitions are adapted from MDBG, my loyal companion for nearly 10 years.

The Case

案子 ànzi - case / law case / legal case / judicial case

案件 ànjiàn - case / instance

办案 bàn'àn - to handle a case

破案 pò'àn - to solve a case

报案 bào'àn - to report a case to the authorities

命案 mìng'àn - homicide case / murder case

作案 zuò'àn - to commit a crime

现场 xiànchǎng - the scene (of a crime, accident etc) / (on) the spot / (at) the site

证据 zhèngjù - evidence / proof / testimony

真相 zhēnxiàng - the truth about sth / the actual facts

The Investigation

厘清 líqīng - to clarify (the facts) / clarification

线索 xiànsuǒ - trail / clues / thread (of a story)

细节 xìjié - details / particulars

痕迹 hénjì - vestige / mark / trace

追踪 zhuīzōng - to follow a trail / to trace / to pursue

追问 zhuīwèn - to question closely / to investigate in detail / to examine minutely / to get to the heart of the matter

排除 páichú - to eliminate / to remove / to exclude / to rule out

嫌疑 xiányí - suspicion / to have suspicions

怀疑 huáiyí - to doubt (sth) / to be skeptical of / to have one's doubts / to harbor suspicions / to suspect that

跟踪 gēnzōng - to follow sb's tracks / to tail / to shadow / tracking

不对劲 búduìjìn - fishy / wrong / not right

隐瞒 yǐnmán - to conceal / to hide (a taboo subject) / to cover up the truth

The Victim

被害者 bèihàizhě - victim (of a wounding or murder)

受害者 shòuhàizhě - casualty / victim / those injured and wounded

幸存者 xìngcúnzhě - survivor

失踪 shīzōng - to be missing / to disappear / unaccounted for

消失 xiāoshī - to disappear / to fade away

绑架 bǎngjià - to kidnap / to abduct / to hijack / a kidnapping abduction / staking

遗体 yítǐ - remains (of a dead person)

尸体 shītǐ - dead body / corpse / carcass

拯救 zhěngjiù - to save / to rescue

寻人启事 xúnrénqǐshì - missing persons notice

The Perpetrator

嫌疑犯 xiányífàn - a suspect

嫌疑人 xiányírén - a suspect

歹徒 dǎitú - evildoer / malefactor / gangster / hoodlum

凶手 xiōngshǒu - murderer / assassin

一伙儿的 yìhuǒrde - in on it together

开枪 kāiqiāng - to open fire / to shoot a gun

鬼鬼祟祟 guǐguǐsuìsuì - sneaky / secretive / furtive

可疑 kěyí - suspicious / dubious

认罪 rènzuì - to admit guilt / to plead guilty

自首 zìshǒu - to give oneself up / to surrender (to the authorities)

下落 xiàluò - whereabouts / to drop / to fall

动机 dòngjī - motive / motivation

犯罪 fànzuì - to commit a crime / crime / offense

The Police

报警 bàojǐng - to sound an alarm / to report sth to the police

警察 jǐngchá - police / police officer

警方 jǐngfāng - police

警官 jǐngguān - constable / police officer

刑警 xíngjǐng - criminal police (abbr. for 刑事警察)

被捕 bèibǔ - to be arrested / under arrest

包围 bāowéi - to surround / to encircle / to hem in

监控 jiānkòng - to monitor

检查 jiǎnchá - inspection / to examine / to inspect

调查 diàochá - investigation / inquiry / to investigate

排查 páichá - to inspect / to investigate one by one

质问 zhìwèn - to question / to ask questions / to inquire / to bring to account / to interrogate

前科 qiánkē - criminal record / previous convictions

Bonus: Here's a list of dramas I have seen/am watching in these categories:

《想见你》 Someday or One Day

《开端》 Reset

《消失的孩子》 The Disappearing Child

《她和她的她》 Shards of Her

《镇魂》 Guardian

《模仿犯》 Copycat Killer

《不良执念清除师》 Oh No! Here Comes Trouble

Now go forth and enjoy some more dramas! I'm a slow watcher, so I add new shows to my watch list faster than I can finish them.

[autisticlancemcclain]

One Saturday morning, as Keith and Lance descend the stairs on their way to the kitchen — as Keith practically carries a still half-asleep Lance, that is — Marcela whips towards them, points a scolding finger in their direction, and says, “I am tired of checking in on you two at night and seeing my son, sprawling over half the bed, while poor Keith clings to the edge. No more.”

Keith’s heart drops to his toes, pounding all the way down. His ears billow out and then fade slowly, like someone turned the volume down. He feels like a beyblade someone just spun and dropped onto the pavement, dizzy and sharp and sparking, trembling to a stop. For several horrifying moments he’s convinced that this may very well be it, and he’s shocked by his own surprise. He’s usually so prepared for the eventual end of someone’s affection, for the patience to run out, for the boot to kick him on the way out the door. It’s startling to realise how far he’s let his defences drop with the Esposita-McClains.

Dangerous.

But then Keith processes the entirety of her sentence, hears past “I’m tired of” and “Keith” in the same sentence. He sees her narrowed eyes and chiding finger and playful exasperation pointed at Lance’s guilty grin, not at Keith, and he realises she is exasperated by the fact that Lance takes up the whole bed every night Keith sleeps over, not that Keith sleeps over at all.

He unclenches his fist from the hem of Lance’s shirt. He’s not sure if Lance does it on purpose, but he leans farther into Keith, and the pressure helps ground him, helps him breathe again.

“I really don’t mind,” Keith mumbles. He keeps his eyes averted, unwilling to meet her knowing ones. “Lance isn’t that bad.”

Marcela snorts, ruffling his hair as she walks by to set the milk on the table. “Please, Keith. He’s a nightmare to sleep with and he knows it. He had to have those little toddler rails on the sides of his bed until he was seven years old because he kept falling off.”

Lance makes a noise of protest at the embarrassing anecdote. Keith smiles, patting his back slightly.

“He does drool.”

“And kick,” says Lance’s older sister Veronica, ducking into the kitchen to grab an apple. Rachel, his other sister, is right behind her, and she pipes up too.

“He also grinds his teeth!”

“And mutters freaky things. He said he was going to curse me once.”

“Oh, yeah, and there was the deal with the sleeping sitting up!”

“And there was —”

“Alright, girls,” Marcela interrupts, leaning over to hold down the hand Lance has clenched around a fork before he has a chance to launch breakfast at his sisters. She looks to have intervened in the nick of time, which makes Keith smile into his cereal. “Let’s not make your brother homicidal.”

Both girls leave the kitchen snickering. Lance’s face promises revenge. For their sake, Keith hopes they find a way to lock their room door, but somehow he doubts it. A part of him is intrigued about whatever scheme Lance will inevitably rope him into.

“I really am fine, though,” Keith repeats once calm has returned to the morning again. “I once had to sleep in a home that usually had more kids than beds, so Lance’s kicking is a significant improvement from a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor.”

He hadn’t meant for his comment to be upsetting. It wasn’t great, sure, but he’d had a roof over his head and food to eat, and he’d only been there for a couple days. The whole situation was funny in hindsight, hilarity inherent in the absurdity of his neon green sleeping bag next to the magnet-covered fridge, and that’s how he’d meant the comment. A joke.

But Marcela looks horrified, and Lance leans over to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder and wrap their hands together, and Keith realises he’s most definitely made a mistake.

“Kidding,” he tries anyway, but the damage is done. The determination in Marcela’s eyes becomes even more apparent, and she nods twice as if reassuring herself. Keith could kick himself.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” she says resolutely. “We’re going out.”

———

In twenty minutes they’re in the car. Lance almost has his voice back by then, too, which is great, because Keith feels like he’s going to lose his — he’s expecting a fancy air mattress, really. At most he’s expecting to be delegated to his own space in the pull out couch or something. And even that is more than he ever thought he’d get. It’s not that he doesn’t think he deserves it, or anything like that. He knows that some of his living situations have been less than ideal, in the past few years.

But he…he’s not part of this family. He’s not supposed to be, anyway. He’s someone Lance dragged home someday, someone Lance latched onto and then everyone else seemed to follow his example. Keith knows his current foster family gets a cheque for an amount he’s too afraid to find out every month. He knows the state government pays people to home and house and feed him because no one else will. That’s how it’s been since that’s what it had to be.

He cannot understand what logic has inspired Marcela and Lance and all the Esposita-McClains, really, to home and house and feed him. He doesn’t understand.

He’s not expecting a forty minute drive to Ikea. He doesn’t understand why so much is being extended for him. He’s not expecting the determination in Marcela’s face and the way she holds Keith in one hand and Lance in the other, tightly, as if both are her children, until Lance whines and pulls himself free to come hold Keith’s other hand, as if he’s the commodity.

Keith doesn’t understand.

This is not how things are supposed to go.

This is never how things end up going. Not ever in a million years or even less.

“We should get a bunk bed!” Lance says excitedly, pulling Keith out of his thoughts and in a random direction. Marcela squeezes Keith’s hand once and lets go to allow it, stepping to the side to grab on of the boxy blue shopping carts.

Lance brightens even further when she brings over the cart, hopping onto the end of it and gesturing for Keith to do the same. Keith looks at the cart, then at Lance, then at the wheels, then at the total lack of space beside him, and imagines Marcela hitting the tiniest bump as they cram onto the little ledge and then them going flying.

He wisely chooses to walk over and grab the handlebar next to Marcela. She extends her pinky to rest next to Keith, which makes several emotions that he refuses to identify rise up in his throat.

“Let’s maybe consider our other options,” Marcela suggests as she pushes the cart farther. “You remember when we stayed over at your primo’s house when we first moved? You hit the ceiling every single morning because you could never remember that it was there. I don’t think bunk beds are for you, mijo.”

“And the toddler rail thing,” Keith adds. He’d meant it seriously — Lance has genuinely fallen a few times and Keith has had to drag him back up — but Lance huff-laughs in the way that he does when Keith teases him and he’s annoyed that he finds it funny, and Marcela straight up laughs. Keith meets Lance’s eyes and smiles to soften the unintentional dig.

“Fine,” Lance laments, dramatically leaning backwards on the rail. “We’ll just get boring normal beds I guess. Ooooou, we should get some bookshelves! Then Keith has somewhere to put all his nerd things.”

Marcela turns the shopping cart so quickly it screeches and nearly flings Lance right off, speeding towards the shelving area. Keith hurries to keep up.

“Excellent idea, Lancito. Bribing him to stay for longer. You’re so smart.”

Lance preens. Keith looks rapidly between them both, trying to find the joke, but there isn’t one. They, genuinely and truly, want to redesign Lance’s entire room to entice Keith to stay. However much it will cost, and Keith knows it will be a lot, they are doing more than what is reasonable to ensure they (not just Lance! All of them! The household!) can spend more time with Keith.

It’s baffling.

Try as he might, Keith simply cannot find a motive. He watches, gobsmacked, as Lance and Marcela hem and haw their way through the biggest furniture outlet chain in the world, comparing sturdy wooden shelving and colourful bean bag chairs and dorky spaceship themed beds, redesigning a whole room from scratch.

He startles out of his thoughts at Marcela’s beckoning, walking over to the display table she and Lance are illegally sitting at (there is a giant FOR VISUAL DISPLAY ONLY sign on it that they have ignored), half hunched over her cell and a pad of paper. “Keith, rojo, come here. We need you to sketch out the basics of Lance’s room so we know what fits. Marco is measuring the walls and everything right now. Don’t worry about anything that’s already in there, I think we’re taking it all out to paint it anyway. You like blue, right?”

Keith swallows roughly. He does like blue. He’s never painted his own room before.

“Yeah,” he manages, finally squishing down next to Lance on his chair.

Following Marco’s directions, he sketches out the foundations of the bedroom, marking the big window and weirdly narrow door and closet that Lance never uses because he has it piled full of stuff he doesn’t use but can’t bring himself to give away. The sketch is then used as a sort of map as they wander around the outlet, holding it up to various pieces of furniture and assessing how they would fit. It takes Keith some time, but after several hours of Lance’s energy and Marcela’s excitement, Keith starts to get hyped.

“Gasp!“ Lance says out loud, because he is a dork. He reaches a flapping hand over to Keith’s without looking, slapping him on the shoulder several times before finally managing to grip onto his sleeve. “Keith! Keith! Look!”

Keith squints in the direction Lance is emoting at. “A couch,” he says slowly, trying to figure out what warrants the intense excitement.

Honestly, it might be the couch. Lance got super excited about bar stools, earlier, so anything really goes.

“No no, farther!”

Keith squints harder. “The countertops?”

“Farther!”

“The…vases?”

“No! Farther!” Finally Lance gets frustrated enough to step behind Keith, gently pressing his palms to Keith’s cheeks and guiding his head in the right direction. “Now squint really hard and get excited with me.”

Keith tries. He sees grey blobs and says nothing, allowing the silence to speak for him.

“The stuffies, Keith! They’re sharks and hippos! Mama, Keith needs glasses.”

“I know,” she says at the same time that Keith says “No, I don’t.”

They stare at each other for several moments.

“As soon as you’re on the insurance,” she says levelly.

“I will feed them to a creek,” Keith promises.

He has never been this stubborn to Marcela before. He didn’t even mean to. If he had known he was going to say it he would have kept his mouth shut, but the words kind of bubbled out of him. He waits for her eyes to harden, her shoulders to square, for the annoyance to become evident at his insolence.

But she only snorts, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “I got Marco to wear them. I got Lisa to wear them. I got my mule of a husband to wear them. If you need them, you will not out-stubborn me, toro.”

Keith shrugs. If she’s that hellbent on getting to know him, she’ll learn, he supposes.

By the time the time they break their intense eye contact, they realize that Lance has already wandered off towards the stuffed animals, and hasten to follow him (he gets lost easy). Lance is already halfway into this big bucket, digging for something specific.

“This is for you,” he says when he finally unearths himself, handing a hippo to Keith. “Smaller than the others, like you, and the fluff is a little matted but it’s softer than the others. The shark is for me because it was stuck on the hippo like I’m stuck on you.” He playfully checks Keith’s hip, giggling at his own joke, but Keith’s eyes are totally glued onto the wonky little hippo plushie in his hands. He holds it loosely, afraid of crushing it, and stares intensely at the matted fluff on the one side, the tangled mess of the little poof at the tail. He tries three times to swallow and fails each time, lump in his throat taking up too much space.

“We’re too old for stuffies,” he finally manages. He gives himself away by how tightly he holds the soft things in his hands.

Lance snorts. “Yeah, well, you’re a massive dweeb, so I think we’re fine.”

“I think they’ll be wonderful additions to your room,” Marcela says with finality, and that is that.

———

By the time they make it out of the maze that is Ikea, pack up the car, and set out on the ride home, it’s well after eight thirty. And Keith isn’t a baby, and neither is Lance, and they have a later bed time than that, but…

They’ve been walking around all day. There has been a lot of expended energy.

They’re tired.

Keith remembers being finagled into playing double-o seven with Lance in the back seat. He remembers losing. He remembers poking Lance in the cheek as he yawned just to hear him squawk.

He remembers nothing but the feeling of Lance’s warmth pressed against his, after that, and the seatbelt digging into his neck, and the numbness of his legs. Then he remembers nothing until he felt the familiar bump of the Esposita-McClain driveway, until he cracked open his eyes to see that they were home and closed them quickly again, hoping he wouldn’t be made to get up, still mostly asleep.

“Should we bother setting up the new beds?” comes a whispered voice, deeper and male.

“No, no,” comes another, higher and softer. “They can sleep together for tonight. You take Lancito. I’ll take Keith.”

He is awake enough to feel soft fingers brushing through his hair, then jostling, then heavy breathing beside his ear and the swaying of being carried. He falls fully asleep again against Marcela’s shoulder, leaning his weight onto her fully, forgetting to keep awake for the walk to their room. He stirs slightly again as he’s set down onto something soft, as he feels the familiar tug of Lance’s finger’s against the fabric of his shirt, the sound of his slow breathing.

“Goodnight, estrellitos,” comes the same whispered voice from earlier, and it’s the last thing Keith remembers before he slips away into sleep.

———

other parts in this universe: 1 2 3

[swift-creates]

category: Gen

fandom: DC Batfamily

characters and relationships: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, unnamed evil sorcerer, very minor batfam

warnings: swearing, mention of that time Jason climbed out of his own grave, some gun use

Summary:

@ailesswhumptober Day 9: Hypothermia, heatstroke, “You look pretty pale.” 

Day 26: Electrocution, burning, “This is going to sting.” 

Being a vampire is great. Unless you’re stranded in the middle of the desert.

notes: anyone want more vampire Jason?

Jason grunted as gravity shifted sideways, and he was thrown into the wall of the mad sorcerer’s sanctum. “You trespassed into the wrong domicile, Bat Family,” the magician cackled as Dick flew over Jason’s head and into a bookshelf. “You’re about to see just how powerful I am.” 

“I’ve had enough of this guy,” Dick grumbled, brushing tattered pages off his shoulder. Jason couldn’t help but agree. 

He fired his grappling hook and swung across the almost-vertical hallway to retrieve his pistol from where it was precariously perched on a doorknob. “You’re about to get a faceful of .45 bullets, asshole.” Bracing his feet against the ceiling, he shot at the magician, but he levitated a table to protect himself and telekinetically smacked Jason away with a flick of his hand. He tumbled down the hall, catching glimpses of the others twisting in the air as they fell beside him. 

“Ah, Red Hood. You should not have done that.” He saw the door at the end of the hall open, daylight streaming through and making Jason squeeze his eyes shut. “Get ready, little Bats.

“This is going to sting.”

Then he hit the ground, and everything started to burn. 

His skin was on fire, claws of sunlight digging down through tendons and muscle to rip him apart. The grains of sand on his palms were knives slicing at his charred flesh. He couldn’t breathe. He was fifteen again, choking on soil, climbing out of a grave- No. He was nineteen, and Bruce was calling his name. 

He didn’t even know he was screaming until Dick was crouching over him and cupping Jason’s face in his hands. “Jay! Shhh, shh, I’m here. Just look at me, Little Wing.” Beside him, Bruce spread out his cape, blocking out the blazing light with its shadow. 

“Dick,” he gasped. 

“Yeah?”

“No… That magician- He’s a dick.”

Dick barked a sharp laugh and shook his head. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

It took some doing, but Jason fought off the urge to curl up and burrow into his brother’s arms. Now that he was no longer at risk of burning to death and crumbling into ashes, he could peek around the hem of Bruce’s cape and see that they were standing near the top of a sand dune, and on the other side was an endless series of other dunes, not a single tree or oasis in sight. 

“Stuck in the middle of the fucking desert. Just brilliant. How do you suggest we get out of his one, Dickiebird?” He forced his voice to steady and arranged his features into a scowl. 

“We could start by walking,” Tim shot back, ever the know-it-all, then shrugged when Jason gave him a deadpan look. 

“I don’t know. Are you sure you’re okay, little Wing? You look pretty pale.”

“I’m a fucking vampire, Dickie. You might as well say your puppy eyes are blue.”

Dick frowned in that concerned older brother way. “Jay-”

“He’s got a point, Dick.” Tim shrugged.

Bruce produced Jason’s helmet from somewhere, and he slipped it on, instantly grateful for its protection. “We’re not getting anywhere by arguing. Let’s go.”

So they walked. And Jason tried not to feel too homicidal inside his increasingly stuffy helmet and jacket.

[wingsoverlagos]

I've found the absolute worst part of Tune In:

John Lennon, well-known abuser, wrote a cute little story about a man who beats his wife to death. I could see why a biographer might want to mention it. John wrote lyrics that centered on the physical abuse of women ("Run For Your Life", "Getting Better"). Perhaps there's something to learn here: is this silly bit of prose in the style of Lewis Carroll a bizarre manifestation of guilt? Or, conversely, does it demonstrate a lack of remorse? Maybe it simply stems from his urge to shock readers?

Mark Lewisohn does not have time to discuss such things! Instead, he confidently asserts that John's wife, Cynthia, who he beat, found John's creative writing exercise about a man beating his wife to death to be "one of the few bright spots in her increasingly hemmed-in life."

This is tremendously fucked up. It would be one thing if Cyn said she enjoyed John's fictional accounts of spousal homicide, but Lewisohn offers no source, and there's certainly no passage to that effect in either of Cynthia's autobiographies.

Maybe she said as much in an interview somewhere, but I really think not. Lewisohn himself thought John's "Jabberwocky, but make it about intimate partner violence" was cute and clever, so surely Cynthia must have found it to be a ray of sunshine in her life. Great take, Mark!

[offender42085]

Post 1146

Brett D Pelham, Florida inmate G40742, born 2002, incarceration intake October 2020 at age 18, scheduled for release February 2034

Homicide-Negligent Vehicular Manslaughter

In January 2020, Brett Pelham pleaded guilty to two counts for the crash that killed Jill Mandeville, 33, in Cape Coral in 2018. Pelham, then 16, was skipping school, driving 86 mph through a residential community and ran a stop sign before striking Mandeville's car, killing her instantly.

While Pelham's defense attorney, had asked for nine years in prison when Pelham pleaded guilty, at the sentencing hearing in July 2020 he asked for as little as six months in a juvenile rehabilitation center. The family of Jill Mandeville hoped for 25 years. 

The defense attorney also said the two charges, vehicular homicide and driving without a license causing death, amounted to double jeopardy. The judge amended the lesser charge to driving without a license, a 60-day misdemeanor. 

Pelham was sentenced to a 15-year sentence and the Mandeville family said that they were pleased with the term.

Co-workers, friends, ministers and relatives wrote 55 individual letters to the Judge, telling him just how important Jill was to them. With the help of Mother's Against Drunken Driving supporters, the family was successful in persuading the court to have all the letter read out loud into the court record.

The defense attorney had three people testify on Pelham's behalf, hoping to get the minimum penalty: a psychologist, a case worker in the juvenile justice system, and Jill Mandeville's mother's half-sister, Elizabeth "Jo" McNurlan, of Tampa.

McNurlan said she and Pelham had exchanged letters while he's been in jail. She said by giving Pelham a prison sentence, the world will have lost "a second person who doesn't deserve to be lost. "We can’t help Jill, but we can help Brett," she said.

Dr. Stephen Bloomfield testified that Pelham's brain wasn't done growing and adolescent brains aren't like adults.  The defense asked the judge to accept Bloomfield's findings.

"One of the biggest pieces of information that we can’t overstate is that Brett was 16 when this happened," he said. "He was a child. Since he was a child, he should not be sentenced as an adult to adult prison."  

On rebuttal, the prosecuting attorney told the judge that he shouldn't treat Pelham lightly. "You don’t get a pass because you are a juvenile for killing," the prosecuting attorney said. "The state wants you to send him to prison."

When the judge announced the sentence, Pelham's mother, Courtney Skipper, let out a sob, yelling "oh my, God, no" while leaping to her feet. She yelled "I love you, I love you so much," while pointing at Pelham before running from the courtroom. 

She soon returned to talk to Pelham, abruptly turning to leave and, looking at the family of Jill Mandeville, telling hem "You're all losers, too."

Pelham was the second teen sentenced in Jill Mandeville's death.

Morgan Skau of Cape Coral allowed Pelham to drive her father's truck, despite knowing Pelham did not have a driver's license.

With him in the truck, Skau was sentenced for her role in the crash to six months of probation, the Judge tellling her if he was allowed to give her jail time, he would have. 

4j

[softagenda]

drunken dance (ais)

ais x reader(f) (mature)

alternate universe / dancer!mc / assassin au

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

His gaze soon returned to the prima, inspecting her with fresh eyes.

She was panting slightly, her face turned upward as her arms slowly dropped to her sides. Gold magic continued to exude from them, the fine mist now cloying and viscous, drooling from her veins like honey.

The prima then glanced up, searching for a moment before finding him in the crowd. She held his gaze for a moment, a flicker of something sharp awakening in those pretty eyes.

Ais tilted his head back, his mouth curling.

Interesting.

_________________________________________

The Red Banquet ebbed and flowed around you in a roiling, scarlet ocean of silk and sound. 

You watched over the early embers of the party as Eridia’s elite mingled, sparkling jewelry swinging as they danced, laughed, sneered, and drank themselves to oblivion. Soon the ceremonial dance would begin, and you would be called to the stage - for now you hid in the shadows and explored the palatial inner sanctum of the temple. 

“The night’s still young, yet some are already getting sloppy.” 

You glanced over your shoulder as Mhin approached, slinking through the shadows of the wall until they had reached your side. 

They were already dressed for the dance, in the ensemble that the troupe leader had painstakingly chosen for the occasion: the silk top hooked around their neck in a glittering chain of pearls, descending in a shimmering garnet swath to a matching band across the hem wrapped above their waist, the tiny beads bouncing against bare, pale skin. Two gossamer shawls hung from their arms, cinched at the shoulder, a golden cuff around the bicep, then once more at the wrist. Trousers of the same fabric billowed down their legs to golden anklets that sparkled and chimed with tiny bells.

Mhin moved silent as a ghost despite the jewelry dappled across their frame. A veil of silk hung across his nose and mouth, masking his expression.

“The more, the better,” you said. Drunk people were easier to manipulate.

They braced themselves on the banister, lilac eyes trailing over the crowd. “I always knew their kind never gave a fuck about the common folk, but this is… beyond even my imagination.” Their eyes narrowed on the massive fountains of white wine, tables full of enough fine food to feed ten times the guests present. “Throwing a party, wasting so much money and food, while hordes of Soulless terrorize the villages. Disgusting.”

You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the pillar. “We’ll have to remember to circle back round to the kitchens after…” you trailed off, sharing a look. “With Leander’s help, we can haul back some of the food for the kids.”

Though the mask hid their expression, you could tell exactly how Mhin felt at the idea of eating the noble’s leftovers - in a word, homicidal - but the thought of Fenrir, Silvia, and the other troupe children stalled that infamously sharp tongue. 

“They would certainly appreciate it more than this lot,” Mhin scoffed. “I doubt a single one of these prissy noblewomen will eat much, even as their pig partners gorge themselves.”

Hoping to lighten the mood, you nudged them with your foot and smiled when they met your gaze. “Silvia would be beside herself at that mountain of fruit.” 

The corners of their eyes crinkled as a reluctant smile likely formed beneath the veil. “Huxtly would stick his whole head in the chocolate fountain. Make himself sick, probably.” 

“Fenrir could eat a whole one of those pheasants by himself.”

“If he could snag one before Yulia devoured them all.”

Grinning, you pushed off from the pillar and leaned on the banister next to them, your shoulders bumping. For a moment, you both enjoyed the idea, the banquet and all its glamor falling away amidst this pocket of peace. Your heart lurched wistfully in your chest. 

“Soon.” At their sideways glance, you continued in a hushed tone, “Soon we’ll be able to give them that. To see the look on their faces, when they have so much food they can’t possibly eat it all.”

Mhin stared for a long moment, before they sighed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. One wrong move, and our heads will stand on pikes outside the temple gates.”

You frowned. “We’ve swam through far more dangerous waters than this,” you said with a nod toward the party. 

“Don’t be flippant. Monsters roam these halls, the likes of which we’ve never seen.” Their hand reached out and grabbed your wrist, their words a fervent whisper. “Don’t trust anyone. Never let your guard down. 

You huffed and stood up, tugging your wrist back. “This isn’t my first performance, Mhin. Don’t you trust me to handle this?”

“You, I trust. Them… him ….” They shot a seering glare at the stage. An empty throne sat in prime of place, a behemoth crafted from snow white, glittering Abaranth silver. A priceless treasure, bought with the brutal culling of the Abaranth people. Mhin’s people. “Never.”

Seething hate burned in their eyes - an enmity born of extraordinary suffering and loss. They had never spoken in detail about the massacre of his village, but you had noticed the remnants of that pain all the time: in the way he gripped his dagger in his sleep, the way he flinched at a campfire that flamed too high, the viciously protective way he guarded you and the troupe members, especially the children.

You looked over the party again.

These people had rejoiced. They had clothed themselves in jewelry hewn from that purest silver and danced on the mountains of corpses they had wrought to attain it. Thousands killed to slake that insatiable lust.

All of it made possible by the god of this temple. 

The Vessel of the Seaspring and his army of Soulless.

“I’ll be careful,” you reassure them softly, your gaze on that empty throne. Determination to see this through burned white hot in your chest. You would succeed. And with this victory, the futures of so many would be saved. 

Spurred by that thought, you glanced at the entrance of the hall and immediately caught the eye of a man lingering in the doorway, his arms folded over his thick chest. Leander’s mouth lifted  into a smile, his chin jerking toward the interior. 

“Looks like it’s time to get dressed,” you murmured before rising and heading toward the staircase. After a moment, you felt the shift in air as Mhin caught up and walked at your side, their arm brushing against yours.

_____________________________________

Ais hated shit like this.

When he reluctantly strode out of the shrine gate and took his place on the thick cushions of the throne, the crowd of nobles cheered and toasted their glasses, spilling wine onto the floor. They didn’t seem bothered at all by his lack of response, too caught up in the drunken revelry to care if he watched them all with utmost apathy. 

With a pointed look at his man by the door, Ais enacted his plan to hurry along the events of the night and return to his rooms to laze about in solitude. Well, mostly solitude - he’d probably invite Princess to join him, maybe one of the dancers if they excited him.

Much as he’d like to, Ais couldn’t abstain from the entire banquet altogether - Ocudeus demanded his due from the horde of bloodthirsty humans - but he could decide how long and when. He figured, if he came for the dancing and ceremonial offerings, he’d at least be somewhat entertained and fed well.

Then, he could leave and sink into oblivion once more.

Chin propped on his palm, one leg thrown over the arm rest of the throne, Ais sat through two performances. The first was an instrumental ensemble with a variety of horns he’d never seen before. The second had dancers, but the kind that put on a theatrical performance, with exaggerated drama and a scene where one person was tragically killed by another. 

The crowd dabbed the corners of their eyes. 

Ais yawned. 

He’s contemplating the swirling red wine in his goblet, contemplating leaving early regardless of Ocudeus’ wrath, when the third performance swept into the room.

Near drowsing, he watched the dancers glide into position in the center of the room, draped in fluttering red robes and glittering pearls. A cluster of musicians set up close to the stage, their instruments polished and primed. He paused as a familiar face appeared just behind the musicians: short dark hair, emerald eye, a winsome smile on his handsome face. Leander.

Ais tilted his head, curiosity peaked. The mage rarely made an appearance in the palace of the Seaspring - before Ocudeus had swarmed his influence over the kingdom, Ais had been a frequent visitor at Leander’s pub. They used to be something close to friends.

Leander’s attention was riveted to the center of the hall. Ais followed his gaze.

The dancers had formed two rings around the stage, fixed in place with their arms out and curled artfully around them like the blooming petals of a flower. They waited, eyes bright and smiles hidden beneath silk veils, for the music to begin.

At the center of the formation was a single dancer - the prima. 

Even at a distance, she shone brighter than the rest. 

In addition to her ceremonial garb, she was draped in an additional robe, this one as delicate and transparent as sea foam and embroidered with the tiniest glittering gems that caught the light like a river of stars. Her long hair was swept high on her head and fixed with a crown: its frame comprised of curling, golden tendrils, cresting in the center around a massive garnet, each tentacle fixed with dangling pearls that danced with every turn of her head. The tail of her hair flowed to the small of her back, a long silky length that curled like rolling waves and gleamed under the torchlight around the hall. Her hands were the color of summer storms, in which rivers of gold branched across the dark sky.

A feast for the eyes.

Ais rose from his slouch and leaned forward on the throne. 

At some unspoken signal, the musicians began to play. An eerie, seductive melody began to fill the room, a string instrument singing through the sharp beats of a drum. The dancers began to turn in place, slow and winding, before curling toward the center and rolling together, their robes forming the waves of a shore. 

They twirled and writhed to the music, twining around each other, the two rings weaving together, separating, leaping around the floor as one. At their center the prima rose and fell with them, her lithe form undulating, each stroke of her arms through the air prompting an ensuing wave amongst the other dancers, as though she were the moon commanding the tides. 

The lethargic tempo gradually grew more passionate and alive. He’s reminded of the insidious curl of clouds that grew in strength and torrent, until a hurricane descended from the heavens - only this particular tempest, wrapped in red silk and gold, burned like an inferno. 

The prima leapt recklessly through the ranks of the other dancers, the glitter of her crown and robes parting the sea of fire like a lightning strike. At one point she danced to the front of the stage, as close to the throne as she could, and her gaze caught his over her veil.

Bright, burning eyes encircled by thick lashes and red paint. Pearls had been fixed in clusters around her temples, then scattered around her taut stomach and back, gleaming against her skin.  This close, he could watch the undulation of muscle and sinew in each curl of her body, each movement graceful, effortless, as smooth as the silk clinging to her frame. 

She spun back to the center of the formation as the music rose to a crescendo, her dancers all around twisting in a frenzy, and then lifted her arms. Every dancer but the prima paused, then fell to the ground like dolls whose strings had been cut.

The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. 

The gold veins across her hands and forearms suddenly flared. An aura enveloped them, golden mist issuing from her skin, and then a single ball of light formed between her palms. 

Ais sat up as the ancient magic welled from within the dancer’s body. 

He tensed, claws gripping the armrests, as her hands molded the sphere of magic, radiating light like a miniature star, before twisting sharply. 

It burst across the air like a firework. Sparkling comets of magic flew through the air, delighting the crowd into shrieks and screams of delight. He flicked a finger as one shot toward him, redirecting it with ease, and watched as it merrily spun in the air before crashing into a statue and dissipating in a last, popping spark. 

Ais eased back onto the throne, surveying the crowd. The magic hadn’t harmed any of the humans, from what he could tell. They continued to clamor rapturously, some even chasing after the last few rays of magic and grasping with their hands to try and catch it. 

His gaze soon returned to the prima, inspecting her with fresh eyes. 

She was panting slightly, her face turned upward as her arms slowly dropped to her sides. Gold magic continued to exude from them, the fine mist now cloying and viscous, drooling from her veins like honey. 

Ancient magic presented amongst beings - humans and monsters alike - rarely but on the chance that it occurred, it did so in unique ways. He’d never seen magic quite like this, in all his centuries of existence. 

The prima then glanced up, searching for a moment before finding him in the crowd. She held his gaze for a moment, a flicker of something sharp awakening in those pretty eyes.

Ais tilted his head back, his mouth curling.

Interesting. 

_________________________________________________

When the servant had arrived at the guest quarters of the troupe with a summoning from the Vessel, he was met with little surprise or fanfare. 

Mhin had answered the door and, after a moment, nodded tersely. “She needs time to prepare. Wait out here.”

“The Vessel will not be kept wait - “ the servant tried to stop them, only to jump back as Mhin slammed the door in his face. 

Grimfaced, Mhin joined you in your corner of the dressing room. Fischa was dabbing the sweat from your body with a couple cotton pads, taking special care to refresh the makeup around your face and apply fresh glue to any pearls that slipped on your skin. “It worked.”

“Oh!” The other dancer gasped, her cheeks flushing, before she lunged for the box full of perfumes and essential oils. “How long does she have? Oh, but it’d be best if you could bathe - you can’t service the Vessel with a sweaty body. A wardrobe change, at the very least?” 

A nerve in Mhin’s clenched jaw jumped, but they said nothing as Fischa was soon joined by the other dancers, who dithered around you and argued how best to prepare you for a night with the temple god. 

After much debate, they bullied you into changing into a fresh ceremonial outfit - still vibrant red and accentuated by pearls and garnets, but clean, dry, and embroidered with gold sparrows and delicate blossoms. 

“Just a dab of this, and you’ll be ready to go!” Fischa beamed, her fingers dipping into a lotion compact. She rubbed circles into the crook of her neck and wrists, the scent of honey and clover brushing against your senses.

You wondered whether they would be as excited preparing you for a night with the Vessel, if they knew what you intended to do with it. Still, you would never return their kindness with anything less than gratitude. 

“Thank you, sisters,” you murmured, clasping her hands and offering a slightly wan smile. 

“You know, I can’t remember whether we’ve had a talk about… intimate relations,” Rukia chimed in, wrapping an arm through your elbow. “Have you been with a partner before?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, shutting down that frightening prospect before the other dancer got any further. “I’m aware.”

A series of knocks banged impatiently on the door to the quarters.

Fischa shared a look with Rukia when something seemed to occur to her. She hurried to a small dresser and dug around inside before returning with a small compact. She handed it to you with slightly pink cheeks. “Take this. Surely the Vessel won’t be… too passionate, but just in case.”

Confused, you opened the lid. A clear, viscous salve sat inside. You stared at it for a moment before her words sunk in. 

Your cheeks burned.

Clearing your throat, you screwed the lid back on with clumsy fingers and tucked the compact in your pocket. “Thanks, Fishca,” you said, avoiding everyone’s gaze and turning toward the door. 

Mhin grabbed your arm and pulled you to a stop just before the door. In their hand was a thin, ornate dagger, the blade purest white.

You tucked it within the folds of your pants, strapped to your hip with a leather belt. The drape of your robes should hide the slight bulge - it might cause a bit of trouble unsheathing the dagger, but you’d make it work. 

Mhin leaned close and murmured in your ear. “Don’t hesitate. If anything seems off, do whatever you have to to get the fuck out of there.” 

You nodded. 

“I’ll be nearby.” Their hand brushed across the bracelet at your wrist. It was enchanted with a spell that, when activated with magic, would signal the matching one on Mhin’s wrist to vibrate.

“If you need me.”

You nodded again, this time grabbing their hand and squeezing for a moment, before lifting your chin and striding toward the door. 

The harried servant, clearly both irritated and panicked to have been kept waiting, hustled you through the palace at fast as he could. 

Despite having an excellent sense of direction, you soon found yourself struggling to remember the turns you’d taken, as each hall looked identical with its blood red walls and black marble floors, when the servant guided you around one last corner that opened up to a larger room with a vaulted ceiling.

You paused on the threshold, sucking in a gasp. 

Amongst the luxurious velvet walls, the towering, worn mahogany doors set at the top of an equally ancient set of stairs looked unnatural. Around the circular room, grotesque statues lined the walls - no, not just statues.

Soulless.

Your stomach lurched. 

“Come, this way,” the servant ushered, hovering and gesturing insistently but apparently unwilling to touch you. “Please. He’s been waiting for so long now.”

You swallowed around a dry throat and followed on slightly shaking legs, your eyes darting around the room, trying to keep as many of the monsters in sight as possible. Still, even as you reached the bottom of the stairs, not a single Soulless had so much as twitched in your direction. 

Hell of an entrance. Literally.

“Up the stairs, through the doors. Go, go.”

You’d ascended halfway when you realized the servant hadn’t accompanied you. You looked over your shoulder. 

The servant was gone. 

Only the Soulless remained in the room. Where before they had remained as still and lifeless as statutes, now every red eye in the room opened and fixed upon you. 

Terror shot like fire through your body.

Sprinting up the steps, you burst through the old doors and slammed them shut behind you, your heart pounding in your head, your chest. 

Fighting to calm down, you forced your breath to slow and let your hands fall from their panicked barricade on the door. You sighed as your body cooled, a drop of sweat racing down your spine. Fischa’s anxious attempts to blot your sweat were all for nothing. 

Once your heart had stopped racing, other sounds began to filter into your senses. The soft whistle of a breeze through a cavern. Gentle, bubbling movement of still water. Groaning wood beneath your feet, the faint creaking of hanging metal.

Steeling yourself, you turned around and faced the inner sanctum of the Seaspring palace. 

__________________________________________________

She was a cautious thing, for sure.

From atop the rafters, Ais watched as the dancer took short, quiet steps further into the sanctum. 

She drew her robes closer, the chill of the room drawing goosebumps across the bare skin of her stomach and arms. She stopped at the edge of the water, taking in the vast temple encircled by the aging pier, the torii gate that towered above, the lanterns and talismans swinging idly amongst the mahogany pillars. Sweat cooled on her brow, her eyes bright and calculating. 

“Hello? Venerable One?” she called out into the room, her voice echoing to the depths of the cavern. 

He rolled his eyes at the title. The humans found something new to call him every decade or so, each more foolish than the last. 

She waited but, upon receiving no response, began exploring the left side of the pier. When she reached the tea pot and cushions, she hesitated before lifting the lid and peering inside. Searching for poison? Or just curious what the Vessel drinks?

Ais smirked as her nose crinkled. 

She stood up again and looked around. Her curiosity led her to the closest pillar, covered in white paper talismans. For several minutes, she read their contents, a furrow in her brow. 

“What would you wish for?” he asked.

The dancer jumped, her hand reaching instinctively to her hip as she searched for the voice. Soon, she looked upward, finding him amongst the rafters. Her eyes narrowed above the veil. 

“Your Excellency,” she demurred with a bow, even as her sharp eyes held fast on his form. 

He tilted his chin, resisting the urge to smile. “Answer.”

She considered him, that quick mind working behind those bright eyes, before she replied, “I would never dare to wish for anything, without a full understanding of the terms.”

Now, he smirked. “Smart.”

He could tell from the spark in her gaze that she held a sharp reply on the tip of her tongue but kept silent. “Speak freely,” he said, bracing his arm on his bent knee, a pipe hanging from his fingers. “I prefer honesty to pointless pleasantries.”

The dancer bowed her head in acknowledgement. “As Your Excellency wishes.” After a moment of silence, she asked, “For what reason has Your Excellency called for me?”

“Good question. Not sure yet.”

Her brow furrowed again. Her hands twisted in the silk, the many folds of her robes flowing over her arms. During the performance, the other dancers had reminded him of flowers, but she was too animated to remind him of such a staid thing. No, more than a flower, her movements - the way she dove and soared, leaped and tumbled through the air, reminded him of a sparrow flitting through the many bows and trees of a forest, carrying the light of the sun on her wings.

She looked around the room for a moment before turning back to the tea pot. “Shall I prepare a fresh pot then?” 

“No need.”

He watched as she moved to the tea pot and prepared to remove the leftover grinds, then hesitated. Where moments before the pot had stood cold and empty, a full, steaming pot of tea awaited her. Her gaze darted toward him in question.

Ais pulled from his pipe and said nothing, curious what she’d do.

After a moment’s deliberation, she lifted the handle and poured two servings into the nearby cups, her brow furrowing at the deep red color of the tea.

A short laugh escaped him.

Affecting an air both graceful and ever so slightly annoyed, she settled on a cushion and held her cup in hand, her nose poised over the steam as she tried to subtly smell the batch. 

“Is this wine?” she finally asked, after failing to place the flavor.

“Something like that.” 

He blew out two long furls of smoke from his nostrils before rising from the rafter and dropping down onto the pier beside her. She stiffened briefly but recovered well, her head dipping in a chime of clinking pearls and gold, as he approached and took the cushion opposite her. 

Ais leaned back on the pillar and whistled. 

Soon enough, the scratching of claws across the ancient wood grew closer until Princess turned the corner of the temple gate, her many tails wagging behind her, the handful of wet, amber eyes around her head rolling as they surveyed the room, the dancer, and himself. She trotted toward him, her snout prodding into the side of his face, before curling up at his hip.

Ais dropped a hand on her back, his fingers brushing her fur. 

The dancer had stiffened, her back ramrod straight, fear mixing in with the lovely scent of honey and spice around her. Bemusedly, he realized the addition didn’t put him off in the slightest.

After several moments, she relaxed again, hiding her eyes behind the thick rim of lashes. She lifted the cup to her mouth, took a delicate sip, and then set it back on the ground again. “How can I be of use to you, Your Excellency?”

“Use?” He took a long drink of his own cup and savored the burning down his throat. “What do you think?”

Ais watched the quicksilver calculation flash through her eyes. Then, her posture shifting, she seemed to settle into her determination. 

Her robes loosened, the sumptuous weight falling down around her elbows, pooling around her hips. The smooth skin of her shoulders were bared, her head tipping forward to allow her long hair to spill over them in soft curls. Her eyes narrowed again, not in calculation, but in sleepy, languorous seduction. 

Ais let his bent leg fall to the side, opening his lap. 

She took the invitation without hesitation, all curves and silk as she crawled across the distance and settled on top of him. This close, he could sense the brimming magic swimming in her veins, the golden branches across her hands and arms shining with power. 

Her hands smoothed across his chest, the tips of her fingers teasing beneath the folds of his clothes, before sliding around his shoulders and settling at the nape of his neck. She curled into him, those bright eyes inches from his own, the veil hanging between their mouths. 

He could sense her breath on the air, could taste it across his tongue. 

The smirk that spread across his face was an evil thing, even to his own mind, but still she did nothing as he tugged the edge of her veil from its fastenings and took her mouth.

______________________________________________

He kissed like a demon. 

His tongue invaded in a hot rush of teeth and breath, his mouth working with a fervor at complete odds with his attitude thus far. You’re swept in the tide, hands seeking purchase on his thick shoulders as his hot tongue found yours, each brush of rough wet muscle a torrent on your senses as you struggled to keep your wits about you. 

He tasted strangely spicy, the thick mulled wine from the teapot seeping across your palate. Each shallow swallow of the taste burned a line down your throat and settled in your stomach like whiskey.

Countless times, you’d lured targets just like this. Honeypot was something of a specialty, for all that you’d rarely engaged in true intimacy. You could separate the sensations from your head, your thoughts always focused on the mission, dissociating the physical from the mental. Missions just like this were a dime a dozen - entice, approach, distract, execute. Simple. Straightforward.

Nothing about this felt simple. Never before had the pleasure been this strong, this mind-numbingly good - never had it been this difficult to just think when a target laid hands on you.

Heat flooded your body, pooling in the pit of your stomach. When his hands braced your waist, scorching palms a brand on your skin, mischievous thumbs stroking along the dips and plateaus of your stomach, every nerve in your body seemed to perk up and come alive with tingling pleasure. 

You broke the clasp of his mouth, panting as his tongue swept across your lip. 

Red eyes bored into you, their weight intense and all-consuming. The Vessel pulled you against his chest, his hands guiding your hips down into the valley of his lap, and instinctively they began to grind against him, as though called to dance by a lewd melody you couldn’t hear. 

A stifled moan rose in your throat as the hard jut of him notched against your sensitive mound and rose to meet you, rubbing deep and slow against your clit through the perilously thin fabric. God, he’s big. You felt yourself growing wet, your arousal dampening the silk further, heightening each brutal brush against your folds.

Sweet, heady fog began to slip into your head, teased and tormented on the precipice of that perfect, elicit friction. 

The air between you felt cloying, humid and hot. You tossed your head back, fighting for breath and swallowing a moan as his eager mouth found your throat and proceeded to nip and suck. 

The mission. Don’t forget what you’re here for - oh fuck, that’s good . 

You struggled, searching your memories for the fuel to keep on trick. Mhin’s face, the glimpse of hollow grief on his face at the mention of his village. Fischa and Rukia. Huxtly, Fenrir, and Yulia, playing out in the fields around the tents, the breeze carrying their laughter.

Gritting your teeth, you dragged your hands from around his neck, down the firm planes of his chest and covered his where they sat on the curve of your waist and guided your hips in their lazy, exquisite dance against him. 

You held his wrists and drew him upward, until his palms smoothed over the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers teasing along the hem of your top, pearls on thin gold chains slipping over his knuckles. He took the invitation eagerly, roaming beneath the silk until his hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, testing the firm points as those terrible red eyes watched your face, devoured your flushed cheeks and hazy eyes. 

Your pleasure seemed to feed his and vice versa, a conduit forming as riotous heat and lust charged the air between you. 

Your hands left him to his devices, namely torturing you with flicks and pinches and hot handfuls of skin, and then returned to your waist, gripping your own hip bones as though bearing down on the thick ridge of his cock. Your right hand slipped within your pants and found the handle of the dagger. 

His tongue licked a hot swath up your neck, his mouth lingering by your ear, his breath puffing against your jaw. You turned and caught his mouth again, sucking his tongue inward, your head swimming even as you fought to think.

With a quick jerk, you pulled the dagger out of its sheath, cutting through the fabric of your pants, and lifted it into the air, poised above his neck. Your grip tightened, prepared to tilt and plunge the blade into his jugular, when - 

Your body froze. 

What - what’s happening . Every single nerve in your body continued to sing with pleasure, your mound aching like an open wound, your skin tingling with the heat radiating from his body and touch.

Your mouth gaped, paused in the middle of a deep kiss, as he sighed and leaned back, his gaze tracing the blush on your cheeks, the dawning horror in your eyes. His hand slipped out from your breast and cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip and dipping inside to tease your still tongue. 

“Should’ve known not to drink from my cup, sparrow,” the Vessel said, his red eyes narrowed in satisfaction, before inspecting the raised dagger with interest. “Looks sharp.”

Then he withdrew a couple inches, just enough to bring his face closer to the weapon. “Oh…?” He met your paralyzed gaze over the blade. “Abaranth steel?” He tilted his head thoughtfully before a smirk spread across bruised lips. “So it’s personal.”

You watched, terror quickly replacing the fading pleasure in your body, sucking the warmth from your veins until sweat lay cold and dry on your skin, your heart racing furiously.

The Vessel dragged his hand down your neck, across your shoulder and down your arm in a mocking caress, fingers cupping your elbow teasingly, before reaching the thick gold veins embedded in your skin. “Wanted a closer look at these, but… turns out there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

You fought against the unnatural paralysis with all your might, those same veins he traced with his thumb lighting up with stifled magic - but to no avail. His words bubbled to the surface of your panic. You glanced down at the mug you’d taken barely a sip of. 

The wine?

The Vessel hummed low in his throat, his gaze pausing on your face, before a slow smirk spread across his mouth. 

Checkmate, sparrow , he whispered, but not once had his lips moved to form the words.

Your heart pounded in your chest, panic building to a crescendo, your body vibrating as though struck by lightning. What is this? What did you do to me ? you thought feverishly. What did I drink ?

His scarlet eyes flared, their malevolent glow burning like banked embers in the gloom of the temple. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the tea pot’s lid spun off the frame and onto the ground nearby. He hooked his fingers over the rim and lifted the pot until the chamber was level with your eyes.

Thick, blood red water sloshed from within, dribbling down the side of the pot.

The same water that ebbed beneath the pier.

You stared, a scream echoing from the distance. 

Now , he mused, his voice almost bored even as it invaded your mind, let’s see what secrets you’ve got tucked away in this head of yours. 

_____________________________________

a/n: comments and likes are appreciated!

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The Missing Piece - Luke Alvez x Reader

Tagging: @celilice1 @kabloswrld @whoreforhondo @cosmic-psychickitty @misscharlielulu @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @anime-weeb-4-life @rosaliedepp @storiesofsvu @desert-fern @sendmylcve

The image on the whiteboard was from your Washington Metro Homicide I.D. They told you not to smile for those pictures, but you had anyway. You had a rebellious streak in you, one Luke that loved, one that always kept him on his toes. One that he hoped was going to keep you alive.

He thought of the last time he saw you, humming in his kitchen wearing nothing but his t-shirt. He remembered that mischievous look in your eyes as you leaned back against the counter, that fabric riding up. His fingertips had trailed along the hem as he said, “come back to bed.”

“Luke.” Penelope’s voice pierced his thoughts. His arms were folded over his chest as he leaned against the conference room table, his gaze fixed on the white board as he took in the pictures from the crime scene.

Crime Scene…

Your apartment…

You had been packing up the last of your stuff for the move to his place. There had been a couple of things that you needed to donate; you were planning to drop them off before you headed into work later on. From what he could see, you’d barely gotten started when it happened.

It had come as a surprise; a blitz attack he thought. There had no signs of forced entry, you had known your attacker. There was blood on the tiles in the kitchen, a dark and vivid stain creeping across the floor. They were still waiting for DNA testing to come back but Luke thought it was probably yours. Your sidearm remained on the kitchen table, alongside your cell phone. It was still playing Missy Higgins when they found it.

“Luke.” Penelope tried again, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be looking at this.”

He inclined his head in her direction, his jaw clenched, lips pursed together grimly before his gaze returned to the whiteboard.

“I have to. I have to do something.” He said gruffly before rubbing a plam over the back of his neck. “You know I keep going over it. I remember kissing her goodbye, but I don’t remember if I told her that I loved her, I was in a hurry…”

That entire day he had been in a hurry. He wished he’d slowed down, taken the time with you. It had been rushed, frantic, the two of you against the clock.

“I asked her to marry me.” He told Penelope quietly. “She just started wearing the ring. We were making plans…”

There was a desperation in his voice. He remembered last night, your feet in his lap as the two of you discussed potential venues. He’d wanted to get married in the fall, he loved the colours and crispness of the season, and you didn’t do churches. The two of you were moving forward, planning a future.

“What if this is it?” He asked Penelope, his eyes meeting hers. “The things we see… My mind won’t stop going to those places, all the horrible things that could be happening to her. I keep asking myself, is she hurt? Is she dead?” He put his hand over his heart, feeling the thrum of it underneath his fingers. You were a part of him, the missing puzzle piece that completed his life. “I’d know if she was dead right? I’d feel it?”

He was unravelling. All of that agony, the terror, it emitted from him like a beacon. Luke Alvez could adapt to one hundred and one different situations, but this was not one of them. His eyes stung as Penelope wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He clung to her; she was a lighthouse in the middle of the fog. He knew he was too close to this, that he couldn’t see beyond the photographs on the board, the possibilities that ran through his head like a scrap book of sick images.

“We’ll find her Luke.” Penelope said with conviction, rubbing circles on his back soothingly. “I promise you we’ll find her.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

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Didn’t Your Momma Ever Tell You Not To Talk To Strangers?

Bo Sinclair X Reader: Part Two

Warnings: Fem Reader, Allusions to Past Noncon(Not with The Reader), Bo’s violent thoughts, Smut(Consensual), Reader doesn’t know about the Atrocities yet

Part One Part Three

There’s a nervousness creeping up his spine now that it’s just you and him alone in his truck, headed back up to his place. He hates that you make him feel this way—all you’re doing is sitting there, your nails anxiously picking at the rough hem of your shorts, your jaw still tense from the falling out you just had with your stupid little friends—but all he can think of is how you might react when you get back to his house.

He knows what the tourists think about him—the way they judge the town at first glance—Hell, that Corey punk from your friend’s van was exactly the kind of person who usually has the honor of being his brother’s canvas, but it’s been so long since he actually brought a girl home that the same stupid anxieties he used to have when he was a dumb teenager are flaring to the surface in full force.

What if you take one look at his place and decide he’s not good enough for you?

Sure, he can always drag you down to his shop’s basement and take a different kind of pleasure from you, but he knows damn well that’s not what he wants.

You look at him—he’s looking at the road, but he sees you—you’re smiling at him, an awkward furrow to your brow. You have no idea the danger you’re in, but this isn’t exactly a comfortable situation for you.

Still, you’re not uncomfortable because of him—you’re smiling at him—bright and hopeful, as anxious about making a good impression as he is, with none of the assurances of homicide to fall back on if this doesn’t go well.

He wants to consume you—he wants to chew up all of your brightness and hope in his great slobbering maw until you’re reduced to little bits of mush that he can swallow and incorporate into his being.

Maybe then he’d be happy too.

“I really appreciate this,” you break the silence, and he hopes you don’t notice the way his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “Not a lot of people are willing to take a stranger into their home.”

“Not a lot of people are willing to stand up for a stranger when their friends are being dicks.” He doubts you’d have been so quick to speak up on his behalf if you knew even half of what goes on in Ambrose.

Stupid.

He’s stupid for bringing you here.

What does he expect to accomplish? He can’t really think you’ll have any kind of feelings left for him when you find out what really goes on in this town. Even if a week was enough time to get you to fall in love with him, it would all go up in flames the second he shows you his true colors.

You like Bo, The Helpful Mechanic who sweeps you off your feet when he hugs you—Bo, The Serial Killer who keeps women in his basement, is a far cry from the man you think he is.

But God help him; he likes the way you smile at the other Bo—the way you cared enough about a stranger to make his little gas station a permanent stop on your road trip just to give him a little sugar.

He can pretend to be that Bo for a while, if it means getting to feel your skin against his. The animal inside of him aches at the thought of you, splayed out across his bed, wearing nothing but that same smile you’ve got on your face right now.

“Yeah? I don’t know as I’d call Corey a friend.” The sourness of your tone shakes him loose of his own head, and he’s honestly glad to hear it—maybe if he can drive a wedge between you and those friends of yours, a week can turn into more. Maybe if he can keep the wool over your eyes long enough to get you to tell your friends to fuck off and not come back it won’t be so hard to make you stay once you know the truth. As long as you know that no one is coming to save you…

“How’d you meet that prick anyway?” He tries to sound casual—keep the murder out of his tone—but the mean smirk you shoot him tells him that it wasn’t lost on you, and that you liked it.

“College—meet a whole lot of people who don’t mean much to you there.”

College.

Of course you had to be a College Girl—too smart for him, and yet dumb enough to end up in his truck. You probably think he’s exactly the same kind of Hick Yokel Corey does—you’re just too fucking polite not to be offended by the dickwad saying it outloud.

Lester should have gone to college—he’s got the smarts for it—but after Good Ol’ Pa lost his medical license all his Doctor Money went quick. Sure, there was food on the table, but there wasn’t shit left for any of the boys to even think of a higher education.

He can’t help hating you for it—for the opportunity you had that his brother didn’t. His lip curls up at the thought of taking that from you.

“What’re you going for?” It’s a polite question on the surface, but more than that, he’s building the version of you that lives in his head—the one he’ll use to pick you apart and learn exactly how to hurt you—how to beat you down until you’ve got no fight left to try and run away from him.

You laugh. “I’m not anymore,” you confess, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly. “I was going for Psychology and Forensics, but I had a nervous breakdown when I realized I’d never be able to afford to actually finish my degree—I dropped out about a year ago.”

He swallows thickly—fuck—all the mean shit he’d been thinking dies flat in his chest like wasps drawn into an old glass of soda someone left out on the porch. “Forensics, huh? You into dead bodies or somethin’?”

You crack a grin at that, and he wishes he could digest the butterflies in his stomach. “I’ve always been fascinated with death,” you admit, and the way your fingers almost tremble with excitement unnerves him. “Have you ever held a human heart in your hands?”

He shouldn’t answer that.

He only cracks a grin, letting out an awkward chuckle that comes off as more of a scoff. “Can’t say I have.” It isn’t really a lie—he can’t exactly tell you about it now, can he? ‘Course, maybe it’s a story for later, the way this conversation is going.

“Sorry,” you shrink, and annoyance bobs in his throat. “I’m being weird—That’s not the kind of shit I should be saying to you when you’re taking a chance on letting me crash here.” He hates the thought of anyone making you feel like you need to crush down the sick enthusiasm that makes you so fucking fascinating to him.

“Nah, Girl—that sounds cool as hell.” He offers you a smile, gift wrapped by his twinkling eyes. “When have you held a heart?”

Other than his in this moment, that is.

“My forensics class attended an Autopsy my first year—one of my classmates passed out when the Pathologist offered to let us hold it,” you giggle, trying to stifle the sound. “The corpse suffered from an acute cardiomegaly—if I remember the terms right.” He shrugs—Dad wasn’t a doctor for long after he and Vincent came around, so it’s not like he picked up a whole lot of shop talk from the old man. “The heart was huge—I’ll never forget the way it felt to hold it in my hands.”

“Well you’re officially the coolest damn girl I’ve ever talked to.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in as he pulls off in front of the old house. “I like ‘em a little sick.”

He can’t help smiling at the way you laugh so openly—he’s almost excited by the prospect of letting you in on their little family secret. Either it’ll wipe that smile off of your face and show you what true horror really is, or—dare he hope—maybe, just maybe, you’ll fit right in after all.

“You wanna come inside?” He sucks his cheek between his teeth, trying to curb his enthusiasm as he looks you over—you’re looking at the house, and you don’t look comfortable.

Second thoughts, maybe?

What’s the matter, girl? Just now thinking about how stupid it was to come home with a strange man in a strange town?

“Yeah.” You nod. “Sorry, it’s just—I always feel awkward when I go into someone else’s house.”

He lets out a laugh that’s almost more of a snarl when he gets out of the truck, coming around the other side to help you out—he can be a gentleman when he wants to. “Good—nothin’ worse than houseguests who make themselves feel too at home.”

You grin when you take his hand, hopping down from the passenger seat. “Never heard that one before.” You’re a little off-balance when you land, and Bo takes the opportunity to help you steady yourself—pulling you into his chest like he’s not the one who tipped you over in the first place.

“Whoops, falling for me already?” He teases with a charming smile.

Your body against his—that’s what he’s waiting for. Gotta be patient though; he knows you want him too, and he wants to feel your hands run through his hair when he makes you see God.

“Sorry,” you squeak, a cute blush on your face as he allows you to sort yourself out. “Guess I kind of stumbled there.”

“No harm done,” he smiles as his hand finds the small of your back. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

All the confidence he cultivated during the short ride to the house evaporates into thin air when you walk into his home—he hadn’t expected company, so the piles of laundry and dirty dishes are all still heaped up exactly as he’d left them.

Usually, he doesn’t even see the mess—it’s just home to him—but fuck if he isn’t hyper aware of it now. He doesn’t want to look at you; he doesn’t want to see the polite little smile people wear when they’re trying not to look disgusted.

“It’s uh—It’s laundry day tomorrow—I wasn’t really expecting to entertain,” he stammers, but when he finally hazards a peek at you, you’re not even looking at the mess—your eyes are fixed on a couple of wet specimens he’s got laying out on one of the end-tables.

At least a little of the tension leaves him when he sees how hard you’re trying not to make a beeline for them, and he can’t help thinking you’re damn cute.

Little fuckin’ weird—but you’re his kind of weird.

“Go ahead and check ‘em out.” His smile falls when you nearly trip over a pair of old barn boots that he just left right there in the middle of the damn floor. “Goddamn—I’m sorry—I should’a warned you this place is a hell of a mess.”

“No, Bo.” You turn to look at him—looking wide eyed and genuine. “Really—it doesn’t bother me a bit; not like I was expected.”

“Still, can’t be what you’re used to.” He awkwardly kicks the boots under the couch, hoping he remembers they’re under there when he goes looking for them again.

“Shit Bo, I grew up in a little trailer in the woods.” Your wide smile and the humor in your eyes makes him relax a little—you ain’t lyin’ to him. “Long as your back door is more than just some stapled up plastic and a blanket, and I’m not in danger of freezing to death in my sleep, this place may as well be a fuckin’ five star hotel.”

“Well, considerin’ it’s September in Louisiana, I don’t think ya gotta worry about freezin’.” He’s trying so hard not to look too excited—but knowing a little about how you grew up changes so much. He was so worried about you lookin’ at him like Redneck Trash, when the truth is that the shoe’s on the other foot. “But if you’re worried about it you can always cuddle up to me.”

Your fucking smile.

God help him.

Your fingers brush his, and he lets you lace your hands together—anything to keep you leaning into him the way you are right now. “I might have to take you up on that.”

Taking your hands with him, his thumbs come up to brush against your cheeks—he could look at your face like this forever—and he’s doing his damnedest to commit the adoring look in your eyes to memory.

For all he knows, his secrets could be out any second, and you may never look at him like this again.

He can’t remember if anyone ever has.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” There you go again, dragging him out of his thoughts when his mind starts drifting off to darker places.

“Oh, is that what you’re waiting for?” He teases, watching your eyes close as he leans in, but stopping just short of giving you what you want with a petulant grin on his face. “Maybe I will—if you ask me real nice.”

His lips ghost against yours as he speaks, and he relishes the look of amused frustration on your face when it registers that he’s not kissing you yet.

“Please Bo,” you indulge him, batting your eyelashes all pretty. “Please kiss me.”

He can practically feel the beast in his rib cage clawing at him, a soft growl nestled in his throat—spurring him on even as he wants to bask in the moment.

There’s no use denying it any longer—your breath against his lips is too intoxicating to resist—if he had wanted to tease you further, his plans are ruined, but he can’t find it in him to be irritated when the softness of your lips meets his, and the taste of your chapstick floods his senses.

Your fingers slip from his, coming to rest against his chest as his own hands weave into your hair, holding you tight against him as his lips move against yours like a man starved.

When was the last time he felt wanted?

He doesn’t care if it’s all fake. He doesn’t care if tomorrow you look at him like the monster he is.

At least for now, you’re clinging to him, snaking your arms around his neck like there’s any chance of him letting you go.

He’s startled by a harsh tap against the bottom of his boot, and a growl of genuine frustration cuts through his chest when you pull back with concern in your eyes.

“Something wrong?”

“Not a damn thing’s wrong at all.” He knows his voice is a little too loud when you tense—but it’s not you he’s really talking to.

He’d have given Vincent a little warning if he knew you’d be coming up, but fuck, he didn’t have the luxury of advanced notice.

He pulls you close again, his fingertips ghosting your arm in a way that makes you shiver deliciously as he leans into your ear. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”

“Yes,” you hiss, whimpering softly when his teeth catch your earlobe.

Your face falls when he pulls away from you, but the excitement quickly floods you when you see the damn near feral grin on Bo’s face. “Well go on then—” he gives your ass a sneaky pinch, making you yelp. “Git!”

He gives you all of three seconds to start running up the stairs—your manic laughter is music to his ears as he chases you. You’ve got no idea where you’re going, but it doesn’t matter. He’s faster than you, and he’s quick to scoop you into his arms and sling you over his shoulder.

It’s fun when you beat against his back—for once, he can tell it’s not in earnest—you’re laughing and smiling and having every bit as much fun as he is, and that feels good for a change.

He slaps you on the ass—hard—before he kicks open his bedroom door.

“BO!” You shout.

“Bo!” He mimics as he tosses you onto the unmade bed.

For a split second, the worry that it might smell crosses his mind, but that’s quickly dashed when in the same second you’re ripping your shirt off and hurling it at his face.

He’s on you in an instant—burying his face in your tits as you’re left in your shorts and push-up bra.

Like you fuckin’ need the damn thing—save some titty for everyone else, will ya?

He doesn’t care if your lips bruise—he kisses you hard as his hands go up your back to unhook your bra.

God fuckin’ damn it—you’re too good—arching your back all pretty to make it easier for him.

Dirty whore; you know exactly what you want from him.

Your bra goes flying across his room the second he pulls it off of you, and he’s grinning wildly at the sight of your naked tits.

“Like what you see?”

“I’m more of a hands on kind of guy.” His big hands envelope your breasts, and he can’t resist kneading them—god damn his pants are gettin’ tight.

“Me too,” you croon, and he chuckles when he feels you fumbling with his belt.

“Need a little help?” He leans back, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand to cup the growing bulge in his pants.

He knows you’re impressed, and he relishes the quick flicker of concern in your eyes before you lick your lips and it gives way to lust.

He growls softly when you sit up on your heels, but he doesn’t stop you from unbuckling his belt and working his pants down his hips while he whips his shirts off to join the heaps of laundry on his bedroom floor.

And he definitely doesn’t stop you when he feels your tongue slide up the shaft of his cock from base to tip before you take him into your warm, wet, mouth.

“Fuck, girl,” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair to pull you back and make you look at him, the head of his cock still bobbing against your lips. “Ain’t you an enthusiastic little thing?”

“It’s been a while,” you whine, kitten-licking his cock without breaking eye contact. “And I’ve been wanting you for a while.”

The quiet laugh he lets out is almost triumphant as he forces you to bob your head up and down on his cock. “Well damn, baby—you could’a just asked.” He growls when he feels you moan around his cock, one of your sneaky little hands moving to caress his balls. “Hurts my feelin’s a little knowin’ we could’a been doin’ this right along.”

You moan again as your response, and he shoves you further down on his cock as punishment, but fuck you take it like a champ. “Quit that, or I’m gonna bust before I get to feel that perfect little pussy quiverin’ around me.”

He relishes the way your thighs tense at his words, no doubt hoping to create a little friction. God he loves how responsive you are for him.

He yanks you off of his cock with a wet ‘Pop’, forcing you to look him in the eye when he thrusts a hand into your little denim shorts, his rough fingers finding your clit with startling ease.

“Bo!” You whine.

“Bo!” He whines back, rubbing you almost hard enough to tip the scale from pleasure to pain, but only straddling the edge.

He kisses you again, the hand wound into your hair keeping you right where he wants you as his teeth sink into your bottom lip. He almost wants to know what you’d do if he bit a little harder—hard enough to make you bleed for him—but for now your wanton mewls are enough.

Especially when you wrap your hand around his cock.

“Bo,” you beg, looking at him with pleading eyes. “I want you to fuck me, Bo.”

You whine when he slips his fingers easily into you, and he can’t help but groan at the fact that you’re already so wet for him—a perfect little slut for him, ready to be used.

“Say it nice,” he growls, pushing you back into his pillows. His hand comes up to squeeze your cheeks, watching your lips squish as he mocks you. “Pretty please, Bo.”

“Pretty please,” you beg—so sweet—as his hand slips around your throat. “Pretty Please fuck me.”

Wriggling your hips with his hand around your throat—fuck—but you are a nasty little whore.

His nasty little whore.

You gasp, sucking in a ragged breath when he lets you go—but it’s only for the moment—just long enough for him to hook the waistband of your shorts and panties to yank them both off in one desperate motion.

Desperate?

That’s how you make him feel.

It’s been a long time since he’s wanted to fuck someone so bad that it hurt.

He doesn’t give you any time to prepare—he hears you yelp when he impales you on his cock, but your little whimpers only spur him on, and soon his hand is back around your pretty throat as he’s rutting into you like the wild animal snarling and throwing itself against the inside of his body, like it will burst free of its prison if he doesn’t take it all out on you and your all too willing body.

It’s so sweet the way you try to moan without air, and he nearly fucking busts when the corners of your mouth turn up into a sick smile even as your eyes begin to roll back.

It would be so easy—all he’d have to do is choke you just a little longer and you’d be out cold—but he wants you awake—he wants you alive—so he lets go just in time to keep you conscious.

“Hey Sugarbabe,” he rasps, patting your cheek to keep your attention as he watches your world spin. “Stay with me now—wanna feel you cum around my cock.”

Your tits jiggle with his every thrust, and he’s not sure where to fucking look when your hand comes up to rub your clit, a downright devilish look on your face as your walls start squeezing around him.

“Fuck, Girl,” he grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck to pepper little nips and kisses to the sweet skin there. “Keep fuckin’ doing that.”

You do, and soon enough he feels your pussy squeezing so hard on his cock it feels like it’s trying to suck him in. “Godfuckdamn.”

He fucks you harder, slamming his hips into yours as he grabs your wrists and pushes them violently into the mattress above your head as you scream his name. Your scream turns into a howl of pain when his teeth find your shoulder, and he can’t find it in him to care when he hears the sick pop of your flesh breaking, and he tastes iron on his tongue.

He’s buried deep inside you when he cums, and your greedy little cunt is milking him for all he’s got. The image of a little Him runnin’ ‘round Ambrose with his hand in yours flashes through his mind, and he thinks that’d be one way to keep you here, but he’s too gone to put much thought into anything right now—aside from collapsing overtop of you with his still-semi-hard cock buried within your twitching pussy.

“Fuck Bo.” Your voice is breathy—almost a laugh—and he leans up to follow your gaze to the bleeding impression his teeth left in your shoulder.

Honestly, he doesn’t give a fuck—if anything, he’s thrilled to leave such an obvious mark on you, but the way you have the nerve to grin at him makes his treacherous heart flutter. “That was intense.”

He pets your hair as he grins down at you, giving your throat just a light tease of a squeeze. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“I wasn’t.”

Fuck.

Your arms snake around his shoulders—resting tenderly around him as you press a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. He can still taste your blood. “You keep fucking me like that, Bo, and I’m not gonna want to go when the week is up.”

It almost hurts, the way you’re smiling so sweetly at him, the way you touch him so soft even after he left you bloody and gasping for air. He doesn’t trust himself to hope, but he’s in too deep to ever consider letting you go.

He can only hope you still look at him like that after the lies all fall down around your feet.

[suzdin]

Okay hear me out - Tim Rockford smut. Maybe like, getting fucked on/over his desk? Just a thought. 😇

I like the way you think 😎👉👉

——

Tim doesn’t even notice you enter his office.

He’s hunched over his monitor, chin rested in his hands, face pinched tight in concentration. He was good about not bringing his work home with him—but here, in his element at the precinct, amidst the mish mosh of a particularly grisly homicide case—he was a far different animal than the Tim you shared a bed with.

His eyes are dark, brow furrowed into a hard line. You aren’t sure what he’s looking at—you don’t want to know—but you’re certain it can’t be good judging by the frown deepening his features.

You close the door quietly behind you. The small sound is enough to jar him, and his eyes brighten to a familiar honey brown when he sees you.

“Hey, baby,” he says quietly. You can sense the relief in his tone.

“Hey,” you greet in return. “I brought dinner?” you say, forming it as a question. You don’t want to interfere if he’s on the verge of a breakthrough.

“Oh, yeah, right. Of course. What time is it?” he asks.

“Seven thirty. PM,” you reply. “Knew you must be working late again, so I picked up Chinese. Your favorite,” you say, putting the bag down on his desk.

The relief you’d detected a moment ago transitions to something different, something far more un-itched, insatiable, the moment he rises from his chair and crosses the room to you, hooking both arms around your middle and pulling you into an embrace, placing a small kiss to your clavicle.

“I’m sorry I’ve been working so much lately. I miss you,” he murmurs against your throat.

You lean into the kiss, humming softly. “I miss you, too. Do you have time to eat with me?” you ask.

You feel him grin into your skin, large hands tracing a path up your sides, then once more down your back, where they settle before the dip in your spine.

“I’m not particularly hungry, but I can think of something else I’d like to eat,” he says with a crooked smirk.

“Tim! Right here? In the office?” you scoff, swatting at his wandering hands.

“Can’t think of any other reason you’d wear this skimpy little sundress at seven thirty at night if not for me…” he tuts in a deep timbre. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Besides, everyone is busy watching the game. They won’t pay us much mind.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, but you make no attempt to stop the roving path of his finger tips skimming just below the hem of your dress, brushing your thighs, or when one of his broad, warm hands cups one of your asscheeks.

“Mmm,” he grunts into your neck, still planting soft kisses there. “Smell so good for me too, baby.” You’re wearing Versace Yellow Diamond—his favorite.

“Okay,” you snicker, biting your lip playfully. “Alright, I confess. I wanted to look nice for you. Maybe brighten your day a little.”

He licks a slow stripe from your collarbone to the bare rise of your shoulder, pausing there to nip at your skin. You emit a breathy moan, your head dropping back.

Tim makes a noise of approval in his throat at the small sound. Eyes locking with yours, his hand moves from your ass to the soft cradle of your panties between your legs, smiling when he feels damp cotton.

“Mm. Can think of a few ways you can brighten my day.” His fingers press down harder, rubbing slowly over your clothed clit and seam. You dip your face to his chest to muffle the moan that bubbles up.

He moves his hands to your hips and walks you backwards to the desk, gently pressing you against it as you collide with the cool metal. You watch his eyes shift from dark honey to chocolate to near black, but in a way different than before. A way that you know all too well.

His hands traverse your body, kneading you under his fingers with admiration, drinking in the sight of you in that sundress; the way it clings in all the right places, shows off just the right amount of skin.

“All of this. All for me,” he whispers, hooking his fingers below, lifting the dress above your head and pulling it off.

You shiver, having never been naked in his office before. The most you’d ever done is give him a blowjob under his desk, which you’d kind of half expected to happen again. Being this exposed is as much a turn on as it is frightening.

If there’s one thing you know for certain about Tim, it’s that he likes to be in control, something you were all too willing to relinquish to him, so long as it helped to bring him out of his head about his job. And right now it seems to be doing the trick nicely.

His kisses are harder now, more ravenous, kissing and sucking everything within reach—your lips, your jaw, your neck and shoulders. His weight is pinning you firmly against the desk, one hand deftly spreading your legs as his fingers trail over the spot in your panties that is growing increasingly more wet.

Without saying a word, he spins you, your pelvis flush with the edge of the desk, placing a hand between your shoulder blades and pushing you forward until your cheek makes contact with the metal. You let out a chirp of surprise, and he hushes you, chastising.

“Shh, baby.”

You feel Tim crouch behind you, his hands squeezing your hips as he tugs you slightly back. He presses his face into your heat, strong arched nose bumping your seam as he inhales your scent.

“Smell so fucking good,” he growls, pushing your panties to the side and flattening his tongue against you, swiping a slow path between your folds.

“Oh god, Tim,” you groan, rolling your hips in tandem with his movements. “You feel…a-amazing.”

He pulls you further apart with his hands, the tip of his tongue circling your clit for a few laps, making you buck involuntarily at the stimulation. He chuckles and the sound vibrates your core, feeling like fucking heaven.

His attention returns to your fluttering hole, his tongue dipping inside of you, lapping gingerly at your walls, pressing as deep as he can, the slow drag making you thrum and clench around the small muscle.

“Taste like heaven, baby,” he praises, bringing two of his fingers up to softly swirl the bud of your clit, and it’s too much; too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Feel like heaven,” you say with a whimper, your body starting to writhe from all the stimulation, a single hand coming up to depress the small of your back to keep you from squirming.

“Stay still,” he scolds, but you love it. You love to be his plaything.

You grapple for purchase on the desk, just trying to maintain some modicum of dignity and composure as Tim is slowly unraveling you from behind, and you guess by the noises he’s making in reverence to your pleasure that you coming undone is exactly what is spurring him on; he needs to get you off before he can make you his.

The sounds he’s making into your core are downright salacious, obscene, and utterly delicious, that familiar and welcome pressure beginning to flower low in your pelvis.

He senses you’re close and increases the rate of ministrations to your sensitive clit, knowing by heart exactly how much pressure to use, how much you enjoy. At the same time, his cheeks hollow to drink and suckle at your opening, the combination of his mouth and fingers threatening to completely unmake you by the time he’s through.

You bite back a sobbing moan and then you’re coming, hard, into his mouth, his hands planting you firmly in place while he rides out your high, his own soft moans and chirps of satisfaction muffled deep in the tunnel of your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away until you’re protesting that it’s too much, the sensations are too much, tears threatening to spring from your eyes from the overstimulation. “Wish we were in bed so I could hear those pretty sounds at full volume,” he croons.

He stands, one hand still heavy on your back as he rises, and you hear the metallic clink of metal, the grinding of a zipper. Next thing you know, you feel the rock hard press of him at your opening, teasing you as he gathers your slick.

You can practically feel the tension radiating off of him in waves, how much he needs this release.

“You don’t have to go slow, Tim,” you tell him. “Use me.”

He doesn’t make any sound or any attempt to move, at first. You wish you could see his face so you could know exactly what he’s thinking, though you’re pretty sure you have a good idea.

His fingers curl into the heel of your back. “Use you,” he repeats darkly. “I’ll use you.”

His hips abruptly snap forward into yours, sinking himself all the way to the hilt, balls slapping into you from behind, all of it causing you to cry out.

“Quiet,” he scolds again, soon followed by a roar of cheers you hear from beyond his office door, the rest of the precinct still watching the game a telling reminder that you aren’t alone. “Here.”

A thin strip of leather is lowered in front of your face, smelling distinctly of him. “Open up.”

Your mouth drops open and he pushes his belt between your teeth; you bite down, understanding the implications of the silent ask.

“That’s it, baby. Every time you want to scream, bite down harder for me, okay? Imprint yourself on me.” The words go straight to your core and you moan, the belt already working like a charm as your noises get lost in the leather.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He grabs your arms by the wrists and twists them behind your back, holding them in place with his much larger hand as he rails into you from behind, a preferred position of his. He loved having you completely pinned like this. He knew you loved it, too.

The wet squelch of where he’s currently driving into you is loud and indecent in the small office, the desk groaning under your combined weights. You’ve never let him fuck you here before, but you always knew he wanted to. It was thrilling and terrifying knowing someone could hear, someone could walk in at any moment and catch you—see just how much he loves to make you fall apart.

His own release is imminent, not too far on the horizon now, with how tense and worked up he’s been. You know you’ll probably cum again when he does, the sensation of his spend shooting into you often piloting you once more over the edge, each stutter step of his hips as he grows ever closer sending delicious vibrations straight to your core.

You moan and bite down harder on the belt, the sound dying in the leather and the column of your throat.

He snarls from behind you. “You ready for my cum, baby?” he asks, breathlessly, barely able to get the words out, so close to coming undone.

You can’t speak, so you nod fervently in response.

“Yes— oh yes. Gonna fill you.” A deep, dark growl rushes out of him, loud enough to be heard by someone who might be paying attention, and you think he probably needs the belt more than you do.

He cums deep inside of you, thick ropes of semen painting your walls, driving you to your second orgasm; you go boneless beneath him, clenching tight around his length, sucking him in further. You would cry out, if you could. Instead, you dig your teeth further into the belt, tasting the leather on your tongue.

“Good. Fucking. Girl,” he growls, each word defined by a rut of his hips as he empties the last of himself into you. “So— so fucking good to me.”

You feel a string of cum dribble out of you as he pulls out, and he chuckles, peering down at you to admire his work.

“Look at you, fucked full of me,” he says, plunging two fingers deep in your pussy to push himself back inside. “Want you leaking me the rest of the night.”

He helps you up and redresses you, sliding the dress back over your head and straightening it out for you, making sure you look nice and proper once more. You kind of wish you didn’t.

“Alright,” Tim says, kissing you affectionately, his love for you far greater than what he can articulate. “Let’s have dinner.”

[deandoesthingstome]

Night Moves

Chapter 5

Pairing: Walter Marshall x OFC (Alexandra Pierce)

Series Summary: When Walter Marshall is called to investigate a homicide by the railroad tracks, he quickly uncovers an unsettling pattern. Alexandra Pierce just wants someone to find out what happened to her friend. She has some secrets, too. And Walter’s going to uncover them.

Word Count: 2529

Series Warnings: In general, this series will depict assault, murder, stripping, hooking, rough sex, make up sex, fingering, oral (m and F receiving), p in v sex in various positions, self-loathing, failed relationships, smoking, drug use, drug addiction, general violence, and maybe some comfort. +18, Minors DNI

Chapter Warnings: Rough consensual sex, more misogyny.

Disclaimers: I do not own Walter Marshall, Night Hunter (Nomis), or any other characters from that movie, but I do own this OFC (Alexandra Pierce) and these words. Do not repost as your own. Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are more than welcome. It’s how I get my nourishment.

Header made by me, with pics found from Pexel.com and the internet. Dividers are not mine, but check out the masterlist for credit.

Playlist:  Night Moves Songs 17 -19 (heads up: if you have been following along, it’s usually one song per section of the chapter, but 17 and 18 are the same section - I couldn’t make up my mind for Alex and Walter’s first time; sue me)

Masterlist

This kiss is everything. It isn’t soft. It’s just as hungry as it was at the tracks. If Alex thinks Walter’s request for permission is an indication that he’d start slow this time, she is mistaken. And she can’t categorize it as sorely, either.

Alex is coming undone while Walter puts his hands all over her body, grasping, pulling, stroking, squeezing. Every inch he can reach while he stoops to catch her lips and slip his tongue deep down her throat. If the ease with which she lets him manhandle her doesn’t tell him exactly what he needs to know, the moan that breaks from her belly sure does.

She neither needs nor wants him to take his time. She doesn’t require he caress her gently, or ghost his lips over her neck while he pulls her shirt off her shoulders. Well, that he can do. Does. Maybe it isn’t down, though, maybe he grabs the hem and yanks up quick and hard, breaking away from her lips at the exact right moment to pull the top over her head before crashing right back into her as he rips the shirt off her arms. But he definitely takes off her shirt. And her bra.

Walter is hard. Has been pretty much since the train tracks. He’s tried. God knows he’s been praying to make this need go away, but the only answer he’s getting is the half-naked woman in front of him who has been haunting him for just a night and a day. It is positively insane the way Alex is making him feel, but here it is.

She wants him. Wants all of him. He hasn’t said one word to her about what he needs but somehow she knows. Knows he’s not gonna go easy on her. Knows that as soon as he is done kissing her mouth and getting as hard as he’s ever been listening to her moan for him, he is going to put her on her knees on the floor. 

So it’s all Alex can do to force herself to break the kiss and ask the question.

“Do you know if you’re clean?”

And it takes Walter a few seconds to get some blood back to his brain and understand she isn’t talking about a shower. And then he has to think of Rachel. 

“Yeah. Couple months after I ended my last relationship. Clean. Nothing since.”

Alex nods and licks her lips and says, “Same” and Walter doesn’t ask permission again because he knows he has it, and always will from her. This is what he’s been craving. 

He wraps a hand around her neck and pulls her close, kisses her hard once more, then uses that hand to push her down while he tells her he wants her on her knees. And she isn’t resisting, not in the least. She expected this and the fresh bloom of heat just makes her want it more. Walter is unbuckling his belt and popping the button and unzipping his pants now, pushing them down and she is just staring up at him with eyes that beg him to tell her what to do and so he does.

“Take me out.”

She reaches into the band of his underwear and takes hold of the firm, warm, smooth cock and pulls the fabric down with her other hand so he is free, technically, though his underwear is caught on his thighs and Alex isn’t doing anything about that. Instead, she is still watching him, waiting for Walter to tell what he wants her to do next. 

“Put me in your mouth,” he commands and she does. Stretches her mouth wide after licking her lips again and she leans in to put that tongue right at the tip of his achingly hard cock and if he hadn’t been thinking about Rachel a few moments ago, her mouth on him might have made him come right then and there. As it is, she is sliding down his length and dragging her tongue down the bottom of his shaft as far she can. 

She is giving it a good, solid go but Walter knows she’ll never make it. That’ll take practice which he’s going to be more than glad to give her at some other time. But now, here, right now, all he wants is to feel her sucking on whatever part of him she can get in her mouth.

When the way she moves her head back and forth, twisting her neck as she goes to deposit stripe after stripe of warm, wet saliva along his length, becomes too much for him he growls and pulls her off, sinking to his knees as well so he can put his mouth back on hers. He doesn’t want to come this way. And not quite yet.

Walter can’t stop thinking about last night. Thinking about the way she made him feel before he even knew who she was. He’s torn between dragging her to the bedroom so he can relive that soapy fantasy and taking her on the floor right now. His urgent need wins out.

He pushes her not gently so that her ass hits her heels and then he scoops her ankles to the side so he can straighten her legs out before her. He slides a hand up her thighs to find the hem of her underwear beneath her skirt while his other hand presses her collarbone so she has no choice but to lean back, resting on her forearms. He yanks at her panties and she does her best to lift her hips so he can get them all the way down her legs and off her body. Her skirt is left bunched around her waist.

He works his pants the rest of the way off, too, before shifting his knees between her legs, widening them as he leans down to kiss her hard again. 

“Condom?” Alex asks with a huff, breaking free from the kiss in a moment of order before the coming chaos. 

Walter reaches down to sift through the puddle of fabric beside them, finding the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out his wallet. He flings it to the side once he’s plucked the foil packet out, then tears it open and rolls it down his length, sitting back on his heels to scan her body laying open before him.

He reaches down between her legs to find her damp heat and pushes a thumb in just barely before stroking and pressing along her clit. Walter wants to be sure Alex is ready for him, wants her to be sure, too. So he takes a few more beats to slide two fingers in deep, twisting and stretching so he can slip a third in. He pumps slowly at first, then deeper, more urgently. It’ll be a tight fit but the way her eyes flutter shut when she releases the clench around his digits tells him she absolutely won’t mind.

He pulls some slick out as he draws his arm back and rubs it around his sheathed cock as he quirks an eyebrow in a silent question to which he already knows the answer, but she practically begs him anyway.

Walter chooses to enter slowly. He wants to savor the way she clings to him all the way down, feel the pressure around each inch of his cock. When he’s fully seated, he holds a beat while he watches the way her eyes adjust to his proximity. Alex shifts a hand to the nape of his neck and pulls him closer, kisses him with an open mouth so she can taste his tongue while she drifts her fingers through his hair.

“Please, fuck, just, please…” Alex is having a little trouble with words, her mind already short-circuited as she watched him prepare for her. He’s big. Bigger than she’s ever had. Everything she imagined in the club and more. She bites her lip to prevent the hiss as he enters her, consumed by the delicious searing stretch with all its glorious promise.

Oh, this he could also do for hours. Just lay inside her and enjoy the way her lips slide over his. So it’s a shock when she ends it abruptly.

“Please.” One more practically silent plea, small, like she isn’t sure all the sudden. Or maybe she thinks he’s changed his mind about the way he wants to take her. It was just a moment, a glimpse of what could also be, but Walter’s back in his head now and he’s ready to fuck her like he means it.

“Yeah,” he growls. “Okay, yeah.” Each word punctuated with a sharp thrust that isn’t near as deep as he’d like to be, but he likes this woman and he doesn’t want to scare her off.

“I’m not…I won’t break, okay?” Alex is still holding his neck close and she gives him a kiss before she lets go and moans with relief when he takes her at her word.

Walter doesn’t hold back anymore. Alex hooks her legs over his thighs spread wide and tosses her arms above her head while he braces himself on his forearms and finally gives her what she asked for. He fucks her with abandon and he’s positive there’ll be rug burns on his knees but it won’t compare to what she’ll deal with on her back.

After several minutes, he lifts himself up and drags his hands down her chest to grip her hips and tug her up closer to him, if it’s even possible. The look on her face. It’s different than he’s seen before when he gets this way. When he’s fucking like there’s no tomorrow, it’s usually too much and he’s asked to slow down, ease up. He’s about to stop because he thinks it’s pain, but there is something else behind it, bubbling to the surface. Wonder? Confusion? Awe?

“Don’t stop,” she begs when she realizes what he’s thinking. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

As if a switch is flipped, he’s no longer in control of himself but he is in control of her. He ignores her plea for the few seconds it takes to slide out, flip her over, and pull her hips back up to meet him before he’s slamming back into her with no restraint. 

“This is what you want?” he snarls. “Want me fucking you like this?”

“Mmmhmm,” she whimpers, her face against the ground and he almost stops again but she continues. “Fuck yes, just like that.”

He can feel her open up for him, feel the warm heat exploding inside her and sucking him in, deeper and deeper. He feels the clench and release of each little tremor and when he can’t hold on any longer he lets go. He thinks it was just his imagination that she came once more just before he did so when he pulls out, he leans over and wraps an arm around her waist, snakes his hand down to her mound, searches out her hard little clit and rubs to give her one last orgasm.

Alex is wrecked. She really can’t take anymore but if he wants this for her, she’ll let him. She’s so sensitive it doesn’t take long before she’s crying out in pleasure one last time. He cups her mound to soothe the ache while he stretches her legs long so she can lay completely flat. He pulls off the condom and ties it while searching for a place to put it.

Alex can sense his struggle and reaches for him, strokes his thigh. 

“Just drop it and come here,” she says, wriggling the rest of the way out of her skirt.

He does as he’s told, laying himself down beside her as she turns to face him.

“Hi,” she smiles at him, breathless.

“Hey. You okay?”

“More than.” She closes her eyes for a few moments, content to lay here recovering with him on the floor. When she feels him shift, she opens her eyes to ask, “Want a bed?”

He knows she just said she’s fine and he can hear her offer a more comfortable spot to be with her, and yet he can’t shut off the voice in his head that’s telling him he went too far. Again. He thinks she’s just being kind somehow, biding her time until she thinks it’ll be safe to send him away and probably never see him again. This isn’t what women want. He isn’t what they want.

“Hey, Walter?” She's lifting up now, pushing herself to her knees and stretching her hand out to grab his. “Come on.” 

He lets her help him up and lead him down the hall but he stops just as she crosses the bedroom threshold. 

“I should go,” he drops her hand.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t sleep…this was… tonight…out of line,” he can’t form a coherent thought about it. 

“You think I didn’t want that?” she asks carefully, reaching her hand for him again. “I absolutely wanted that. You have no idea.”

Walter lets himself be led into the room. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp she turns on, he can see the same level of comfort he found previously in the rest of the apartment. Cushy overstuffed chair in the corner by the window, side table stacked with books and more on the shelf nearby, lights strung around the window, plants along the sill, candles on the dresser. 

He watches her toss a few throw pillows to the floor and pull the soft looking bedspread back before she climbs in and reaches out for him to join her. He crawls in and lets her settle against his chest, his arm wrapping around her shoulder, fingers caressing her skin.

“You know,” Alex starts. “I spend all my time in charge. Of students, volunteers, my own life. I make decisions all fucking day. Sometimes... I just...I don't know if you know how it feels to need...direction. I just want to be told what to do every once in a while. By someone who knows what they want.”

Walter takes a moment to process what she just confessed to him, then makes his own confession.

“I spend all my time chasing nightmares. I have this badge, this position, where I'm supposed to be in charge but shit falls apart all the time. If I had my way, no one would need to do this job, but here I am trying to make sense of the senseless. I guess I need something, someone, to conform to my will every now and then.”

She heaves a sigh and Walter knows it’s relief which allows him to finally relax. He reaches over to turn off the light, knowing he’ll wake with her in the morning.

That fucking bitch. I can’t believe she let him do that to her and then left with him. I was so close. I coulda had her. Was just waiting for those other skanks to take off. And then he showed up. 

I cannot get away from him, no matter what I do.

But it's fine. More than fine. Because I know where she lives now.

Chapter 6 

Taglist: (If you asked for a tag and it’s not here, Tumblr likely isn’t letting me tag you. Ask if you want me to try again.)

Anything: @kittenofdoomage @fvckinghenrycavill @mayloma @sillyrabbit81 @kebabgirl67 @beck07990  (Also throwing in a few from the old days for old times sake ;) @littlegreenplasticsoldier @anotherwinchesterfangirl @sebbytrash @feelmyroarrrr)

NM: @enchantedbytomandhenry @kingliam2019​ @henryownsme @littlefreya @identity2212 @marantha @angelcavill66 @sweetdreamsofgelato @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @liveoncoffeeandflowersss @greensleeves888 @dinoswierdmom @geralts-yenn 

[imtooscaredforthis]

Antagonist

Chapter Eighteen: Lost

Mentions of: Drug use, Arguments, Fighting, Mild Violence, and Slight Homicidal Tendencies, etc.

A/N: Lots of drama in this chapter…Enjoy!!

Tags: @vandeaad @dead-bxxxtch-walking @mama-miya @moonshineinasippycup @prettycutebunny

You stood in the closet, frozen, while the rest of the legion stared at you. They stared at you for a long couple of seconds that felt like an eternity, before Julie finally moved. She turned to face Frank, glaring at him. “What is she doing here?”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know who that is.” He played dumb, only making things worse. “Bullshit.”

She hissed, grabbing you by the hem of your tank top and pulling you out from the closet. She leaned over and sniffed you, before shoving you away, causing you to stumble backwards slightly.

“You’ve been smoking with her. What the fuck, Frank?” She snapped.

“What’s the big deal? I’m an adult, Jules. I can hang out with whoever I want. And if you’re concerned about cheating or whatever, we’re hardly even friends.”

For some reason, you felt a slight sting at his words. You don’t know why. You’re the one that insisted that you weren’t friends..so why does it hurt? Why do you even care?

She rolled her eyes, groaning to herself. “We’ll talk about this later.” Then she turned to you. “I thought Susie made it clear that we don’t want anything to do with you, you dumb bitch. Stay the fuck away and mind your own buisness.”

You should just agree with her. It would make things so much easier, and maybe you could even get out of here alive..but your anger and pride got in the way.

“I wasn’t even trying to get into your business. Frank was the one who wanted to hang out with me in the first place. And you know what? I don’t blame him. If I was stuck with a psychotic controlling bitch, I’d want to get away too.”

It was quiet for a moment, nothing to be heard but Joey swearing under his breath in fear. Both boys knew that what happened next couldn’t be good, but neither wanted to get in the middle of it. She slapped you across the face, so hard that your cheek turned red. And that was when you decided that this bitch needed to be put down.

You’ve gotten into plenty of fights, no thanks to your awful temper. Most of the time, you’re fighting a guy. Sometimes you win, depending on their physicality. You’ve fought plenty of girls too, so much that it’s practically become second nature.

You shoved her against the wall, punching her jaw and her stomach, making her double over. She was only down for a few seconds, before she stood back up, even more enraged. You moved to hit her, but she grabbed your wrist, digging her nails into your skin, and drawing blood.

“Fucking psycho!” You seethed, tearing your arm from her grip. She grabbed your hair, slamming your head against the wall. “Stay away from my boyfriend and my friends, you stupid slut! Or I’ll fucking kill you!”

She continued smacking and scratching at you, the blows causing your lip to bleed. You tackled her to the ground, straddling her, hitting her hard. You continued punching, and punching, until your knuckles were bloodied, and her face was bruised.

You wanted her to stop. You wanted her to leave you alone. You hated her. You wanted her to die.

The next thing you knew, Frank and Joey were pulling you off of her, shouting at you, asking you what your problem was. “Did you not see what just happened? She attacked me! Fuck you, Frank. Fuck you for putting me in the middle of this. I can’t believe I thought I could trust you. I can’t believe I thought we could be friends.”

You shoved him away and stormed out, your body shaking from the adrenaline. You trudged out to a nearby locker, outside the lodge, taking a seat against it. You panted softly, your hands trembling, and your head throbbing in pain. To your surprise, someone had followed you.

“_______?” It was Susie. Her voice was quiet and concerned. You gazed up at the pinkette. “If you want to yell at me for hurting Julie, get it over with. But your other friends covered it pretty well.”

“I wasn’t going to do that. I…I brought you some ice.” She handed you the pack, letting you press it against your bruised and scratched face.

“Why are you being nice to me? I thought you hated me. And I just tried to kill your friend. I wanted to kill her..Fuck, what’s wrong with me?” You groaned.

“You were just defending yourself. I know Frank and Julie can be manipulative assholes, and I was a jerk too. So, I’m sorry. I’ve been wanting to apologize for a while, I just haven’t known how to say it.”

“I’m sorry too. I know you aren’t my sister. You just…you remind me of her so much. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You’re your own person, and you make your own choices. You choose who you hang out with. You have your own life, and it’s none of my business. I just wanted to look out for you, that’s all.” You admitted.

You were both quiet for a moment, before you spoke again. “So, we’re all good?”

“Yeah, we’re good. You probably shouldn’t come back here again, though.” She remarked, making you laugh. “Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that.”

Suddenly, Joey called out to Susie, making her freeze and curse under her breath. “I have to go. Do you think you’ll be okay by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine.” You reassured her. While you were mildly disoriented, and pretty sure you had a concussion, you’ve had much worse than this. You would be fine. You needed the time alone to think, anyways.

So, after you said your goodbyes, you headed off to the woods, and back to the campfire. While it was nice to have Susie back, you were still determined to get out of here, and you were going to do it, with or without Frank’s help.

–

You were watching the flames from the campfire flicked hypnotically, deep in thought, when someone approached you. “Are you alright?”

It was Leon, a concerned look dawned upon his handsome features. “Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got back from a shitty trial, heh.”

“I can help patch you up, if you’d like.” He offered. “Oh, um, sure. Thanks.”

He popped open a medkit, disinfecting your scratches and putting bandaids on them. He even helped patch up your lip. “So, who was your killer?”

“The legion.” You replied. He let out a huff of empathy and irritation. “They suck.”

“Yeah, they really do.”

“Leon, I need to talk to you.” One of his friends called him. You think his name is Chris? He’s new, but he knows Leon. You heard that they worked together, or something like that.

Chris gave you a small nod, and Leon flashed you an apologetic smile, before moving away. You watched as the two left, before letting out a long sigh. You really do have a lot to think about.

[unholyhelbig]

wait... it's ending??!

[A/n: I can’t believe that this is over. I also can’t believe that I pigeon-holed myself into writing a fight scene. Who does that?? Me. The answer is me. In all seriousness, I want to thank every single one of you who read this insane story. It was a wild ride (maybe not one that’s actually over yet… I can’t tell).

Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and the kudos and just so much overwhelming love! I’m going to take a little break from the heavy stuff and supply some fluff here in the next few weeks!

As always, I didn’t proofread this, so there may be some spelling and grammar mistakes.]

Summary: Bodies start popping up within the city drained of blood and torn at the throat. Detective Ava Silva and her new partner Beatrice Alexander are determined to crack the case before more victims are discovered. But when recent technological advancements threaten how things are done, Beatrice has to put more trust in her partner than ever before.

Trigger warning: Please respect your triggers- like any creature feature there is blood, and death, and violence.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Request Prompts

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

Dt🧛: @littleskrimp, @moreorlez, @lazyashell, @gold-dust-angel @hypertic

The Blood Ties that Bind | Chapter Six | Ava Silva x Sister Beatrice

“I wouldn’t mind roughing the guy up a little, that’s all I’m saying.” His hands were firm on the steering wheel, thumbs running over the ribbed leather absentmindedly. It was raining and the windshield wipers were putting in the work. They gave Ava a small moment of clarity before everything became warped again, a painting of neons and dimly lit storefronts. “That’s all I’m saying.”

She had her foot up on the dash, preoccupied with rolling the fabric of her pants just up above her socks. Her shoes were soaked and so was the hem of her jeans. What Ava wouldn’t give to crawl out of her skin right about now. It had been penanced for forgetting the umbrella under the seat of the Impala.

“Yeah, I’m sure you would, but the world doesn’t work that way. Izzie would rather have you at her graduation than him, anyway. No use busting your knuckles and ending up in the drunk tank for that low-life.”

Ava knew something was wrong when JC had given up on holding the newspaper above his head to catch the stray drops of rain. The ink was running in black, leaving little black smudges on his shirt. He’d dropped his hand, leaned his forehead against the top of the payphone with a heaving sigh visible through the car’s window.

His father, a man that Ava only knew by reputation, was meant to fly home just a day before JC himself would board a plane and return to his stomping ground. His sister Isabella was graduating, and despite never being present, the family held out hope that just this once, he’d show up.

“What excuse was it this time?” She asked.

“Tammy is sick, the flu, some type of stomach bug.” He pulled onto the freeway, jerking the tires just a little too fast in the rain. He righted the car. “He was apologetic, that’s what Ma’ says anyway. I don’t believe it, though. Not like he’s the one yacking up leftovers.”

Ava cringed at the mental image, but let it go. When JC got like this, it was better to let him stew in it. He didn’t want advice, or comfort. No, he wanted something to take his mind off things. So she flicked on the scanner and filled the cab of the car with the dull hum of radio static interrupted here and there with the signals and codes.

They were patient people, usually waiting for the Chief to assign them homicides. The uniforms would hadn’t the robberies, the APB’s and the traffic tickets. Domestic’s, they stayed away from entirely. But sometimes, if the day was right, they’d take the bait wriggling on a metal hook.

“All units be aware, report of a 10851 in progress. Blue Austin Allegra. License plate number; Victor, Queen, Nora 8765. Advised 22350.”

Ava smiled “You know what would cheer you up?”

“A handle of vodka?”

“Yes, but not on shift.” Ava tapped his shoulder “We should find that car.”

“If we happen upon the car, I wouldn’t mind stopping a theft. But it’s a big city, Silva. Chances, we’ll see it. Slim to none.”

Ava grinned regardless, taking this as a win. It was hard to keep a straight face when she smiled like that. JC let the ghost of happiness pass over his lips, but it made a home in the attic of his eyes. His grip loosened on the steering wheel.

They stopped at a burger place just at the edge of the city. It was wedged between the train depot, long since turned into a museum that had railroad spikes imprisoned in a glass case, and a large, immobile engine that was permanently parked against the tracks.

JC parked the car under the awnings and they placed their order before taking solace on the hood. He laid his jacket down, sopping up the chill of the water. “Such a gentleman Detective Garcia.”

“Shove off,” He said as he shoved fries into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “How much PTO do you have?”

Ava grimaced, tried to the math in her head “Don’t know. Maybe like, a hundred.”

“Just so happens a ticket to Izzie’s graduation has opened up. We can get you a cheap flight.”

“Meeting the family? After all the shit you’ve spewed at them?”

“Ava, come on! You’ve got enough paid time off to take a goddamn year for yourself. I’m only asking for a weekend.” He took a bite of his burger, grease dripping from his chin.

She’d already known the answer the second that he asked. Of course, she’d get on the plane with him. It was effortless, an agreement that came to her like breathing the balmy air around them. Before she could answer, her eyes locked onto a dark blue Austin Allegra. It looked nearly black in the gray light of midday.

“What was the license plate on that 10851?”

JC shrugged, but pushed off the trunk of the car. He opened the drivers side door, pulled out a napkin, scrawled with ink. “VGN8765. That our car?”

“Looking like it.” He nodded at her as she reached for the radio, abandoning the prospect of finishing lunch. She spoke into the receiver. “Detective’s Garcia and Silva, eyes on 10851. Proceeding to Eastbound 95, in pursuit.”

“10-4”

The taillights pulsed like a blinking demon in the stormy weather. Their car was unmarked, but even still, it was Government issued and easily recognizable. JC was careful to stay a few paces behind.

Two miles in, exiting the freeway, JC flicked the lights on the grill of the car on. They clicked, cicadas among the static of the radio. Everything was muted within the car. The Allegra stalled, brake lights bleeding red. The rain picked up enough for him to switch on the windshield wipers too.

“Oh, fucking shit, he’s going to run.” JC said.

The Allegra switched lance, pressed down on the gas. JC followed suit, the tires hesitating on the we asphalt for only a moment before he picked up speed. Car chases were few and far between, nothing like what they portrayed on ‘Chips’.

Cars would pull out of the way as they caught wind of the red and blue lights flashing. The Allegra weaved in and out and JC kept formidable speed. Ava kept her thumb on the transmission for the radio. “Suspect refuses to pull over, requesting backup.”

“10-20?”

“Corner of Montgomery and Alan, heading northeast.”

“Copy. Backup dispatched.”

They turned the corner, nearly swiping a side-mirror. The Allegra picked up speed, the rain fell harder. There was a calm in the cab of the car that did not reflect the quickness of the situation. She felt the car shift gears, the scent of burning rubber filled her lungs.

When the car failed them, it did so with purpose. Things slowed, there was an adept lack of control as it met the road. Metal upon cement, crunching so easily as if it were nothing but tinfoil to begin with. Ava felt the impact of the airbag, smelled the powder that coated every inch of the cab.

They flipped once, twice, something that Ava learned later. She had clenched her eyes shut, braced herself as the Impala landed on it’s roof and slid half a block, scraping against shattered glass and rock.

Two minutes, she was unconscious for two minutes before dragging in a breath that reeked of petrol and smoke. There was blood, blood that was dripping from her forehead onto the roof of the car. The seatbelt sawed into her throat. She rushed to unlatch it, but thought better of it.

The headlights flickered against the storm and her ears rung. She wasn’t underwater but moved as if she was. She was disoriented, fingers shaking. The radio still worked, still grumbled in it’s fruitless hum.

“10-20? Detective Garcia. Detective Silva, 10-20?”

Shattered glass cut into the palm of her hand. She coughed, tried to get the chemical burn from her lungs. Ava couldn’t feel her legs, her feet, her toes. She choked back a sob, trying to push the though aside. Respond. Respond.

“10-20? We have units enroute. 10-20 Detectives?”

Ava hated the quiet, and quiet it was. The car had settled in it’s movements, aside from the operator trying again, and again in her attempt to reach them, there was nothing. She fumbled, felt glass dig into her palm as she searched for the receiver.

“Detective Silva,” Ava’s voice was shaking, forced “There’s been an accident. Send fire, ambulance. Montgomery and… and twelfth, I think.”

“Copy.” There was a pause, she pressed the receiver to her head, breathed “Are you injured?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“Garcia?”

Ava hadn’t looked. Couldn’t look. She knew the answer, just as she had known that she would get on the plane with him and go to his little sister's graduation. It came as naturally to her as breathing.

Ava woke up screaming. She didn’t realize the sound was coming from her at first, that much was a given by how much it shocked her. It lodged in her throat, cut through the quiet of the room that she didn’t recognize at first, and even when she was oriented, couldn’t grasp it in her memory. She’d dreamt of the crash.

The interior was dark, the air cleaner here than in her own apartment. The sheets were darker, softer. There was the scent of balsam wood in the air. The walls were blank save for some tasteful photos of the city, black and white.

Detective Alexander was on the edge of the bed in the few seconds it took Ava to draw in a breath. She’d been sitting in an olive-green chair under a light that seemed much too bright, so Ava looked away, clenched her eyes shut. It was too much.

“Hey, hey” Beatrice’s words were soothing, her hand on the side of her face a blanket of ice. Ava leaned into it. “Take it easy, alright?”

She swallowed hard, trying to sooth the dry soreness in her throat. Her body ached; her limbs felt like they needed a pint of oil to get kickstarted. And her jaw, her jaw was like a loaded gun, the bullets resting just below the soft flesh of her gums. Her only salvation was Beatrice, steady and strong, right in front of her.

“It’s a lot, I know.” Her thumb swiped against Ava’s cheek. “I’m going to turn off the lamp.”

Ava let out a small whimper in response. She missed the closeness instantly, and savored the darkness that followed. The bed dipped once more and she found the courage to force one eye open, and then the other.

“Beatrice,” her voice broke, chin trembling “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m scared.”

The woman shifted her gaze, let a tear streak down her cheek. It landed on the duvet. She elegantly wiped them away, refused to let it get any further. “Ava, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand.” She frowned.

The world was brighter, even in the dark. Everything was more defined. She swore, no, assumed that she could hear something moving past the heavy oak door. A conversation was being had. Hushed voices as if they were trying to keep something from her. Ava’s jaw pulsed with pain in tandem with her heart. Was it slower? Was it just less noticeable?

Beatrice placed a hand on her knee “There is no easy way to say this.”

“It has something to do with the church. That man. He was so angry.”

Beatrice laughed wetly, shook her head. “Yeah, Ava. He’s an angry man. He’d do anything to hurt me, and it turns out, the best way to do that was to hurt you.”

“And he did, didn’t he? He hurt me?”

“Yes, Ava. He hurt you.” Beatrice clenched her jaw, and then unclenched it. “He killed you.”

“Oh.”

Ava drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. The fabric felt too soft, the detergent that clung to it was strong, but she hugged herself closer and the sensations ebbed away into something of normalcy.

There were flashes of teeth, of the metallic taste of blood wetting her tongue. A man in a civil war uniform washed out and gray. A scripture that played like the end credits of a movie. And Detective Alexander- Beatrice- with her honeyed eyes.

“There are things in this world that don’t simply die. A gray area where Adriel, Vincent, and I live. Though, I resent grouping us together. We are not one and the same and” Beatrice slowed her words when she met Ava’s eyes, widened, pulpy with fear. “Vampires. Fright Night style vampires.”

That was ridiculous. Ava knew it down in her core that this could be some type of elaborate prank. They’d gone to lengths, she’d admit- renting out an entire church with a musty carpet and foul-tasting communion wine.

Had it not been for the blinding white pain in her neck, the small start of a scream that was choked down due to her imminent death, then she would have swallowed back all of those longing thoughts about the woman in front of her and filed a restraining order.

“That’s impossible,” Ava whispered.

“I assure you, it’s not. And while I would have greatly preferred to have told you in a gentler way, this is the reality. What happened to you, Ava, it was unfair.”

“And what exactly happened? Because one minute I was having a normal conversation about a connection to our case and then the next, I’m… dead?”

Beatrice shifted on the bed, ran her hand across her pants, it left a small damp mark on the fabric. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, and then thought better of it before finally committing to what was dancing on the tip of her tongue.

“Adriel is a man that preys on fear, and it took me a long time to realize that. It took me until 1919 which happened to be one of the worst years in history, speaking strictly from experience. We were in an eatery, and he had every single person in there slaughtered because attention wasn’t on him for once.”

Ava had to take a shallow breath to swallow back her comment about the year. That, she would ask about later, if she so chose. Right now, she was doing everything in her power not to vomit up whatever she’d forced down.

“I had always despised my choice- my cowardice- when it came to becoming a vampire. I did it out of fear, but I also did it of my own will. I followed Adriel for years, decades, thinking that his way was the only way until I decided it wasn’t.”

“And he did this to me in order to spite you?”

Beatrice nodded, “I finally let my guard down enough to truly care about someone and it made me vulnerable to his tactics. More than anything, it made you a target, and for that, if you never forgive me for that- if you decide that this isn’t what you want, then, I’m behind you. I’m behind you 100%.”

“And if I decide that this isn’t what I want?” Ava’s voice came out as a raspy whisper “What happens then?”

The darkness of the room swam around them. It took a few moments for Beatrice to muster anything that was akin to words. Ava waited patiently, counted the slow beats in her temples. The world was so loud, and Ava was overwhelmed, tempted to give in to the pain without knowing the facts.

“To complete your transition, you need to drink human blood. If you decide that this isn’t what you’d like, then the venom that’s in your system will shut down your organs one by one until you’re gone… truly gone.” Her voice shook, “And if that is the case, then we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”

Ava let out a small noise and flopped down into the bed. Everything was spinning. The dresser was where the bookshelf should have been, and the overhead ceiling fan was now on the floor. But Beatrice was the main constant.

She knelt by the side of the bed, waiting patiently. Ava had draped an arm over her eyes dramatically, but still, her frown was visible. It was a thinking expression and that gave Beatrice a flurry of hope.

“There were countless times in my career when I should have died. Times when guns were fired and knives were pulled. Most notably when an Impala flipped, and I lost the closest thing I ever had to a brother. And when I finally did die it was like something out of a movie rented from Blockbuster.”

Ava moved her arm from her eyes, turned her head to stare at Beatrice. The warmth radiated from her, oozed in waves.

“For so long I believed that I didn’t deserve to live. JC should have been the one to survive that crash, he should have been able to go to his sister’s graduation and he should still be here today.” Her words were choked now, tears streaking across her cheeks, making them damp. “Who am I to make this choice? Who am I to live an infinite life when his was cut short?”

“Oh, Ava” Beatrice reached forward tentatively, using her thumb to wipe away the tears. “You cannot control everything, but you can control this. You’ve fought hard for this long. I’m not trying to force your hand, believe me, this is a weighted decision. But if your concern lies in your value to this world, then make no mistake- it is infinite.”

It was heated up in the microwave and somehow, out of everything she had learned in the past twenty-four hours, everything she had felt, including her own neck snapping under the pressure of an immortal hand, this was the worst. It wasn’t’ that Ava had an aversion to leftovers, it was quite the opposite, but her stomach took a nose-dive at the smarting scent that filled the air as the small machine let out three tonal beeps.

This was normal, she told herself, she was just going to swallow a mug of very-human blood from a novelty mug that had a faded logo for NASA scrawled across the front. Not only that, but she was damned to do it in front of an audience.

Ava was unsteady on her feet at first. They felt foreign on the cold wooden floor. But, as always, Beatrice was there with a confident hand on the small of her back, leading her through the maze of a high-rise apartment. Despite the dark and the multitude of windows, she couldn’t bring herself to stare out at the endless city beneath them. She would most certainly hurl.

“Are hallucinations part of the deal?”

Ava lifted her chin towards her neighbor, who leaned against the counter in the kitchen with her arms crossed. Mary had leveled the girl who stood across the island with a toxic stare. It softened, however, when she saw Ava.

“I assure you; she is really here.” The stranger said, “I’m Lilith, and you must be Ava.”

“Great detective skills, Lestat.” Mary said coolly.

Beatrice cleared her throat, somehow commanding a hush over the room, though Mary clenched and unclenched her jaw as if she was holding back an explosion of expletives. Ava was guided to one of the barstools, and she was thankful to sit down.

It was then that Beatrice set a mug of steaming blood in front of her in a NASA mug. And it was then that Ava began to question her choice. It seemed so simple, chug the scalding liquid, choke it down, become an immortal creature that never had to fear death again, but maybe had to fear garlic or mirrors- she hadn’t exactly asked about logistics.

“So, I just… drink it and then it’s done?”

“It’s never really done.” Lilith got an elbow to the ribs, growled softly “I mean, yes. Technically speaking.”

Ava nodded, and cupped the mug like it was tea and not thick and sticky. She was really, truly, doing this. Mary seemed to have the good sense to turn away, maybe it was out of disgust, or maybe Ava’s fear for the future just carried across the room.

The first sip barely touched her lips. She wanted to reel back, the heat of the liquid scalding. But, when Ava swiped her tongue over it, the aching in her jaw pulsed to something much less painful. It was salty, pungent. She waited a moment and took a gulp, then another.

It was different than the blood she had inevitably swallowed in the church. Adriel’s blood was cold and clotted and clearly mixed with something to dilute the flavor into something akin to very aged wine. This was soothing, like pulling a shawl over her shoulders during an ice storm. There was warmth, but there was also the lingering feeling of how long it would take to get her hands on something more suited for the weather.

She’d finished the mug, and strangely, didn’t much mind the fact that it was warmed up in the microwave anymore. It had stopped the pounding in her temples and the buzzing of her skin, almost as if everything was coming into focus, if only for a moment.

Ava ran her tongue over her lips again, this time feeling the slightest pinprick of her canines. They were sharper, but subtly so. She reckoned, if she really needed to, they could create the type of markings that she first settled on when looking at the cold body of Barry Palmer, something easily mistaken for an animal.

Beatrice took the mug and rinsed the rest of it in the sink, the color of the water fading to a tinted pink before it circled the drain. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Ava admitted.

There was a relief on the woman’s face that made Ava want to rush to her if only she could trust her legs. Not drinking the contents of the mug had clearly plagued the girl for longer than Ava had been awake and she wore it on her face, not attempting to hide the relief that washed over her. It was done, but something in the tension that settled over the room reminded Ava that it most certainly was not finished.

Whoever had done this to her, had thrust her into a newfound life of mythical unkemptness was still out there, and if what he had done to her was only the beginning, a small part of revenge in a masterplan, then they were utterly and truly fucked.

“I have people that I can call,” Mary said, reading the room. “They’ll be reluctant to team up with the likes of you, but if it’ll stop an uprising in the city, then they’ll take the chance.”

“We can pick them off in smaller groups, work our way from the outside in. Even with Adriel in command, I guarantee you that there are disciples that don’t fully adhere to his beliefs. They’ll be easier to track, and deal with.”

Beatrice had both of her hands resting on either side of the sink. She spoke with a commandment that Ava hadn’t seen before, and she certainly wasn’t about to admit that it was the most attractive thing she had ever experienced. So instead, she shifted on the barstool, averting her gaze.

“I want a shot at him.” Beatrice said, “A true and honest shot. He played all of his cards at once, and he expects me to come back begging for mercy, for some type of forgiveness. But Mary, if you have reinforcements, we have a chance to take him down.”

Mary made a small noise “Can’t say what those reinforcements will do after all of this is over, but they’ll never pass up a fight like this. This bastard should have rotted a long time ago.”

Beatrice nodded and took her hands from the counter, crossing them over her chest. Ava saw her in a new light, an immortal light that she stupidly hadn’t caught earlier. Beatrice had never eaten in front of her, she never showed any true signs of fear-driven mortality. Now, in the face of going up against Adriel, terror diminished her dark eyes.

“Ava, no one is expecting you to face this.” Beatrice pulled her from thought with a simple statement. “In your state, your physicality, things might be difficult, and they will certainly be different. Lilith, Camila, they had time to adjust to things.”

Lilith schooled her expression into a frown at the mention of the name, and Ava had a blurry picture of the girl in her mind. She’d been in the church; she’d shown nothing of pity or healing. She hadn’t faked it the way Adriel and Vincent had, and for that, Ava was oddly grateful.

“I know you can feel that power inside your gut.” Lilith said in a blasé manner, “It’s intoxicating. But it can easily make you a liability. We’ve never seen a fight like this before.”

“You’re forgetting I’m an officer of the law.”

“Yes, police officers have always been good at showing restraint, haven’t they?”

“It’s her choice,” Beatrice spoke, voice hard.

Ava would be perfectly content to stay on the sidelines, though she had a feeling that she would regret it for her long life. If something were to happen to Beatrice, or even Lilith (a tad annoying, but in the older-sister type of way), then it would destroy her. More than that, she knew she’d destroy herself without guidance.

Cement gray clouds were crudely drawn against a starless black sky. They were threatening rain, plump with water that would once again push down on the city streets. Ava breathed in deeply, she could smell it so clearly, the way that the air reacted to the impending storm. The foreign sensation clung to her skin, swirled around her as if she could physically see the whisps of rain sparring with mist rising from the heated asphalt.

There were noises too; the screeching of the wet brakes for the midnight bus, the dull French murmur of a radio housed somewhere in an open window. She couldn’t track the words, nor could she decipher them. There were footsteps galore and a woman arguing over the price of cigarettes with the owner of a bodega. How many miles away, she couldn’t be sure.

“Les employés continuent d'organiser des manifestations dans les installations qu'ils habitent, interrompant le flux de travail.”

“This is robbery! I’ve been coming here for years, isn’t there loyalty in that?”

“Cela peut affecter le commerce, la résolution est peu probable.”

“You’ve lost my business forever, you bastard. Take your cigarettes and shove them up your ass.”

Two hands were on her shoulders, firm through the fabric of her coat. Beatrice carried the scent of a beach along the coast, and Ava breathed it in like salvation. She hadn’t realized she closed her eyes, nor that she had stopped only a few paces out of the apartment. Beatrice had dipped her head slightly, meeting Ava’s.

“Hey,” her voice was smooth, grounding. “I bet you’re hearing a lot right now.”

Ava chuckled wetly “Too much, some would say. I can’t speak French, I’m afraid.”

“Je peux t'apprendre, nous avons le temps. It’s boring, political relations.”

“I feel like I can taste the rain.”

“It’s a bit overwhelming, I know. You’ll get used to it in time, but for right now, focus on me. If things get to be too much, you let me know and we’ll ground you together. Is there anything that you notice more than the rest of the world's noise?”

Ava frowned and struggled to focus. While the fuzzy words of the radio had stopped and been replaced by a jazz song with the same amount of static, and the bodega man had given up for the night, flipping the open sign and muttering profanities to himself, it was still too loud. Too much.

“I can… smell you?”

“Good, yes.” Beatrice prided “That’s something to hang onto, something to attune yourself with. Eventually, I’ll teach you to synch with your own heartbeat. Ideally out of the city. It can be quite staggering here.”

Ava swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut. There was a metallic scent that rested under the waves of Beatrice’s skin, a sunniness that reminded her of salt-encrusted waves and sand, the call of birds. A place she remembers from her childhood. Everything quieted.

They were walking along the sidewalk a few paces behind Mary and Lilith, who argued amongst themselves. Ava could hear every word despite the hushed tone until she took another heaping breath of summer tones in the cold, city street.

“Don’t go pissing them off, alright? That goes for all of you. If you think I’m intense, these are the big guys. Kills that stretch for miles. They won’t hesitate.” Mary fretted “I shouldn’t have hesitated.”

“Admit that you like us, and your suffering will be much less evident,” Lilith said.

“I will shove a stake so far up your ass you’ll be chewing on splinters for weeks.”

They rounded the corner and were bathed in the neon light of an electronics store. Despite having been closed for hours, the large television sets played different forms of the news, soundless, but all with the same form of cookie-cutter caster. They were rim-rod straight, clenching papers between their fingers.

Ava tried to ignore the headlines. It would skew her work. What skewed it more was the official statements the Chief had released about Sabrina Patrick’s death. All too public. It went against everything she knew. The vigil of candles by the wharf was like a calling card to those they were about to face. Her smiling face flashed against the multitude of screens and Ava turned away.

Two cars had parked half a block up. From the first, two women and two men emerged, shrouded by shadows. The second, four other women. Ava could smell something sweet on them, could sense their apprehension. Mary nudged Lilith behind her, partly out of contempt.

“What’s all this?” A muscular woman was at the front of the pack, her shoulders were pulled back. She eyed Mary, and the group that huddled behind her. Ava’s hand clung to Beatrice’s. “Your message sounded urgent.”

“It is. I’m calling in that favor you owe me, Dora.”

“You called that in last year.”

“Then I need an IOU.” Mary glanced back at the group. “I’m sure all of you have noticed the recent deaths in the city, the missing persons cases. It’s all tracked down to one man. We know where he is, and what he’s capable of.”

Dark lifted a sculpted eyebrow. “And you need manpower?”

“We need manpower,” Mary confirmed.

There was buzzing amongst those stacked behind Dora, a murmur that rippled through the crowd and fizzled out like a broken wave. They knew, Ava gathered, that Beatrice and Lilith and now her were not cut from the same cloth. She felt a chill move up her spine, knowing that just like her choice, one had to be made.

All this time, she had lived across from Mary. She’d brought take-out food over, listened to rock albums that would swarm her mind. They’d laughed and opened up about the death of Mary’s wife. And now, they stood on the wet sidewalk, separated. Ava had never known about the true nature of someone who hunts. Not for sport- but for vengeance.

Ava flushed and deemed herself the world’s worst detective.

“Have you gone soft?” One of the men asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Working with them?”

Mary laughed, bitter and soft all at once. “I seem to remember becoming a hunter to better the world. And right now, our best bet is to swallow our pride and stop the swarm right at its roots. If we don’t, it’ll keep growing back.”

“Cut off one head and three grow in it’s place.” Dora mumbled, looking back at the uneasily shifting troops. “Right. Well. You’ll owe me infinite favors if we do this. Are we clear? I’m not throwing our family into harm’s way without something in return.”

Mary didn’t say anything, she swallowed thickly and nodded. She took the outstretched hand that Dora offered and shook it. Beatrice seemed to let her shoulders drop, only slightly, not to show weakness, but to show some form of reprieve. Ava sensed it and squeezed her hand.

The lights overhead buzzed like a set of trapped flies begging for a way out. Ava struggled to pay them no mind. Her head had since stopped throbbing violently, but now her heart threatened to bubble over in anxiety. How was it still beating? How was it this loud? These were all questions Ava had at the ready for when she stopped examining her teeth.

She used her index finger to lift one pale pink edge of her lip, leaning close to the convenience store mirror that was bleeding rust. Ava had never paid much attention to her teeth before. After she got a root canal in the fifth grade, she brushed them normally like any other kid scared shitless with a drill.

Knowing that there were lethal weapons wedged under her gums sent a chill down her spine. Easily forgettable, yes, but what if the man behind the counter sliced his hand open on a crisp dollar bill? She’d latch to the wound like a bag clip, and Ava wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to stop.

She startled when a knock sounded at the door- entirely soft but deafening at the same time. Ava took another swallow of stale bathroom air and opened it. Beatrice stood, illuminated by the harsh lighting.

“Guy behind the counter won’t let you use the bathroom without buying anything.” She smiled goofily, holding up a pack of mint gum.

“Oh, I know, I’m now a proud owner of a rabbit’s foot keychain. Figured we could use any luck we can get.”

Ava stepped aside and let Beatrice enter the bathroom. The two of them stood there for a moment, regarding each other, less like strangers and more like acquaintances.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Are you going to be able to do this?”

They spoke at the same time before welcoming the silence again. Then there was laughter, because what else could one do when there was an impending war? The city would be sleeping, the fight drowned out by rain and ignorance that Ava wished she still had the liberty of having. When she clenched her eyes shut, she was curled up in bed, elbow-deep in the Great Gatsby, sheathed into Beatrice’s side.

“You know,” Ava said, breaking the laughter “I always imagined you wearing glasses. Before all of this, I pictured you needing them to read. And that just seems silly now. I can see everything clearly.”

“Believe it or not, I did once wear glasses, before all of this.” She took a step closer, “They were quite the luxury in 1864, but I was as blind as a bat without them. Just because one can see clearly with newfound ability doesn’t mean… doesn’t mean they can forget being human. And if that’s what you’re worried about-“

“No, no.” Ava held up both hands “Well, maybe a little bit. I keep feeling like I have to pee, but I can’t. And that’s freaking me out a little bit. I also accidentally ripped the handle off the toilet, so I might have to buy another rabbit’s foot. Truthfully, I’m worried about you.”

“Me?”

She shoved Beatrice’s shoulder gently “Yes, you. I know I’m going through a whole crisis right now and we’re about to rip through a bunch of vampire drones when I didn’t even think vampires were real, but this is a big deal for you.”

Ava stilled and fixed her gaze on Beatrice, she gently brushed her fingers against the taller girl’s eyebrows, trying to smooth out the worried frown, the small crease between them that was admittedly adorable.

“I would give anything to avenge JC’s death, truly, I would, but that would be a little self-destructive don’t you think?”

“Ava,” Beatrice warned.

“My point is, Bea, you have the option and… and part of me wants to make sure that when you’re standing there, face to face with this creature that you won’t hesitate, or contemplate, or whatever rushes through that gorgeous head of yours. I want you to kick his ass.”

“Kick… his ass?”

Ava beamed now. This was her old partner. Though she didn’t mind the tender care that Beatrice exhibited in all of her guilt-ridden actions, she could do without them for a little while. There was a quiet properness to Beatrice’s actions, even the one time Ava had seen her dislodge a gun that was pointed directly at her head with one swift movement.

She understood now, why there was no fear. But at the time, Ava nearly lost her own footing. She cuffed their target and tried not to let her admiration shine through. There was a shift in Beatrice now, that professional shift that ebbed away at her immortally perplexed thoughts. 

“Yeah,” She squared her shoulders, loosening her stance. “Yeah, alright. I’ll kick his ass.”

“That’s my girl! I’ll help too. I’ve got your six, always. No more shady actions, they’ve gotten me nowhere.”

“Aw, does this mean I don’t get any more pity coffee?” Beatrice pouted. “It always tastes better when it’s pity coffee.”

Beatrice Alexander held a loose beauty as she walked past the large park that was at the heart of the city. Her presence held a match, filling the air with sulfur. The grass was damp, and her shoes sunk the second she hit it. She lingered between oaks, adjusted her hold on the double-barrel shotgun that she held in her hands.

They’d been walking the streets for the better half of an hour as lightning charged the atmosphere. Beatrice had learned quickly that while Adriel’s followers were armed with eternal life and Napoleon complex, under it all, they were still scared.

The second Dora had swung a bat embedded with nails close enough to an ear to slice it open, the packs of them started to scatter. Beatrice shuddered at the joy in her eyes, the leadership that rang through the world as they slaughtered and maimed.  

Ava had winced at the gunshots, the screaming. But it quickly passed as they neared the center of the city. They had a clear path to Adriel, to the higher-ups that had clung to his every single word for decades.

They stood like the four horsemen of the apocalypse: loaded up with weapons and their own hubris. Beatrice could smell the rain and the damp of the day. There was fear bubbling in her stomach. She remembered the day at the protests in the 70s- the heat that bord down on her, and the way she ran. Beatrice refused to run.

Once she took the first step over the threshold of the park, she stilled her nerves. The steeple of the church loomed over them, and the prophet himself stood in the center of the clearing. He looked so simple, so unassuming. He wore a jack-o-lantern smile.  

Vincent was on his right, and Camila was on his left. Both steeled themselves. More lurked within the trees- new like Ava, uninformed like Camila. She noted their unblinking eyes. It was impossible to count. They stopped a few yards away from the line of defense.

Adriel had always fought with American Revolutionary tactics, lines of cannon fodder. She’d never seen him raise a hand in those early days. As time began to wear against his bones and his ideals grew three sizes to oppression, that changed.

He had a proud tilt to his jaw “Beatrice, I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

She was careful with her strength, with her words. A shotgun would be useless with a bent barrel. Mary scanned the trees, calculating their chances of freedom. Lilith’s stare was locked on Camila, unwavering. Anger rolled from her in waves, never waning.

“Detective Silva,” Adriel continued “Death becomes you nicely.”

“Suck a dick!” Ava yelled back.

“Charming.”

Beatrice could count six vampires on each side, possibly seven. Men and women who had drunk from the same glass that Ava had. Their demise was gentler, she was sure. They edged closer to them- and it was Mary who took the first shot, a single hairline trigger that launched an arrow through the center of a man’s heart.

A hiss was lodged in his throat as hellfire consumed him; brilliant oranges and muted reds seeping through the cracks in his veins. Ash floated into the air, crumbled to the ground, and fed the earth. Such a quick death in such a public park. Ava suddenly looked feeble, tightening her grip on her gun.

Adriel’s stare shifted then to something tense and unforgiving. He signaled, something so slight, a movement with his hand, and the remaining eleven figures lurking in the shadows rushed forward. Their shoes squelched in the mud, kicking up rainwater.

Beatrice advanced forward. She was locked in on Adriel, the sounds of an ensuing fight breaking across the silence. Mary was good with her weapon, an expert in her craft. Blood caked Lilith’s fingers and sprayed her face. Gunshots rang out, a crosshatch flash of light blinking in Morse code with each pull of Ava’s trigger.

By the time she reached him, both Vincent and Camila had ducked to the edges of the fight. It was just the two of them and the putrid scent of congealed blood flowing through his veins.

Adriel moved like lightning, ducking the first motivated hit that Beatrice threw his way with the butt of the gun. The second thrust struck bone, a sickening crunch from a shattered nose. He reeled back and laughed as blood gushed over his lips, staining his teeth pink. Resentment rotted under his skin.

“I just want to talk.”

She swung again, striking his temple. Blood bloomed against his skull. “Oh, I’m sure. You’ve created this entire plan, this army.”

“An army we once dreamed of together, Beatrice!” he caught the next throw of the gun, holding it merely inches from his cheek, his voice was a low growl “I put all my trust in you. We could have had everything. Everything!”

“You were never satisfied, Adriel. You always wanted more.”

“And what is wrong with that? We are the superior race! Humans are fragile, they are nothing compared to us. Fodder in a war that the two of us were destined to end together.”

“Write that sentence down,” She wrenched the gun from his grasp “And hand it to your therapist.”

Adriel snarled at her and pushed his entire weight into her midsection. They both crashed to the ground. Its sweaty cold worked its way through her clothes. He brought his fist down on her jaw and she could taste copper. Once, twice, three times before she wedged her boot between them and threw him a few feet away. His fingers dug fruitlessly into the soft, damp earth.

Beatrice raised herself from the ground, placed the sole of her shoe on Adriel’s chest. There was a sadness in his mud-trodden eyes. To her, it was a sign of defeat, a tiredness that centuries roaming the earth had established.

He had never been a good fighter- instead, he employed Vincent for that. Vincent who was pinned to the ground by Mary, Lilith’s nails digging into his soft flesh. Ava fended off Camila, shoving her back, aiming the gun directly between the girl's eyebrows. Beatrice couldn’t’ hear the words that leaked from her mouth, the begging that thrummed.

No doubt, he was waiting for the rest of his army of sires, those who had no other choice. But they were gone, slaughtered in the streets. There were more, she was sure, with the same ideology spread across the world. It was impossible not to fall prey to his charming ways.

Beatrice pumped the shotgun, aimed it directly at Adriel. His hair was cemented to his forehead, his chest rising and falling under the pressure of her foot. She gritted her teeth, could taste the soil and the electricity in the air.

“What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined- to strengthen each other- to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories.” He quoted George Eliot effortlessly, trying to appeal to her.

Beatrice laughed, her words dripping with venom “There is nothing human about you. The things that you willed me to do- killing my parents, burning entire towns. Adriel, I will never get the scent of burning flesh from my lungs.”

“You could have left sooner. You could have said no.”

“You sired me!” She pressed down hard enough for his sternum to pop under the weight. He let out a scream of pain, smirked into it with sick enjoyment. “I had no choice, and when I did get the will to break your hold it was too much for you. My disobedience was too much.”

“Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.”

Beatrice frowned, knelt with her full weight against him. She moved the gun, placed it directly under his chin, pushed hard enough to create angry red circles against his stubble. His breath was labored, bones unable to fuse back together. It didn’t stop them from trying. “Stop talking. Right now, you listen.”

She waited for a beat, heard another gunshot ring out.

“If you had just let me, go you wouldn’t be here right now. Neither of us would be here. But you had some sort of sick infatuation with me, with those that I choose to care about. And I have waited too long with too much patience for this very moment.

“I cared for you once, for a brief moment, or at least I thought I did. You were the only one who understood me, the only one who saw me as more than the daughter of a rich socialite and an investment banker. But that was all an act, and the real you- fuck- the real you was the most deplorable thing.”

Adriel swallowed hard and she felt it rock through the weapon. Rain had begun to fall and it was icy on her skin. When she breathed out, it mingled with the puff of mist that pushed past Adriel’s own lips.

“It wasn’t all a lie.” He said, “I enjoyed George Eliot, and I enjoyed your father, the kindness of your family.”

“You had it all then, Adriel. A simple and beautiful life and your own greed stole that away and led us to this moment.”

He glared at her for a moment but softened. Her finger was on the trigger, her knee pressed so firmly against his ribs that she could shatter them, mold them like putty. Right now, he looked like a man caught in the rain.

“I always figured it would be you,” He said, a sad smile on his lips “The moment I saw you reading under that oak tree, I knew that my demise would be at your hands.”

Ava’s words echoed in her head then. Vengeance. It werewolfed against her bones, took over her mind. This man had chased her like a feral cat for decades. He had watched, applauded with disgusted joy as she used her teeth to tear into her mother’s jugular. He’d wiped the blood tentatively from her cheeks.

Beatrice pulled the trigger.

Detective Ava Silva thumbed the rabbit’s foot that was shoved into the pocket of her black blazer. She felt the rough artificial pads and the hard plastic nails at its tip. She was grateful that she decided to keep it. Rubbing the small keychain like this kept her hand busy, kept her from fidgeting. The other held the metal rod of an umbrella.

If she focused hard enough, she would be able to hear the officiant of the funeral or the quiet sobs that Miss Palmer muffled with her handkerchief. Instead, she counted the drops that fell against nylon and dripped to the ground. They’d worm their way through soil, soak into the mahogany of the coffins that punched holes in the earth under their feet.

Beatrice had her hand on the small of Ava’s back. Her eyes were fixated on the closed casket and the rose that was placed against it. It hadn’t been de-thorned, and she was mindful of each hand that touched it. A small drop of blood could summon a situation that both girls were too somber to acknowledge.

Ava was getting better. With the major threat eliminated, she could focus more on control or lack-there-of. Beatrice had already acquired a farmhouse that had been foreclosed on. It needed work, a long project that would keep Ava’s mind and hands occupied.

Ava had turned in her badge without being prompted. Though, the Chief had her dismissal quick on her tongue. Rules had been broken and were being investigated, but when the gunfire stopped and the red and blue adorned patrol cars finally did show up at the park, there was a distinct scent of ash in the air, blood having been washed away by the storm.

No one would talk and they spent the better half of the night in a damp interrogation room. There was no evidence of a crime, just eyewitnesses who were convinced they’d seen something of a war in between oak trees and picnic tables. It was enough for both of them to pack up the things on their desks into sad cardboard boxes.

They’d come to the funeral for Barry Palmer out of respect. Ava was entirely apologetic, squeezing his wife’s shoulders and apologizing profusely for her loss. There was something in her eyes, something tender- something that assured the woman that she was safe.

The girls didn’t’ linger, it felt wrong and immoral. There was a peacefulness to the cemetery as they walked to the car, stale water pooling around their shoes. Ava’s mind buzzed with the events of the last month. She’d found a body wedged between a load-bearing wall and a dumpster and now she was immortal. She supposed she had a lot of time to think about things.

“Are you worried about them?” Ava asked as they edged through cement grave markers.

“No,” Beatrice frowned, removed her hand from the small of Ava’s back. She was growing cold in the autumn air. “If Vincent and Camila have any good sense, they’ll stay far away to lick their wounds.”

When law enforcement showed up, those who remained scattered within the foliage had scampered away in cowardice. Ava didn’t have it in her to chase after the girl, and Lilith had done enough damage to Vincent that she figured he wouldn’t get far.

Beatrice opened the passenger side door when they reached the car, gently taking the umbrella from Ava’s grasp. Ava lingered. She turned; her front pressed against Beatrice’s. “This feels like the end.” she admitted.

“Mm, perhaps.” She leaned closer and could smell the metallic edge to Ava’s breath. “George Eliot once said only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.”

Ava kissed her then, under the umbrella at the edges of a cemetery to the sound of rain and a soft, smoky wind. Her fingers ghosted Beatrice’s jaw, tenderly, filled with something akin to fondness. Just for a moment, while mourning the loss of an investment banker, and the simplicity of her own life, Ava felt like nothing else mattered. Not even the hunger that burned at the back of her throat.