#I dare you to look up crucifixes

[ceo-of-stealing-ur-fucking-teeth]

Something that’s always been wild to me is how my mother didn’t understand my obsession with death and gore. But dragged me to a church every week, sometimes multiple times, to a place with giant statue of a man in agonizing pain, covered in blood, right in the center.

And read me stories about people dying horrible, awful, brutal deaths with a tone of reverence.

But had the audacity to be uncomfortable when I started drawing creepy ass half dead things. Like, okay, make up your mind. I thought this was a good thing?’

[goldfades]

PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

for this request

─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[angelsforthenight]

BEYOND SALVAGE — ellie williams x fem!reader (pt. 2)

a catholic boarding school AU… read pt. 1 here! ೀ⋆｡˚

after the humiliating sports day accident, ellie seems to take direct notice of you. your uncontrollable desires and bodily reactions cause you to feel horrible, until one night in the chapel.

cw: mdni!!!, long (but worth it 😛) heavy religious (catholic) talk, hinted religious trauma, ellie has piercings, inexperienced!reader, dom!ellie, sub!reader, player!ellie, v brief masturbation, brief drugs, fucking in an inconvenient place, intense foreplay, teasing, cursing, finger-sucking, nipple-sucking, cunnilingus, fingering, sorta mean!ellie, kiiiinda brat!reader

taglist: @shewantstoknow @iluvgrlsblog @kitaanah @yumimak @babesmwah @lawofblla @elliesfavgf @4ftergloww @circe-is-struggling @seraphicsentences @we-loveebony @marrycv @lavenderhazelsworld

“…God forgives all, does He not?”

days go by and within each one, ellie plays a more prominent role in your routine. everywhere you go she’s just there. you also catch her looking at you: whether it’s in class or in church service. this begins to be a massive bother since she’s making things incredibly difficult.

your body is also starting to experience changes. every single time without fail, whenever your gaze would meet hers, you would feel your heart start to pick up the pace, and a strange yet eerily familiar throbbing sensation between your legs occur. whenever your cunt would flex, you would try to squeeze your thighs together, hoping to ease it, but it’d only make things worse.

as much as you’d hate to admit, you subconsciously know exactly what’s wrong with you. these nights, whilst trying to fall asleep, you’ve been letting your mind wander. thinking all these sinful thoughts surrounding ellie that you in the past would’ve never even dared to. you don’t even know where this is all coming from — all because of the sports day incident, really?

you feel disgusting, but you can’t seem to stop. it’s as if a little creature inside you has been roused awake and is starving.

it’s currently 12 in the morning. every girl in your dorm is overcome with drowse — gently snoozing away and filling the room with the sound of soft breathes. every girl but you, who’s wide awake. you, who can feel the creature within you snarl and whine with hunger, you who can’t stop imagining what it’d feel like if ellie were to fuck you and you who’s fingers are starting to creep down your white cotton night-gown. your head begins to be overclouded by yearn and arousal as your fingers prudently brush up against your clothed cunt. your breath hitches and you slightly squirm; ellie’s face and her demeanour embellished in your mind. you’re about to continue trailing down this path of wickedness until you hear somebody stir in their sleep, making you jolt and immediately pull your hand away; snapping you out of the indecent daze.

your eyes glance up at the huge crucifix held above the door. you can feel Jesus’ hard, judgemental gaze cast upon you and you feel morbid. this influences you to get up and skulk to the school’s chapel. you need to thoroughly apologise for your godless actions after all.

as you kneel, you feel your knees sink against the cold cushion of one of the pillars. you take a deep breath, doing the sign of the cross and clenching your eyes shut.

“forgive me, father, for i have sinned…”

but then your mind goes blank. you have no idea what to say, too afraid to mutter what you’ve been doing aloud. your mouth slightly opens, expecting words to spill out, but there’s nothing.

as you’re still figuring something to say, you suddenly smell a strong poignant scent of earth and musk. your eyes immediately shoot open. it’s way too smelly to be incense. you scan the area only to see that there’s nobody there, but the smell is just way too distracting for you to continue your prayer. you feel compelled to figure out where the scent is coming from — leading you to an abandoned curtain in the far corner of the room. you immediately draw the curtain open.

ellie stares up at you like a deer caught in headlights, a lit blunt hanging out of her lips. she’s sat on a plastic stool, wearing a fitted black tank top and flannel pyjama bottoms. your jaw slightly drops at the sight of her. her eyebrows raise as she stares you down, seemingly relieved it wasn’t one of the sisters that had caught her.

“nice nightgown.” you frown. you couldn’t believe what she was doing. in the holiest place in the building, to add!

“you want?” she continues, holding it up to you. you gasp softly and vigorously shake your head.

“what are you doing?” you ask dumbly. ellie chuckles amusedly.

“if you’re gonna tell on me, just tell.” cockiness oozes from her tone. it pisses you off.

“why are you smoking?” you hiss, “i mean, do you have at least an ounce of respect?”

ellie stares at you with half-lidded eyes, carelessly taking another drag. she exhales a little plume of smoke.

“sorry princess…” she drawls, her gaze trained on you as the corner of her lips arch up into a small smirk. lo and behold, the same old throbbing makes itself known again — only this time with such intensity that it surprises you. you’re speechless.

the cocky little smirk never leaves ellie’s face. she gets up, flicking the joint away. besides, it’s clear she’s now interested in something someone else. she walks over to you whilst you feel your brain slowly turn into mush.

“joint’s gone… you happy?” she mutters, her tone low and sultry. the air suddenly feels too thick. ellie slightly cocks her head to the side when you don’t respond. you can sense the starving creature inside you salivate for the taste of ellie’s lips. you helplessly wonder if they taste sweet, or maybe bitter from the weed.

you sigh, your eyes briefly fluttering closed.

“it’s all your fault…” you find yourself muttering.

ellie’s eyebrows raise. “oh?”

“do you know what you’ve been doing to me?” you continue, your rage beginning to re-surface. you’ve spent years trying to resist the constraints of sin yet ellie’s brought that all down in a week.

“enlighten me.”

“you’re—“ you purse your lips, feeling butterflies furiously swarm in your stomach. “you’re driving me insane.”

ellie’s smile slightly falters, shifting into a more serious look. she steps even closer to you, now only mere inches away.

“well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“that’s not supposed to be a good thing.” you retort, despite the inner storm brewing inside of you. you’re great at playing it cool, though you subtly sink your nails into your palm to check if you’re not dreaming.

“mmh… you wanna know what was a good thing though? when you sat your pretty ass on my lap the other day.” she gauges your reaction, biting her lip in amused anticipation.

your jaw drops before you look around as if anyone else is in here but you two. “don’t say stuff like that!”

ellie giggles, the sound of it echoing through the chapel. it sounds like vanilla. she enjoys how flustered you look. her eyes drift down to the way you’re not-so-subtly squeezing your thighs together: one leg in front of the other.

“you good?” her gaze hinting to your legs. you glance down, not even realising you were doing that.

“i‘m fine.” you spit, lying through your teeth. you ask yourself if you should leave, staring at the floor so not even realising how close ellie has just stepped right now.

she stares at you before her thumb and index cup your chin, making you look back up at her. your eyes slightly widen, clearly not expecting that. ellie’s eyes drift to your lips.

“it’s okay, you know? God forgives all, does He not?” she whispers, her thumb tracing along your bottom lip. you don’t pull away. the devil was chipping away at your chastity and you were letting it. you were letting it.

“not much of a talker…” she mutters, her thumb slightly dragging your lip down. you feel something unleash inside of you.

and then you do the unthinkable.

way too stimulated and awoken, you abruptly lean in and press your lips against ellie’s. turns out they do taste sweet after all. ellie’s eyes widen in surprise before happily kissing you back; latching her hands against your back and pulling you closer. your creature hums in satisfaction as what was once a light kiss quickly shifts into a sloppy make-out sesh. tongues gliding together, the sound of smooches filling the room. you can feel her spider-bites plink against the right side of your face. its coldness feels both refreshing and ticklish. you have no idea what’s come over you, but you’re enjoying this. a muffled whimper escapes your lips as you cup ellie’s cheek, feeling dizzy. ellie pulls away; a line of drool briefly connecting your lips. she grabs your hand and sniffs it. you stare at her in bewilderment — is this what people normally do before fornicating?

“you been playing with yourself or something?” ellie snorts. and here you were thinking that there’s no possible way you could embarrass yourself more…

“keep talking and i’ll change my mind about this.” you return, so obviously avoiding the question. ellie giggles, before leaving a small wet kiss on the back of your unclean hand. your blush deepens. grinning, she decides to take things a step further by putting your middle finger in her mouth, sucking it as she makes sure to maintain eye contact. your lips part, staring at her in disbelief. she‘s clearly teasing: her flattened tongue curling against the tip of your finger. you’re so turned on that it’s hard to think.

“you were playing with yourself. it tastes good.” she murmurs in a smug manner before pulling you into another kiss — this one, a lot more intense. everything seems to be going so fast, but you don’t care. you thread your fingers through ellie’s hair, chest pressed against chest.

whilst you two practically eat each other’s faces off, ellie’s hands slowly snake down your back; grabbing your ass. you gasp but before you’ve got the time to properly react, ellie’s already gently pushing you down onto the discarded altar behind you two.

the small cross on your necklace is merely an accessory by now; you’re far too gone, way beyond salvage.

“close the curtains.” you mutter breathlessly, your eyes glazed over, pupils dilated. you prop yourself up on your elbows.

“yes ma’am.” she then comes back, shifting attention to your neck. you let out a shuddered sigh as she peppers your neck with sloppy little kisses. when she finds your sweet spot, your breath hitches. she smirks against your flesh before abusing that spot some more; nibbling and sucking on it. you bite your lip as to suppress a loud whimper.

at the same time, her hand finds your breast; lightly cupping it between her palm. her thumb brushes against your dressed nipple and you shiver. next thing you know, she has her mouth on it — which, at this point, is as hard as a pebble. your body jolts when you feel her tongue slowly circling around the bud; the fabric covering it turning transparent. she does the same with the other nipple. you feel your warmth mingle in with hers; her scent invading your nostrils. she smells like a forest, and you’re willing to burn in it. with a “pop” she pulls away, staring at you.

“you sure you want it?” she asks, her gaze never leaving yours. she needed to make sure. losing your virginity in a chapel is a pretty huge thing after all…

yet you don’t just want it, you need it. hence why you nod in an almost frantic manner. ellie beams, planting a tender kiss on the top of your knee before slowly spreading your legs apart. you’re glad you’re in a secluded space in the chapel. you weren’t up for seeing emblems and statues of Jesus leering at you. nor Mary, nor Moses, nor Gabriel.

ellie raises your dress up so it’s laying on your stomach. her thumb traces circles on your outer thighs whilst her lips are set on the inner part; implementing kind kisses. you can already feel tingles coarse through your body, and you appreciate how ellie’s taking her sweet time, but you do also want her to get on with it already.

“hurry.” you whine. ellie chuckles.

“am i not allowed to make this the best experience for you?” she quips. her lips are starting to enter dangerous territory; pecking the edge of your panties. your body involuntarily jerks, evoking yet another amused reaction from ellie.

“so sassy for someone who’s so sensitive.” she taunts. you pout and clamp your legs shut in response — too embarrassed at the way ellie’s staring at your crotch and poking fun. ellie giggles.

“oh no, no, no.” she says, forcing them back open again. “act like a brat and maybe i’ll be the one changing my mind about this.”

she then places a heavy kiss right in the middle of your crotch. despite your underwear still being on, you felt that strongly. an uncontrollable moan escapes your lips; a noise accidentally too loud.

“shhhh… you know what? open your mouth.” you do as she says, and she leans up and stuffs the raised up section of your gown in your mouth; like a gag. you stare at her with big eyes.

to tease even more, ellie leans down and slowly trails her flattened tongue up your dressed pussy. you let out a muffled moan, your back slightly arching.

“yeah… that’ll shut you up.” she says smugly before her finger twirls itself around the side of your panties, pulling it down. you feel the fresh breeze hit your cunt and your eyes momentarily clench shut. this is it. finally.

ellie never stops with the kissing. it’s pretty damn obvious you’ve never done this before so she wants to be initially polite; saving the roughness for later. she kisses your clit, the tip of her tongue swirling around the nub. you groan in pleasure, your teeth sinking hard against your dress. despite her obnoxious behaviour, ellie’s pleasing you like you’re a goddamn queen: head slowly bobbing up and down, lips tugging at your folds.

she’s savouring you as if you’re a precious meal. your hand quickly finds itself in ellie’s hair; gripping it tightly the more ellie goes down on you.

“fuck.” ellie groans. your hand on her hair increases her arousal and it drives her to slightly pick up the pace. you don’t notice, but she’s lightly grinding against the table; letting out a few muffled moans of her own.

she increases the pressure on her tongue — to which you respond to delightfully: arching your back and your moans beginning to crescendo. you twitch and quiver as ellie devours you; going to town on your sensitive cunt. you start to feel overwhelmingly good, causing you to unintentionally squirm away from ellie’s mouth.

“don’t run away…” she coos. as she pulls your thighs back to her, she plunges her middle finger in your cunt. caught off guard, you let out a suppressed cry. ellie smirks as she resumes the movements with her mouth. you feel so good that your hips buckle up: desperate for more. her finger curls up against your g-spot and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

eventually, ellie adds her ring finger too. the erotic noises of ellie finger-fucking you fills the room. ellie grips your thigh with her free hand so that you don’t escape again; pleasuring you relentlessly.

your head is completely blank and you’re pulsating with pleasure. you can’t stop shuddering. ellie can tell by the way your walls are eagerly squeezing around her fingers that you’re getting close, so she leans up and takes the dress out of your mouth; a thick tendril of saliva clinging from your mouth. the sight of it turns her on in unimaginable ways.

“feels good, huh?” she mutters, her fingers banging up against your g-spot repeatedly. you bite your lip, trying not to be too loud but it’s hard. you’re a hot mess; eyes half-lidded, needy whines escaping your lips, jaw slack.

“can’t even speak…? come on, i wanna hear you.” ellie taunts, fucking you harder. you squeal; feeling a knot starting to untie in your stomach.

“feels so good… i love it. sweet jesus…” you babble, almost incoherently.

“jesus? jesus isn’t making you feel this good, i am. say my name.” she demands.

“e-ellie… something’s happening…” you mewl. ellie smirks before planting wet, sloppy kisses on your chest. “good girl… such a pretty fucking girl…” she mumbles, leaning down and sucking on your pussy yet again. she can’t seem to get enough of how you taste. your hand grips the back of her head and you push it closer, her nose rubbing against your vulva.

you swear you’re starting to see stars, your muscles beginning to unclench. you scream ellie’s name; forgetting how loud you’re being.

“let it out. make a mess all over my mouth, my fingers.” ellie sounds like she’s almost pleading, her voice hot and husky, fanning your aching cunt.

and that was your cue. you feel your wind get knocked out as you attempt to cry out, feeling as if you’ve lost your breath. your eyes once again roll to the back of your head as you endure an insanely pleasurable orgasm; trembling as if your life depends on it. ellie keeps going just for a little moment in order to extend your high. tears stream down your face. ellie takes her fingers out, and even that feels good.

“haa… you okay?” she whispers, wiping the tears from your face with her thumb. you don’t even feel real. too weak to speak, you simply nod.

ellie smiles: a warm, tender smile compared to her usual conceited attitude. like a gentleman, she pulls your panties back up and your dress back down. she glances at you — enjoying the spent, hazy look on your face. she’d like to see that more often.

“that’s weird… i thought the guilt would kick in by now.” you mutter, feeling exhausted instead. ellie giggles.

“shit, maybe tomorrow.”

“maybe.”

a/n: omfg i swr i got possessed whilst writing this JFC!!!!! also such a coincidence i’m posting this on sunday… the day of the lord… hhahahaha….

— free gaza from the river to the sea 🇵🇸 please remember to keep talking about it and spreading awareness!!

[minotaurs-my-beloved]

Not the mermaid anon but I was thinking of a nun encountering an angel, who is not as virtuous as the scriptues say, and the angel convincing the nun that she is going to hell unless she has sex with him.

Jesus Wept.

(or the terrible pun of a title i originally used, The Second Cumming)

What a fun idea anon, it also gives me a reason to be dramatic, sacrilegious, make a terrible pun, and dump a little bit of bible lore thats been ingrained in me

TW: Sacrilege and noncon or dubcon (the demon is pretty coercive and lies about being an angel)

He'll whisper sweet lies into your ear to try and get you on board, "You are chosen to be Mary. Through you will the second coming of Christ occur as the scriptures foretold all the way back in Genesis. To crush the head of the serpent, don't you remember?"

You call him out on the fact that Jesus already did that in his first coming and he laughs it off, saying, "Oh Ye of little faith, you all have interpreted this wrong. He has yet to fully crush the head, that is why demons and sin still exist. Hence him needing to return a second time, to fully end it."

When you ask why God would make you commit an egregious sin such as sex and not perform a miracle like he did with the virgin Mary, he angrily strikes you down. "God would not want that? You would dare question God's plan? As a mere mortal who cannot even wrap your head around his sheer existence, you defy him? Such hubris, do you want to suffer eternal damnation?"

You quickly try to redeem yourself, the threat of hell absolutely terrifying you and simply say that you do not understand. He just tells you that you do not need to, it is not your place. You try to rationalize all of this, knowing your God would never wish to harm you, this must be the way. I mean, he's an angel, is it really even considered fornication?

So, you agree.

He quickly strips you, his eyes don't look like they used to, now predatory, losing some of the light they used to hold. You just stand there, unsure of what you're meant to do. You're a virgin of course, you had never even kissed someone, and never thought about sex lest you fall into lust. He realizes this and starts telling you what he wants. Ordering for you to get on your hands and knees before him.

He goes behind you and you feel something sliding up and down your pussy, you whimper in fear, not knowing how this will feel, but you push all that to the side because you want to serve your God. He is surprisingly gentle in the beginning, slowly pushing his cock into your cunt, asking if you're okay. But the second he's fully inside, all of that disappears as he drives his cock in deep over and over. He grabs you by the hair, making you look up, "Look at the crucifix, you're worshiping your savior as I speak. Recite the holy prayer for me, c'mon."

He sounds completely different, from a booming, holy voice he now sounds raspy and strange. You try to look back at him, but his grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to look ahead. You begin saying the prayer as he commanded you, but it's so hard to think when he's fucking you like this. With each stutter he slaps your ass and you whine, trying your best to remember the entire thing. It gets exponentially harder to do so when something starts pushing against the rim of your asshole.

Before you have time to ask what he's doing, he rams his cock fully inside your tight hole, making you scream. He's now fucking you with two cocks. Why does he have two cocks? (for the second cumming, ikik im so funny) You have completely given up the prayer at this point, and he seems to have too, instead focusing on fucking you.

"I'm going to cum. I'm going to fill and ruin your holes and you're going to fucking take it. Thank your God. Thank him for my cum."

[see-arcane]

I am almost fine with people saying he has one brain cell, because I have seen dozens of people make the worse claim that he is "an arrogant, smug, proud of his rationality Victorian who laughs at the locals for their superstitions."

It is such a prevalent assesment that it's now considered a core character trait of his. When today's entry indicates nothing of the sort.

UH OH, YOU’VE ACTIVATED MY TANGENT CARD

(Text Brick Incoming)

Jonathan’s fundamental flaw at this stage does involve looking down on or viewing the locals and their traditions as quaint/idolatrous/ridiculous et al. He uses poor terminology too, owing to the Doylist reason of his author’s knowledge and biases, while the Watsonian reason is easy enough to read as Jonathan 1) Having to rely solely on biased/incomplete knowledge from his homeland’s writings on the place and 2) What I think is him trying to overcompensate as a trained reflex

I’ve always pictured Jonathan and Mina as having not only a lower social and monetary standing, but possibly a hindrance of race. (Case in point, I suspect a certain unique prop Jonathan brandishes later on is something he inherited, not something picked up by happenstance.)

That said—they are poor, they are not the idealized picture of the fair English Citizen…but they are both polite, charming, hardworking, and masters of ~making friends~ as a defense mechanism. And I’d bet money that included relying on what few positive nods their peers allowed.

“You’re so nice! So industrious! Your physiognomy really counters your origins! And you are wise enough to look down on those silly foreigners, aren’t you? Of course you are! You’re one of the good ones.”

Now, regardless of what headcanon is landed on as far as race/ethnicity/other backgrounds go, those last points are key. Because they go towards Being a Good Englishman/woman. Being wiser than to buy into fretting non-English superstitions. Knowing to ogle the people of other lands like curiosities in a zoo. Judging people by their face or the shape of their skull. This is the Norm. This is Good of the Victorian Englishman Abroad.

And we see Jonathan hold to all these stereotypes…to a degree. But we see within these same early entries that his instincts and general good nature chafe against that social training. He’s too much himself to do entirely as a Proper Englishman should.

He went out of his way to study all the limited info he had access to, incomplete or half-informed as it was. He delighted in learning everything he could of the places and people as he traveled, wanting to embrace and be educated on the land. And even when a lifetime of advising against it, of insistence upon derision, tried to take over when the crucifix was offered? He still accepted it. He still wears it even when the old woman departs, whether or not he believes in its importance.

And, vitally, his instincts are very Very awake to the fact that Something is Off. A Proper Englishman (and many an oblivious or stubborn dad in a ghostly horror movie) would shrug this unease off at once. But Jonathan doesn’t. He remains on Dracula’s route only because he has no other choice. All he does is mention quietly that he hopes Mina gets his diary if he happens to die on this journey.

Imagine that. Bracing for and acknowledging the sense that You Might Die on This Little Business Trip and just…having to go along with it. Because what will you tell your boss otherwise? What will you tell your fiancée?

These aren’t the concerns of a well-off stuffy snob of a man. It’s the resignation of someone who understands they live on the lowest rung of the ladder and that they will risk losing what little progress they’ve made if they dare to turn back.

As for sneering at the locals’ superstitions, period, consider: How likely would anyone really be to suddenly believe in monsters after coming out of the background Jonathan has? What could possibly have convinced him of the reality of the situation OTHER THAN SEEING IT IN PERSON? (Note, a key plot point for certain other characters later!)

The point of his being unable to take the supernatural aspect at face value is that, well, Why Would Anyone Immediately Jump to a Supernatural Conclusion in His Place?

What possible context does he have here!? Maybe he should have read Dracula first, ha ha—

Oh wait. He can’t do that. Why?

Because this man has never read Dracula BECAUSE HE IS LIVING AND WRITING THE BOOK DRACULA!!

Anyway.

tl;dr: I am very tired of both the Stuffy Victorian Snobprick and Oblivious Idiotbaby takes on my good friend Jonathan Harker

[sugarmeowe]

simon riley x fem! reader

nsft, mdni! ✰ fem! anatomy, religion (reader is alluded to be religious; wears a cross necklace), corruption, dom! simon, (slightly) mean simon, but the man loves you & he never means what he yaps about at the end of the day so it’s okay!

click here for part two!!

“oh my god— oh- oh my god!”

it’s the only phrase on your mind, the only thing you have the brain capacity to scream out as you continuously register it, the feeling of that thick fucking cock impossibly deep in your tummy, gracelessly forcing itself in and out as you lie there underneath your boyfriend and continue to helplessly take it.

the only thing that registers in your ears- alongside the increasingly loud ringing from everything becoming so overwhelming, too overwhelming- is the repeated and obscenely lewd *plap! plap! plap!* sound of him fucking into you senselessly, mixed with your own whimpers and moans as well as his very rare but occasional groans.

you can’t think. the only thing you can keep doing is cry out to your god, any god up there pitifully looking down at you as simon continues his loving onslaught on you, refusing to relent for even a second.

“mmmm god- god si-m-mon!” you can barely even cry out his name, hiccuping on the two syllables as your eyes roll back into your head again, just when you thought you’d managed to stabilise your vision.

you don’t even realise that one of simon’s large, sweaty palms has landed on that oh-so-sacred crucifix necklace you still wore around your neck, cross sitting faithfully right above your sweaty breasts, as his fingers squeeze unthinkably hard around the damn thing— almost like he’s trying to squeeze all of the holiness, all of the divinity and virtue out of it. out of you.

almost like you didn’t deserve to wear such a righteous thing— not while doing something so sinful, with an absolute devil of a man; one you shouldn’t have even given the time of day to in the first place.

you blindly cry out to your god all over again for the millionth time when simon hits right into that golden little spot of yours inside, the one that has you gushing all over him and seeing stars, and he just snickers at the sound, darkly; amusedly.

“god— oh my g-god- si—“ the mention of the big man upstairs all over again for the nth time is what causes him to lose his fucking mind with you, your attempt to cry out simon’s name immediately cut off by him when he pulls your delicate little cross chain away from your sternum and shoves it straight into your parted lips, forcing you to suck on the dainty thing before he pushes his large palm right over your mouth. your eyes widen and your body trembles as he muffles you, especially when you’re met with the sight of how smug and triumphant he looks in response, all while continuing to fuck you senselessy.

“not god, dove. don’t you fucking dare.” he growls, punctuating his second last word with an especially deep thrust that has your thighs trembling and your eyes rolling so much further back into your skull, so sinfully.

“he’s not gonna save you now, mm?”

a/n- I ALREADY HAVE A PART TWO WRITTEN I HAD TO CUT THIS IN HALF and part two is so much more filth but idk if i should post it or leave this as it is, please lmk if you do want a pt2 because if enough people ask i’ll definitely be unleashing it out into the world!

© sugarmeowe 2024. please do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own, or share to any third party sites!!

[blankwashed]

This is Part 2. Part 1 here 😘

(on my page, we do not throw hatred towards Mahito. He’s a character, he did his job, if you wanna throw hatred at him, hate on Gege, not him.) (or me)

Sukuna Ryomen (sadomasochism, power play, vocal commands/dirty talk)

oh my me, Sukuna. i honestly feel he has more than 3 😩so firstly, he definitely would receive pleasure from inflicting pain on his partner. when you're holding back your cries and scream, he'll be jacking off with a smug look on his face WHILE trying to cause you more pain. There's never enough. He wants his partner to be at his mercy and to worship him.

He IS the king of curses and he thrives on dominance and control. Sukuna loves to enjoy scenarios where he can exert his authority and command over you. And in return, you receive a spank on your ass 😉

Another dirty talker. Sukuna can make you orgasm with his words. Have you heard his voice? *shivers* He would use explicit dirty talk to remind his partner who is in charge. He's the type of person who would edge you.........hours on end. You would never even dare to do it to him, valuing your life. “what a little slut of mine…already so wet. you don’t get to cum yet.”

Shiu Kong (sensory deprivation, mind games, public degradation and humiliation)

Shiu loooooves using blindfolds, gags, masks/hoods to minimise your visual and hearing input. The Korean man loves how as he deprives each of your senses, it would amplify the remaining ones.

As a man with a strategic mind and his desire for control, Shiu loves it when he could fuck your mind. His favourite would be teasing and denial where he builds up your anticipation and expectation without allowing immediate or no gratification. Your pleasure derives from his mood.

A thrilling and risky kink would be him carefully selecting the place/places for your degradation and humiliation. Shiu loves it when your cheeks flush in embarrassment in public. Heard about the power bullet vibrator? It can be controlled by a single person, the person being Shiu. He wants you to beg for him to touch you to cum and also permission to cum. All in public, baby,.

Naoya Zenin (verbal belittlment and humiliation, orgasm control, bondage and restraint)

Now, this is tricky, because to the naked eye it can be seen as him trying to oppress you. But Naoya lives on power dynamics. He gets turned on the most when he sees you being derived from his touch and humiliation. If Naoya could, he would have you on a leash in public, reminding you who’s in charge. He would be smirking and enjoying the whispers and shocked looks from onlookers. He owns you, doesn’t he?

There are lots of perverse thrills that this man longs to do to you but the one suited for Naoya would be the delicate art of orgasm control. His thick broad palms and fingers that are long and muscular would bring you to the brink of ecstasy only to deny you the release you longed for. For a couple times. Scratch that, umpteenth times. You get so tired after spending the night with him you usually call in sick to work/university the next day.

Last but not least for Naoya, he found satisfaction in the sight of you bound and restrained. He would get you to bind yourself, starting with your tummy, ankles and he would assist you with your hands. All tied to a wooden crucifix. Naoya loooves seeing you vulnerable and your helplessness which only heightens his arousal. Circling around you with a paddle in hand, ready to strike at any minute, you only knew that you belonged to him.

Aoi Todo (care giver/little dynamics. edging, oral fixation)

Todo's character is typically portrayed as a confident, loving brother (besto friendo) so he loooves showing you his protectiveness despite his dominant stature. Todo would create a different relationship dynamic with you where he asserts dominance but still nurtures you with care and support.

We can't forget about his strong and athletic build. He would use his physical strength to enhance the intensity of his edging session with you. Along with that, he would use his strong commanding voice to heighten the anticipation and intensity.

He LOVES your mouth, sometimes too much. Starring at you when you lick your lips, when you're plucking the dead skin from your lips. He knows you yearn to cram his cock in your mouth everyday, filling it up with his cum in the end 😉.

Mahito (control of other's body, masochism, degradation)

He's lucky to be able to control and manipulate bodies of others. Mahito would use his cursed technique to immobilize his partner in sexual positions. Because of his ability to manipulate their movements, he would be able to enhance his or his partner's pleasure. I also don't feel he is loyal to one partner so sometimes maybe orgies?

Mahito is sadistic. Periodt. He would manipulate and control his partner. If you're his ideal partner, you would be alright with him bringing you to the edge of your orgasm repeatedly, only for him to deny your release at the last moment. He also won't bother if you cry, he's a cursed spirit. He likes causing you pain.

Similar to Naoya, he has a sadistic nature that never goes away. It turns him the fuck on when he humiliates you as he knows all your insecurities and vulnerabilities. He would say sentences like, "Shut your dirty whore mouth," when you try to say anything or "Did you forget? It's because your hole is tight, I have no emotions towards you"

[helenanell]

✟ GNASHING OF TEETH ✟

Matt Murdock x FemOC

Warnings: ANGST - Mention of suicide and murder - Religious trauma.

Notes: Childhood friends / sweethearts to strangers

This started as a oneshot idea because I wanted to explore the darker, religious themes of season 3 and it’s grown into a story that spans the entirety of the season…oops.

(My Faceclaim is Melissa Barrera - specifically as Sam Carpenter)

WC: 6.5K

⋆✟⋆

Part I – Self-Flagellation

(Season 3 – Ep 1)

⋆✟⋆

In all the memories Adriana had of her mother, Gloria Crane was always wearing her crucifix.

The outline of it, visible beneath the white nightgown she’d wear when tucking her into bed. The way it would glint in the light of the sun when they walked through the park. It was always present even if it wasn’t visible.

Omnipresent.

All those remembrances were faded to her now; washed out by the harsh years after her mother’s death that had stripped anything good away.

And yet, despite time’s unrelenting forward march, there was one memory of the golden crucifix that remained brutally vivid: it’s usually immaculate surface splattered with blood.

The symbol of the cross that had always represented Jesus’ sacrifice, became instead the reminder that her mother was the sacrifice her father had made to live selfishly.

Adriana had come to be as grateful of the necklace as she was resentful of it. If she had not had it to look upon after the shooting, she might have been forever haunted by the sight of her mother’s open, unseeing eyes instead.

Once they had no longer needed it as evidence, the police had returned the necklace to Adriana’s father and he in turn had given it to her. She could still feel the way his hands had trembled as he’d placed it around her neck, insisting through sobs that she had to wear it for her mother. One of his nails had nicked the back of her neck.

You have to wear it, Ana. Wear it and never take it off. For her.

As the cross had come to rest upon her neck, Adriana had barely swallowed down her scream. Even though it had been cleaned and polished until it gleamed, she had still been able to see the blood. Twenty years later, she saw it still.

Once Adriana had grown up, she had come to the understand why: Christ had been nailed to his cross, nails driven into his flesh, red running in rivulets down his palms; God didn’t mind if things got bloody. In fact, it seemed to Adriana that he preferred it.

The sort of devotion God demanded was an exsanguination. His salvation only came if you bled yourself dry. And even then, he could choose to withhold it.

The nuns had never liked it when Adriana would talk like that. The admonishment of ‘wicked child!’ would still ring in her head when her thoughts became blasphemous.

Not that Adriana had ever cared what the sisters had thought of her, those faithful women who she knew believed that her father had condemned himself to hell when he’d killed himself. They’d never said it to her face, of course, but they’d also never comforted or reassured over it either. Except Sister Maggie. She’d been different.

But even back then, Adriana had known a truth she had no desire to share with the nuns: it would have made no difference if her father had taken his own life or not, because his soul had been damned long before he’d put that gun to his head.

Elliot ‘Eli’ Crane had sold his soul, not to the devil, but a man worse than any biblical evil the children of St Agnes had been taught about.

It had never been the devil Adriana had feared. The devil punished the people that deserved it; he was a necessary evil. She had never been sure he could be considered evil at all.

Humans had made the world hell, and perhaps inadvertently they had made the devil too. He was their consequence.

Those were thoughts that she had never dared voice to the nuns, not even to Sister Maggie.

It wasn’t that Adriana had ever stopped believing in God, she had just found increasingly less deserving of worship.

And yet, even though it had been over a decade since she had left St Agnes, she repeatedly wound up back in the church that she had refused to pray in as a child.

Adriana did not return to seek comfort. As it always was, it had instead been spite that had her dragging herself bruised and beaten into Clinton Church that morning. She had wanted to bloody up God’s house that little bit more. And, as it always did, her mother’s crucifix burned into her flesh where it sat tucked beneath her shirt.

Ignore the sting. Adriana told herself.

Let it all be bloody.

As the weeping of a woman a few rows behind Adriana intensified, she leant forward and rested her head on the back of the pew in front. The carved wood dug into her skin, but instead of wincing at the discomfort, Adriana found herself pressing down a little bit harder.

Perhaps inflicting pain on herself would give her the power over the agony brought about by her fractured ribs.

Her attacker hadn’t kicked her all that hard, but the bastard had been wearing steel-capped boots. Too bad for him his shirt hadn’t been similarly well armoured. Adriana’s knife had sunk into his gut as easily as cutting into air. In her dazed state she had only become certain she had succeeded in stabbing him when she had pulled the blade back and found blood upon it.

Let it all be bloody.

Adriana had known the job was a risky one, but they seemed to be the only kind she took anymore. And she was good at it. Despite the beating, she had retrieved her client’s money in half the time that he had given her.

Her skin had just begun to sting where the wood was digging in when Adriana noted the scuffing of approaching footsteps. With exhaustion a leaden weight inside her skull, it took great effort for her to lift her head, but she forced herself.

“Took you long enough.” Adriana grumbled as she sat up with a wince. “I’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“You’ve been sitting there for five minutes.” Father Lantom corrected wryly. The priest sat himself down next to Adriana and she laughed weakly at the small grunt he let out.

“You’re getting old.” She’d practically heard his limbs protesting at the movement, as if he had hinges that had gone to rust.

“I’ve been getting old for a while now; you just haven’t been around enough to notice.”

There was no judgement in the priest’s voice and yet the words cut her all the same. Adriana told herself to turn her head and look at him, to apologise for disappearing yet again. For letting him worry. But she didn’t do that.

At that moment she was beholden to the sight before her: the sun had shifted in the sky and the new angle had sunbeams travelling through crimson panes of stained-glass. The Pulpit, the first rows of pews and the people praying upon them, were all bathed in the red light.

Adriana would have remained transfixed until the red was washed away by a purer light, but Father Lantom had other ideas. The priest cleared his throat and began to speak.

“You know, to this day we’ve never had a child run away as much as you did. But now that you’re all grown up, we can’t seem to keep you out.” A sadness had snuck out upon his words and Adriana rushed to dispel it.

“Yeah, well that’s not exactly a compliment, Father. The wind could pick the locks you have on these doors.”

As she suspected, Father Lantom was not willing to abide her evasiveness. He never was. “It’s been over a year, Adriana.” He pointed out, sterner now.

Adriana forced herself turn her head and properly look at him. The sight of the priest struck a blow she was neither prepared for, nor had the strength to deflect in her injured state. He really did look older. Not just older- old.

Only when Adriana made eye contact with him, did he finish his thought:

“I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”

You and me both. Her insipid inner voice hissed.

“Well, as you can see-“Adriana gestured at her bedraggled form. “I’m still alive and kicking.”

“That’s debatable.” Father Lantom said, poking the ribs she had just been cradling. Ana hissed in pain, swatting his hand away with a scowl. “From the looks of you, kicking is off the table.”

“I didn’t come here for you to scold me.” Adriana said, her pain compounded by his worry.

Why was he concerned? She’d never asked him to be. Never expected it. She’d certainly caused him enough problems growing up that she’d been certain he’d be happy to see the back of her. The woman she had become was far from godly.

Father Lantom’s frown vanished, and he laid a hand atop hers. “You come here because for you, it’s a form of self-flagellation. So, what did you do this time, Adriana?”

The white of the priest’s collar seemed all at once blinding and Adriana had to turn her eyes away, blinking rapidly.

“I’ve never let you take my confession, Father. I’m not about to start now.”

“Oh, I’ve never expected that day to come. Even at ten I knew you were too stubborn to ever ask God for his forgiveness.”

“Maybe it’s not his to give.” Instead of sounding angry, Adriana’s voice came out weak and pitiful. She never should have come. She’d been doing so well at staying away.

Cut all ties. That had been the only thought she’d run from St Agnes with, and yet those ties seemed to be made of something she did not have the strength to cut. Adriana had remained bound to this place no matter how hard she’d tried.

“Maybe you feel that way because you still haven’t forgiven God, for taking your mother from you. A woman who was so devoted to him.”

A golden cross covered in blood.

Ana shut her eyes and ran her hands over her face, hoping the priest had depleted his hard truths. He hadn’t.

“There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.” Father Lantom said as he stood, beckoned by an elderly woman two rows ahead. “Some might call it divine intervention, that you’ve both found your way home.”

The priest did not stop, and Adriana was left to gape at his back as he wandered down the aisle. Her heart beat angry against her ruined ribs.

‘There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.’

Adriana frantically turned the words over in her mind, as if there was some great mystery to them, some trick or hidden meaning. But she knew there wasn’t.

There was—and had only ever been—one person she’d ever think to seek forgiveness from, but Adriana had promised herself a long time ago that she would never seek him out. It would be selfish, and she was utterly undeserving of him.

Let it all be bloody.

But that had never applied to him. She had wanted him far away from her; the only way she knew she couldn’t inflict harm.

It’s why, at the age of eighteen, she had run from Matthew Murdock and never looked back.

⋆✟⋆

There was still a dent in the wall. A witness mark of the first fight she’d ever had, aged thirteen. Adriana had been aiming for Billy Murphy’s head when she’d thrown the baseball, but he’d ducked at the last second and the wall had taken the brunt of her anger. She had always known people would find out who her father had been eventually, but she hadn’t prepared herself for a rat-faced idiot to scrawl that truth all over her schoolbooks:

Adriana Crane Killer!

He had done it to every single one. She imagined he thought that was a nice touch: making the word blood-red. But it was the exclamation mark that had felt especially spiteful to her. She could have sworn the groove was deeper, as if he was so pleased with himself, he’d pressed down harder with the pen.

When Adriana had confronted him about it, his tiny eyes had shone with glee, his thin lips pulling back in a mocking smile.

‘I fixed them.’ He’d declared, looking around the room, his eyes taking on an anticipatory gleam as he’d met the eyes of the other watching on. It was as if he was about to let them in on some brilliant joke. ‘Your dad did kill people, right? He was hitma-‘

Billy didn’t get to finish his sentence before Adriana had hit him square in the face. His shock had quickly turned to embarrassment and then fury, leading to a lot of shoving and scratching surrounded by cheers and shouts for Sister Maggie.

Adriana couldn’t remember how she’d gotten her hands on the baseball—although there was a likely culprit for who would have handed it to her—all she knew was that she’d been aiming for a face, and it had imbedded in drywall instead.

Adriana stepped closer to the wall and ran her fingers over the dent. After the initial patch-up job by Father Lantom, the wall’s wound had been forgotten and had remained even when Adriana had left. In the intervening years, some attempt had been made to properly fill the hole, but it had been a poor one. The damage she had caused remained.

Adriana had spent the last decade scratching and clawing at the world around her, doing anything she could in attempt to feel real and yet there had been evidence of her anger right here all that time.

Something about that made her smile.

The door creaked open. Assuming that the very chatty nun she’d let slip had tracked her down, Adriana didn’t turn around. Instead, she opted to try and memorise the sight of the dent for a little longer. She managed it for only a few seconds before she heard the tell-tale shuffling of tiny feet. Then there were poorly whispered words, urging each other to enter the room first.

Adriana turned and laid her eyes upon the source of the noise. Two girls were peaking their heads through the open door of the classroom, their eyes curious and unblinking. Neither could be older than six.

“Hello.” Adriana said gently, offering them a wave. Her smile widened when the smallest of the two waved back before quickly ducking away with her chubby cheeks flushing pink.

The second girl stepped into the classroom with a defiant expression. She was strikingly wiry for her age, with golden hair in braids so messy that they may as well not have been braids anymore.

“Who are you?” She asked suspiciously.

Adriana immediately warmed to her. All girls should be encouraged to be suspicious, Adriana felt. Distrust kept you safe.

“I’m Adriana.” She offered as she moved to stand before her. “I grew up here.”

“Why were you staring at the wall?”

Adriana glanced back at the dent and shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

This answer induced a perplexed expression so cartoonish that Adriana struggled not to laugh. The girl looked at the wall and then back up at her. Her bright blue eyes narrowed.

“You came back to stare at the wall?”

“No.” Adriana laughed good-naturedly. “But I think maybe you could help me?”

“Help with what?” The smaller girl reappeared in the doorway, looking a little braver.

Adriana knelt in front of the pair. Only a few hours had passed since her conversation with Father Lantom and her body protested the movement, a sharp pain digging into her side.

“What are your names?” She asked, pushing the pain out of her voice.

To her surprise, the shy girl answered first, all but blurting it out: “I’m Mia!”

Adriana nodded, her smile returning. She turned her eye to the second half of the pair, who seemed a little less hostile. “And you?”

“Sarah.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Could you tell me if there’s been any other strangers here recently? Maybe a man with-“

Adriana was cut off by Mia’s dramatic gasp. But it was Sarah, who divested her caution in an instant to speak first.

“He was really hurt. Sister Maggie wouldn’t let us see him.”

A searing sort of concern Adriana hadn’t felt in a long time rose within her and she had to force herself to take a breath.

But none of it made any sense.

Why would Matt come back here? Why is he hurt?

Matt had been on the path to better things. His life was going to be good. Better than all the pain that had come before; better than her. And Adriana knew that it had been- that it was. She had checked in on him as much as she dared in the initial years after she’d left. He had got into Columbia. He had gone to Harvard Law.

Take a breath. Adriana admonished herself. Don’t freak out little kids.

Adriana adjusted her tone to gentle curiosity. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“No.” Sarah said as Mia shook her head. “But it was bad. Sister Maggie’s been helping him.” The searing intensified and then Adriana’s insides were burning. Helping. Not helped. Adriana latched onto the present-tense with a desperation that would have sickened her had had it been for anyone other than Matt.

“Is he still here?”

At that question, the girl’s eyes shot to each other, both equally unsure now. Mia turned around, looking out of the open door. When she looked back, she was chewing on her lip.

Knowing she had to tread carefully, but with confusion and fear now warring within her, Adriana leant closer.

“How about you whisper it?”

“God can hear us even when we whisper.” Sarah said with all the confidence a six-year-old could muster.

“Nope.” Adriana shook her head. “He can’t.”

“He can!”

“Maybe he used to be able to, but God is really old and old people have terrible hearing. Like Father Lantom.” Adriana winked at Mia and the giggle it triggered soothed some of Adriana’s stress, if only for the moment.

Then, Mia leaned in, cupped her hand around Adriana’s ear and whispered: “They told us he left, but he’s in the church basement.”

The basement. Matt had been right below her feet when she’d been talking to Father Lantom. Which meant…he could have heard every word. Adriana’s gut twisted violently.

Leave. He doesn’t need you. He never did.

Adriana shook the thoughts away. She stood up so quickly that it caused both girls to stumble backwards. But she was blind to it. Blind to them and their faces that were pinched with worry over talking to her, fearful of getting in trouble.

Adriana at least had enough wherewithal to smile as she stepped around them, but her ‘thank you’ was so rushed it was rendered unintelligible.

The basement had always been off-limits to the children of the orphanage, the hallway that led to the steps that descended into the earth barred by a metal door that was always kept locked. It was a tradition passed down in St Agnes for the older children to convince the youngest that there was a Hellhound down there.

And yet, as Adriana made her way out of the orphanage and back to the church in a daze, part of her felt as if she was about to enter the belly of some great beast.

When she pulled on the metal door and it opened, scraping against the stone tiles that lined the ground, dread took hold of her throat and squeezed. A large part of her had hoped it would be locked; that the girls had sent her on harmless wild-goose chase and Matt was long gone. If he’d ever been here at all.

But they hadn’t. And the door opened.

Adriana’s footsteps echoed down the cavernous hallway, an unwelcome accompaniment to her rapid heartbeat. The top of the staircase came into view, illuminated by the light streaming down from the window opposite. The top step was limned with a light that almost seemed to pulsate. It felt like an invitation. Descend deeper. It urged. Down in the earth something good awaits you. Someone good.

Adriana took another step. Her shadow encroached upon the light. She waited. Held her breath. But her darkness did not spread.

Then, she heard it. The scuffing of quick feet on stone. Grunts of exertion and the thumps of cushioned blows. Adriana’s brow drew in confusion as she made her way down the steps.

Halfway down, Father Lantom came into view, watching two men box. Although his back was to her, Adriana identified Matt in ana instant. When he jumped back to avoid a punch, she got a glimpse of the side of his face. He’d changed so much in twelve years, but she wasn’t convinced she’d need sight to recognise him. He’d certainly know her from much less.

And yet, the image of Adriana had cultivated of him in her mind, of the successful, happy and—most important of all—the safe lawyer, was torn through like tissue paper by what she saw.

Matt’s torso covered in scars that could only have come from the sharpest of blades, wielded with the intent to inflict devastating damage. There were recent injuries too: muscled flesh mottled by bruises, a slash just above his hipbone held together by butterfly stiches.

Adriana’s synapses fired to draw a conclusion that she had long resisted, despite her suspicions. Even though there had always been something so startlingly familiar about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen- a recognition of the figure who’d garbed himself in shadow, his eyes covered by that black mask; something that would have hindered any normal man. But not him. He was unseeing and yet moved through the world as if he’d made it.

Adriana had known, but long-lied to herself. It was why she had taken increasingly less jobs within Hell’s Kitchen, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge why. Not even to herself.

The men danced around each other, landing blow after blow.

Adriana took another step down. And then another. Only then did she realise sister Maggie was there too, watching on in concern.

Then, right as her foot hit the bottom step, Matt’s opponent landed a blow that sent him to the ground. Adriana felt the impact her chest. It rattled her ruined ribs.

As Matt tried and failed to lift his head, Father Lantom rushed forward and leant over him, the lines of his face deepening with concern.

“Matthew.” The priest called out. “Matthew!”

Adriana’s breath faltered, her mind stuttering like a failing engine. She looked down at the man on the floor, his face covered in blood and his torso a tapestry of pain, each scar a thread. Light rushed in through the stained-glass windows that bore saints with open hands. The coloured beams danced upon the concrete around Matt’s fallen form. Also staring down at him, were multiple angel statues.

Adriana shook her head, refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing. They couldn’t have ended up in the same place; broken and bruised in the basement of the Church that had raised them. Matt was meant to go on and do great things. He was meant to better than her. It’s why she’d left him and never looked back, lest she be the weight chained to him the dragged him into the darkness her father had lived in and from which she’d been born. She had always known that she was destined to return to it; you couldn’t run from what you were.

And yet, as Matt remained unmoving Adriana took the final step down and found herself adding her voice to Father Lantom’s. Adriana whispered his name, but unlike God, she knew that he’d hear her. Matt had always heard her.

“Matt.”

His head rolled to the side right in the direction of where she stood at the bottom of the steps. His bloodied lips uttered her name in answer.

“Ana?”

Matt’s eyes were already drooping closed, but even as he lost consciousness, he lifted a shaking hand off the floor and reached out for her.

⋆✟⋆

20 Years Ago…

Adriana had been told that it would get easier, but she had been at St Agnes for two weeks and she felt worse with each passing day. She’d wake, and the first thought would be of home and then her eyes would open to the reality that she didn’t have one anymore. Her father had left her alone.

‘I leave you in the hands of God.’

That’s what the letter he’d left her said.

Well, if that was true then God’s grip on her was far from kind; it was crushing.

Adriana hated St Agnes. She hated all of the nuns, and their pitying looks and pious words. The other kids had tried to speak to her, but she’d turned away from all of them. She was alone, and that wasn’t going to change, no matter how many fellow orphans swarmed around her.

More shouts of excitement wriggled into the room through the gap in the window. Recess had just begun, but Adriana had remained in the classroom, staring up at the chalk scrawl left behind from Sister Dora’s math lesson.

One of the nun’s would come and find her soon, but to slow down the process she had moved to the back of the room and was sitting against the back wall, the floorboards beneath her creaking when she made the smallest of movements.

Adriana drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She wanted to curl into herself so tightly that no one would be able to pry her apart. Not even God.

At the sound of the door clicking open, Adriana pressed her face further into her knees and screwed her eyes shut as tight as she could. She willed whoever it was to go away and could not find it in herself to lift her head and say the words.

But it wasn’t a nun’s voice she heard. It wasn’t a voice at all. There was a sort of tapping against the floorboards that grew closer and closer. Still, Adriana did not look up.

“Are you alright?”

That was certainly not a nun. Despite her determination to stay in the dark, Adriana opened her eyes and raised them to see the boy standing in front of her. The tapping sound made sense once her eyes alighted on the cane he held. She knew who he was. Matthew. He seemed to prefer to be left alone as much as she did and in the week since she’d been at St Agnes, he was the only kid who hadn’t tried to speak to her. Perhaps that’s why she found herself answering his question.

“No.” Her throat was dry and voice weak from lack of use and the word came out as a whisper. Adriana worried for a second that he might not have heard her, but he soon offered up a reply.

“Can I sit with you?”

Adriana waited for the monster had taken up residence inside her to lash out and shout at him to leave her alone, but it didn’t. There was only silence. She took a moment to watch Matthew. He was standing patiently, a kind almost-smile on his face. His eyes were hidden but rectangular tinted glasses and his brown hair fell over his forehead.

Adriana shrugged and then felt immediately embarrassed for doing so. He couldn’t see. With her cheeks flaming, Adriana finally answered him.

“If you want to.” She said.

Slowly by assuredly, Matthew closed the distance between them. He stopped and folded up his cane before using his hand to find the wall and guide himself down to sit beside her.

“I’m Matt.”

Matt. Not Matthew. She told herself not to forget that and then was immediately confused as to why she cared. He wasn’t her friend. And if she had anything to do with it, he was never going to be.

And yet, she offered her name up in return. “Adriana.” Then, almost against her own will she added. “My mom called me Ana.”

She felt Matt angle his face in her direction, so she snapped her eyes forward and went back to staring at the equations on the chalkboard.

“Do you want me to call you Ana?” He asked.

Something about the softness with which she’d asked made her want to cry. To her horror, she found her eyes prickling with tears.

Somehow, Matt seemed to know and rushed to apologise. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t if it upsets you.”

Adriana blinked the tears away. “No.” She blurted out, surprising even herself. “You can.”

“Okay.”

A few seconds passed and the silence that descended didn’t feel suffocating. In fact, Adriana found that the crushing grip that had held her since her father died, had eased up just a bit. Breathing became a little easier.

“Does everyone know why I’m here?” Adriana didn’t know why she’d asked; she knew that they did. Not because the nuns had loose-lips, but because it had been all over the news:

Mob Hitman Shoots himself on Anniversary of Wife’s Murder

“Yeah, they all know.” Matt said, not unkindly.

Adriana waited for the unconvincing ‘sorry for your loss’ that people usually offered up by that point, but it didn’t come. Matt just sat beside her, unspeaking and somehow his silence felt kinder than any of the words she’d been offered since her arrival.

Adriana had swallowed down so much condolence laced with contempt at her father’s funeral that she’d felt ill. And all of them had given by people who she knew had held no love for her father. No doubt they thought that Elliot Crane’s suicide was the first good thing he’d ever done in his life. Adriana had actually heard a woman mutter something to that effect, not realising that she had been passing right behind her.

He had been there too. And while his condolences had been the most convincing, something about them had made Adriana’s skin crawl.

The hardest part of all, was that Adriana felt like grieving her father was a betrayal of her mother. She was only nine when she’d been shot in front of her, and even then, she’d known it was because of what her father did-Who he worked—and had spent the past year hating him for it. And then he’d died too and she’d she could feel both love and hate at the same time. Or maybe she’d never hated him. She still wasn’t sure.

All Adriana could truly recall happening in the year since her mother had been murdered, was her father getting sadder. When he got drunk—which near the end had been a daily occurrence—he would cry and tell Adriana that her mother had left her behind to haunt him.

‘You’re haunting me. Haunting me for her.’

Adriana had no longer been his daughter, but an apparition. She could still feel the way his nails would dig into her cheeks when he grabbed her face. His alcoholic breath would burn her skin and cause her already tear-filled eyed to sting. She had always wanted to scream, tell him that he was hurting her and that you couldn’t hurt ghosts. But she never did. She had just stayed quiet and led his grief rip into her.

Adriana knew that he had loved her. At least, he had loved her in the way he was capable of, but he had seen her as his punishment and that was something he’d always been good at running from.

And yet, she missed him.

As upsetting as it had been, the pain that had come when he had gripped her face, had been the only way she had known for sure that she was real. It was a cruelty that made her corporeal. So, now that her father was dead and his grip had disappeared, Adriana was terrified that she would disappear too.

She wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t already.

Adriana was snapped out of her thoughts by the feel of Matt’s hand brushing hers. Only then, did she realise that she had tears rolling down her cheeks. Adriana’s sight turned watery, and the chalk equations blurred into an indiscernible smear of white.

Without a word, Matt closed the rest of the distance and took Adriana’s hand in his. When he squeezed tighter, Adriana knew she had not disappeared.

⋆✟⋆

An angel loomed over Adriana’s shoulder. It was set beside the pillar she was leaning against, completely silent in its stone casting and yet loud in her ear.

Father Lantom had gone to show the consternated boxer out, leaving only Sister Maggie, Adriana and an unconscious Matt in the basement.

He was laid out on a small bed pushed up against the far wall. Adriana had placed herself as far away as she could, whilst still being able to talk to the nun who was perched on the edge of the bed.

Half the room separated them and yet Adriana had attuned herself to the sound of his breathing as she watched his chest rise and fall.

“Why is he here?” Adriana asked quietly. “What happened?”

Sister Maggie’s eyes did not move from Matt’s face. They held a tenderness Adriana hadn’t thought the woman possessed. “Those answers are not mine to give.”

Adriana swallowed down the worst of her frustration, her hands scrunched into fists. Her nails dug into her palms. Not deep enough.

When Adriana spoke again, she did so to the ground. “He’s Daredevil.”

Sister Maggie remained silent and when Adriana looked up, she’d gone utterly still. Still, but not with fear. There’s was fierce protectiveness in the gaze that was now directed squarely on her. Adriana struggled not to squirm.

“Do you plan on sharing that with anyone?” The nun asked, eerily calm.

“Why would I?” A burning indignance moved through Adriana and yet she understood the sister’s caution.

“You’re fortunate that you haven’t encountered him out there, given the line of work you’ve chosen.”

Given that you’re a criminal. Was what the nun didn’t say.

Given that Adriana had become the kind of person that Daredevil caught. The kind of person that he despised.

“You mean that I’m fortunate that he hasn’t stopped me?” Adriana said heatedly.

The nun shook her head. “No. Stopping you would mean confronting what you’ve become, and his heart has been broken one too many times for him to bear that. I rather suspect that he’s done everything in his power to avoid you.”

“Then why ask me to stay until he wakes up?” Adriana said, exasperated.

“Will you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, standing all the way over there won’t do you any good.” Sister Maggie said. “He’ll know you were here. He already knows.”

“He was knocked out.”

Sister Maggie cast Adriana an unimpressed look. “He won’t wake up having forgotten that you were here. That would truly be a miracle.”

Adriana pushed of the column and ran a hand through her knotted hair. “Then tell him that he imagined it. Imagined me.”

“No.”

Adriana had to fight to keep her voice down. “Why not? It’ll make everything so much easier.”

“For him or for you?” Sister Maggie accused.

“Both.” Adriana replied, not even convincing herself.

“You disappeared from his life once already, Adriana. If you’re going to do it again, I will have no part in it. You came down here to find him, now follow through.”

There was no scorn in sister Maggie’s voice now, only brittle sort of sadness. A sadness that could easily shatter into something sharper. Adriana would have preferred her scorn. That at least was an emotion she was familiar with the woman expressing.

The nun looked back at Adriana and whatever she saw made her sigh. She stood slowly, so as not to disturb Matt, and made her way over to her. She surprised Adriana further by placing her hands gently on her arm’s, holding her in place. The sister’s demeanour didn’t soften, but a hard-edged concern appeared on her severe face.

“If you want to go, then go, but you will only be causing more pain. For Matthew and for you. And I quite think you’ve both had more than your fair share of that.”

Adriana scoffed. “Because pain is only fair if it’s inflicted by God, right?”

Sister Maggie tutted, but she didn’t let go of her. “You’re still as angry as ever, I see. Angry and afraid.”

“I’m not afraid—“

“I’m a nun, Adriana. I’ve seen fear made manifest in hundreds of ways in just as many people. You’re scared.” She looked back over at Matt. “Of him, and of what he’ll say to you. And you’re even more afraid of what he feels for you. Or rather, what he may no longer feel.”

Adriana wanted to grow angrier, to fill with a rage that would bolster her in the face of the indominable nun. But she didn’t. Instead, she deflated; she shrank down to the girl she had once been.

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Then why did he reach for you when he heard your voice?”

An unwelcome tightness formed in Adriana’s chest. She shook her head, as much to avoid the nun’s intense, knowing stare as it was to disagree with her.

“He shouldn’t have.” Adriana cast a look over at Matt and the tightness only worsened when she found his expression distressed, even in sleep.

Maggie gave Adriana a gentle shake. “You know, when you were children, we rejoiced and despaired at how tightly the two of you clung to each other. It made you both even more restless. You were always seeking each other out, never settled if the other was not in sight.”

“I don’t want him to seek me out, sister. Not now.”

A melancholy smile formed on the nun’s face. “And yet, you came down here in search of him.”

“I thought he was hurt.”

“He is.” Sister Maggie said, firm once more. “And if you go now, you’ll only compound it.”

“I’ll compound it by staying!” Adriana snapped. “You know what I am. I’m not…good for people. And Matt has always been good.”

“And yet here you both are, battered, bruised and hiding in a basement.” Adriana opened her mouth to argue but Maggie wasn’t finished with her. “Adriana, you have been telling yourself that you’re rotten to the core since you were ten. No one else thought it of you, least of all Matthew.”

Had Adriana believed God would ever deign to help her, she would have believed that her phone ringing was divine intervention.

As if she could read her thoughts, Sister Maggie raised her brow. “Saved by the bell.”

“I have to get this.” Adriana pulled away from the nun and turned, retrieving her phone from her pocket. But just before she began to ascend the steps, she found herself looking over her shoulder.

Sister Maggie had already returned to Matt’s bedside, her hand resting atop his.

“I’ll be back.” Adriana called out.

“You better.” Sister Maggie answered without looking up.

The buzzing of her phone forgotten, Adriana lingered just long enough to see Matt turn his head and his lips open to mutter something. Terrified that he’d begun to stir, Adriana all but sprinted up the steps and out of the church.

⋆✟⋆

‘And the angels will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’

Matthew 13:42

(Read more on A03 - link on my Masterlist)

[bluecatwriter]

Blood of My Blood: Permission

@animate-mush and @ibrithir-was-here, I finally finished drafting the scene! XD

As Quincey Harker first begins to fall in love with Lu Holmwood, he realizes that he should ask for her father's permission to court her. That should be an easy conversation, right?

CW: Descriptions of emotional abuse, mention of smoking

---

Arthur stood at a window in the second story, looking down at his only daughter, his most precious child, strolling and laughing on the lawn below with a vampire. 

Evening light bathed them both, making Lu's curls look like they were pure gold, and giving the boy's pallid skin enough color that he would have almost looked human— were it not for the glowing red of his eyes, so bright that Arthur could see it even from up here. Lu said something and the vampire laughed.

Arthur's hands clenched the windowsill as he leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the roiling in his stomach that hadn't quite subsided since the creature had shown up in his office several days ago. Why he had even let Lu meet the boy in the first place was beyond him. He should have made some excuse— oh no, Lu, there's an undead creature running loose in Scotland, you and Uncle Jack had better go take care of it!— and sent her away. He should have kept her safe. That was his duty as her father.

Of course, it wouldn't have worked. Lu was smart, and Arthur was not a good liar.

But Arthur had failed to prevent their meeting, and now Lu was completely smitten. What's worse, it was easy to see why. The boy was sweet and engaging, an attentive listener, fascinated by the beauty of the world. He quoted romantic poetry with the same enthusiasm that other boys might discuss sports teams. And whatever he was, he was not a vampire like they had fought before. Arthur had tried five different crucifixes on him, as if one could be defective somehow, and forced him to chew garlic while Arthur stared at him as if daring him to collapse into dust on the spot. One of their sources had brought Arthur some holy water, and when he dabbed it in the shape of a cross on the boy's forehead, the vampire had stood there obediently and then asked if something was supposed to happen.

Lu suddenly looked up, and saw Arthur spying on them (no, not spying, he just happened to catch a glimpse and had to check on what they were doing, just in case the vampire was, for instance, trying to rip her throat out). Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, the rebellious little grin on her face quite familiar to him now. He remembered how timid she was when he first met her, how she shrank into herself as if wishing she could disappear. Now she laughed loudly and grinned fiercely and made it clear that she was going to do whatever she willed, regardless of what "the dad" had to say about it. And that was what Arthur wanted, really— for her to be bold and confident and sure of herself— but why oh why did it have to manifest this way?

She waved and blew him a kiss. Arthur blew her a kiss in return, and managed to even smile, but his smile only held until the vampire turned his head and looked up at him too.

Their eyes locked, red to blue, and Arthur felt protectiveness rising in him like a flood. If he was a good father, he would march that boy into his office and tell him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his daughter. If you so much as think about touching her, I will stake you right through your unbeating heart, do you understand?!

The boy tipped his hat, bowing his head with that eerie courteousness that he had shown ever since he'd arrived. He looked a lot like his father— or, as he often clarified, his papa— just then.

What was worse, Quincey being a vampire, or him being raised by the man who had tried to murder everyone Arthur loved?

Arthur stepped away from the window, found that standing was suddenly too much work, and leaned back against the wall instead, slowly sliding down it until he hit the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

He didn't cry long before he heard a soft rap on the doorframe, and he struggled to lift his head to see Jack standing there. Jack gave him a sympathetic smile, then crossed the room and held out his hand, helping Arthur up into a chair. Arthur wanted to bury his face in his hands and keep sobbing, but he could tell that Jack wanted to talk, so he just looked at Jack through tears. 

Jack stroked his hand soothingly through Arthur's hair a few times before withdrawing it to sign, "Lu?"

Arthur choked out a small sound, and jerked his head toward the window. The sounds of Lu and the boy laughing came through the glass. "Jack, am I doing the right thing?"

Jack sighed, his smile turning wry. "You know Lu. She will do what she wants regardless, so we might as well go along with it."

Arthur groaned, leaning into Jack's touch as he petted his hair again. They'd had a similar conversation three years earlier, when Lu had started hanging about with a disgusting boy who treated her like a supporting character for his own ego. Arthur had wanted to throw him out onto the street on his head, but Jack had counseled that Arthur keep his disgust to himself. Forbidden love is very romantic, Jack had said, and Lu is a romantic at heart. She gets that from me, he'd added with a little smile. Arthur had gritted his teeth for four months, until one day Lu showed up unexpectedly in his room, her mascara running, and told him that she'd dumped her boyfriend. Arthur had never been so relieved in his life.

"I'm supposed to keep our daughter safe," Arthur said, his voice choking a little. "How do I know… how can I be sure…"

"You can't," Jack signed, his movements short and sharp. "We must trust what we know: that the holy objects don't burn him, that he has never drunk blood from an unwilling subject, and that his goodness seems entirely unfeigned."

Arthur gulped. "I don't know how I can handle this."

Jack kissed his forehead. "One step at a time," he said when he pulled away. Then he straightened, and Arthur could see him switching into Doctor Mode. "Now, young man, I am going to take your blood pressure."

He strode out of the room and returned with his sphygmomanometer, which he set up on the table. Arthur tried to calm his breathing as Jack placed the cuff around his arm and puffed it up, then frowned at the rising mercury on the device.

After a moment, Jack sighed, setting down the pump in his hand to sign, "It's a wonder your blood vessels haven't exploded."

Arthur groaned and leaned back in his chair as Jack deflated the cuff. 

"Maybe you should smoke more, to calm your nerves."

"I would turn into a chimney."

Jack huffed a laugh, and when Arthur tried to follow suit, he ended up crying again. Jack wrapped both arms around him and held him as Arthur shook silently, while the sounds of his daughter and the vampire laughing still drifting through the window.

*  *  *

Lu had complained about having to attend a boring party tonight with a friend, but Quincey was actually glad for it, because it gave him an opportunity to do what he'd suddenly realized he must do as soon as possible. 

He'd gotten careless, and lovestruck. (Lovestruck, what a beautiful word! He had imagined so many times what it must be like to be struck by love, but the reality was even better than he expected.) He'd gotten carried away, lost in the glow of Lu's presence— the sparkle of her eyes, the sharp wit of her words, the unabashed confidence in the way she moved through the world. He had been pining like a lover in one of those ballads he loved to read. And he had forgotten the most important step of all, the one that all other steps depended on. 

Lord Godalming's scowl from the window this evening had thrown the necessity of this step into sharp focus. He must approach Godalming tonight and hope to set all in order.

After Lu had left for her party, the servants directed him to Godalming's office, and Quincey stood at the door for a long time, rehearsing his speech in his head, before knocking. He heard Godalming's "Come," and opened the door, stepping inside with his most respectful yet friendly face on, to see Godalming at his desk.

Godalming's face always changed when Quincey entered the room: a tightening of his whole expression, as if it had suddenly become an effort to hold his skin in place. In the corner, Dr. Seward looked up from reading something. It was easier to decipher his expressions: he stared with singleminded focus and curiosity, much like Mum did, rather than Godalming's fidgeting and pacing and avoiding eye contact. But Godalming was the one Quincey must address, and so he only spoke to him.

"Lord Godalming," he said, proud of the even measure of his voice. "I ask your permission to come in and speak."

Godalming cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hands. "Yes, of course," he said, though his tone was unconvincing. Still, Quincey must take a chance.

"Thank you, lord." He crossed the room quickly and stood before Godalming's desk, his head bowed as if under the weight of an invisible hand. Before he could lose his nerve, he launched into the speech he had prepared. "Lord Arthur Godalming, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking me under your roof, and for the hospitality that you have shown to me in my time here. I know that all in this household are under your authority, and all here belong first and foremost to you."

Quincey couldn't quite tell what kind of expression Godalming was making— he shifted in his seat, that tightness in his face grew more pronounced, and he glanced over at Dr. Seward. But he didn't tell Quincey to stop, so Quincey plowed on.

"I know you are a benevolent lord, for you allow all those of your household to pursue their lives in bliss and harmony. With this in mind, I humbly beg you to hear my request."

Here he paused, looking for any sign of what Godalming might be thinking. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps— it was hard to tell— but he was not scowling, snarling, or getting that cold look that Father got right before breaking something. So far, so good. After a moment Godalming said, with bluster in his voice, "Out with it, then."

Quincey breathed a little sigh of relief to have explicit permission to continue, but worked to keep his voice formal. "Thank you for the opportunity to make my request. Lord Arthur Godalming, I ask that I may pursue and court your most treasured and beloved property, Lucille Holmwood."

"What?!" Godalming sputtered, and leaped to his feet. Suddenly, his expression was as easy to read as a book: outrage, and surprise.

Quincey resisted the urge to take a step back. He was surprised, too— he thought it was obvious that they were interested in each other. What part of this wasn't Godalming understanding?

"Don't ever call my daughter 'property' again!" Godalming roared, slamming his hands on the desk.

Now he did startle backward, blinking in confusion. Out of everything in his statement, how could Godalming possibly be angry at that? His mind scrambled to interpret the situation, wondering what unspoken rule he had trespassed.

"She is a person," Godalming continued, "not some trinket that I own— and certainly not a thing for you to own, either!"

"I would never dare!" Quincey burst out, affronted at the very thought, before remembering himself and dropping his head in deference. He had to show that he was obedient, that he would listen to the lecture and the learn the Lesson embedded in it.

Quincey had learned long ago that he had no desire to be like Father— he had no desire to rule, to overpower, to possess. But he had often, so often, dreamed of being like Papa. He had hoped to find a man or woman that he could adore and care for, someone he could protect. Owning another person was never something he had considered, even though he knew that Father would be disappointed in his lack of ambition.

He realized that he'd just been staring blankly at Godalming, who was clearly waiting for him to respond, and he scrambled to find the words that would avoid the worst kind of punishment. Bowing his head further, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I did not mean to cause offense, lord, but of course that is no excuse," he said, all in a rush. "I will welcome any punishment you see fit."

He didn't know what kinds of punishments Godalming was likely to give. The dread of not knowing made his stomach twist, but if he could endure it, perhaps Godalming would consider him worthy.

"I'm not going to punish you," Godalming said, speaking with disbelief, as if it was a ridiculous idea. (He must be trying to put Quincey off his guard so that he wouldn't expect the punishment when it came; Quincey made a mental note to stay alert so that it wouldn't catch him by surprise.)

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said simply. He kept his head down, watching furtively as Godalming and Dr. Seward signed quickly back and forth to each other, Godalming frowning and Seward looking concerned. Lu had taught Quincey a few signs, but not nearly enough to have any idea what they were saying. 

Godalming suddenly turned to face him, and Quincey straightened instinctively, though he still kept his head bowed. When Godalming spoke, his teeth were gritted, but he appeared to be trying to control himself. He seemed to value self-control, just like Mum did. "Jack has suggested that perhaps I've misunderstood you. Explain, then—" The sharp edge on his voice flared, then subsided. "—why you referred to my daughter as 'property.'"

Quincey spoke carefully, knowing that speaking the wrong word could be the difference between getting his request and getting severely punished. "Lucille belongs to you, is it not so?"

"Not in the way an object belongs to me," Godalming said, starting to pace. He turned on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at him. "And if you think to treat her like your property—"

Quincey flinched as if he'd been slapped. To be accused not once, but twice, of trying to commit treason in this way made him feel horribly hurt, but he couldn't just blurt that out. He struggled to say, "My lord, please let me speak."

"Speak!" Godalming burst out, waving a hand at him. "You don't need my permission, just speak!"

Quincey fought down the tears that threatened to spill over his eyes, stumbling over his words. "Thank you, lord. I… I had no thought of making her my property. I meant that… I was asking if I could become your property, sir."

Godalming stopped pacing stared at him as if he'd said the most unintelligible string of words ever spoken. Quincey stood there, unsure whether to keep talking, and then Godalming sharply turned to Dr. Seward, and they signed back and forth with puzzled scowls on their faces. Quincey waited anxiously, wondering if they were discussing his punishment. He hoped that he wouldn't cry when they put him through it. He hadn't cried during a punishment in a long time.

"Yes, I know, Jack!" Godalming said unexpected, then grabbed a paperweight that sat on his desk, fidgeting with it as he spoke. It looked fairly heavy; it would hurt if he chose to hit Quincey with it. Father considered corporal punishment to be uncivilized, but a different lord might have a different rule. "Just tell me," Godalming said to him, and again it was clear he was putting a lot of effort into sounding calm, "do you consider yourself to be anyone's property now?"

Quincey could have wept with relief to get a question that made sense— but now that it was posed to him, he had to pause. He had been ready to blurt out that yes, of course, he belonged to Father, and only to Father, as everyone in the household did, but…

Papa's last words to him were imprinted on his mind. He hadn't really understood them, standing at the castle doors that day that seemed so long ago now, but the reality of it was beginning to sink in. Remember, you don’t belong to him. Or, or to us. Just to yourself.

"I don't," he said, and he felt a terrifying emptiness at the declaration. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. "When I lived in Castle Dracula, I was Father's property, along with Papa, and Mum, and everything in the house. But Papa has sent me out now and says that I belong only to myself." Now that he said it out loud, it seemed stranger and stranger. But of course Papa would never go against what Father wanted. Papa had always taught him to do what was right, and obeying Father was right. Father must have changed his mind, and wanted him to own himself.

Godalming's expression remained steady, so Quincey decided to go on. "My heart's desire is to find another household where I may be owned and show my love and loyalty, just like Papa did. This is my deepest wish, that I have held since before I even knew that such a thing were possible." He shut his mouth, squeezing his hands together. 

The past few days, he had been thinking about the possibility of asking Lu to kiss him. He had never been kissed by anyone before, except the bloodless kisses that Mum and Papa gave him. Perhaps she would not like the taste of of his blood, but he could offer, anyway, and maybe she would like to try. He imagined her lips open against his arm— or even perhaps his throat!— and wondered what it would like to feel his skin give way under her teeth, to feel his blood leaving his body to nourish that one he loved. The thought of it was so exciting that it made him feel a weakness in his legs, a fluttering in his stomach. 

"Quincey!"

Quincey didn't realize he'd been daydreaming, and he snapped back to attention, again speaking in a rush. "I apologize for letting my mind wander, lord, I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"I'm not going to— for Christ's sake—" Godalming looked helplessly at Dr. Seward, as if he could explain this, while Quincey stood there still feeling confused. "Good grief, child, what kind of a life have you had?"

This was probably a test, but Quincey didn't know how to pass it. "A happy one," he said simply. "I come from a loving family."

"Why are you so afraid of punishment, if your family was so loving?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Punishment is love," Quincey said, a note of frustration entering his voice. He felt a wave of anger at Godalming for insulting Father, for disrespecting the name of the family. "Father punished me to teach me how to be strong and right."

Godalming's eyes blazed again; Quincey wondered why it seemed to make him so angry. "So he never hurt you?" Godalming asked.

"Never," Quincey said, putting emphasis on the word, "except when it was for my good."

Godalming raised an eyebrow. "And when it was 'for your good'? What did he do then?"

"Whatever best suited the disobedience." Quincey spoke without emotion, trying to tamp down the annoyance he felt at this clearly bad-faith questioning of his Father's parenting skills. What did Godalming care?

"For instance?" Godalming pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Again, Quincey decided this must be a test. He focused on speaking as plainly and completely as possible. "If I paid too much attention to my books and not enough to him, he would make me tear up the books and feed the pages into the fire. Or if I forgot my place, he would come into my room and destroy my things." 

Godalming's expression was changing from demanding to horrified. "What kinds of things?"

He had a sudden, sharp memory of a stuffed toy rabbit that Papa had brought him when he was a small child. He could still feel the soft cotton against his cheek, see the button eyes and the embroidered smile. He'd named it Hoppy. 

"Things I liked. Especially things that Papa bought me in town. For instance, once I owned a toy rabbit. But then I questioned a decision that Father made, and so he took my rabbit and—" His voice caught; there was something about saying this out loud, when he had never spoken of it before, that made him suddenly feel like he was going to cry. "—and tore it to pieces." 

He still remembered the sound of the fabric ripping, the way that Father had held Hoppy just out of Quincey's reach and methodically shredded the toy until only fibers and buttons were left, Quincey screaming and begging him to stop all the while. Afterward, Quincey had wept and gathered up the shreds and brought them to Papa. Sometimes Papa could fix the things Father broke, but this was not one of those times. 

Papa had held him tightly and let him cry, and afterward they had had a burial service for Hoppy, at sunrise after Quincey should have been in bed.

He felt tears in his eyes and a knot in his throat, and in his attempt to hide both, he lashed out. "But the punishments worked! I learned to never question the wisdom of those better than me, and to obey instructions, and to be respectful in all circumstances. Besides, none of the things he destroyed were mine. They were all his. Everything in the whole land was his. Sometimes I just forgot. But I do not forget anymore. I would never ask to possess anything for myself. If you allow me to be part of your household, I will never forget that all belongs to you."

There was a long silence. 

"Jesus Christ," Godalming said, and slumped into his chair.

Quincey wasn't sure why Godalming was invoking the name of the man on the crucifix he now wore, but it was not the time to be asking questions. He stood there, waiting for him to speak again.

Godalming groaned, dragging a hand across his face. "Quincey, I— I don't know what to say."

Once again, a feeling of relief came over Quincey. He knew this kind of roundabout speaking, and knew what the proper response was. Without hesitation, he dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his face against the carpet. 

"Lord Godalming, I throw myself upon your mercy, as a wretch, a worm, begging to be your property and yours alone, to sit at your table and eat your scraps—"

"What the hell are you doing?" Godalming yelled. "Get up!"

Quincey sat up quickly, still on his knees, staring at Godalming's horrified expression over the desk. "I… I thought you wanted me… to beg?" Father had always liked begging.

"God, no! Quincey, please, please just pull up a chair and sit down and listen."

That he could do. Quincey quickly pulled up a chair and sat, hands in his lap. Godalming stood up and began to pace again, still fidgeting with the paperweight. He seemed to be grasping for words to say, and it was only after signing back and forth with Dr. Seward for a few moments that he spoke.

"Quincey, you say that you belong to yourself. Well, Lu belongs to herself, too. No one in this household is my property. Do you understand? Everyone here belongs to himself."

Quincey didn't see how that could possibly work, but there was nothing to do but take Godalming at his word and hope this was not a test. "I understand, lord."

Godalming paused, and looked at Quincey with a cross between pain and exasperation. "Quincey, you're a vampire. Lu is a human. You are a danger to her, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you to court her."

Quincey felt the words sink into him like ice, and the urge to throw himself facedown on the carpet again made his fingers twitch.

"But," Godalming said, and paused. In that pause, it seemed that he aged ten years before Quincey's eyes. "But," he said again, and now his voice was husky, "I do not have the say in this. As I said, Lu belongs to herself, not to me. If you want to court Lu, and she wants to court you, then I… I won't stop you."

Quincey stared at him. This was impossible; he must have heard wrong. "You do not wish to exercise your right of ownership?" he asked hesitantly.

Godalming looked unspeakably weary. "Lu can make her own decisions— and you'd damn well better abide by whatever she decides."

"Yes, lord, of course," Quincey said quickly, still wondering if this was some sort of illusion that he would wake up from.

"But make no mistake: if it comes to it, I will protect my daughter above all else. Do you understand?"

Quincey resisted the urge to smile in relief. Here it was, a straightforward threat, something that he was used to working with. He tempered his wave of excitement, and stood solemnly, bowing. "I understand, lord. I swear to you, I will give you no reason for displeasure."

Godalming looked somehow even greyer than before as he leaned wearily on one hand. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, but it was a halfhearted mutter.

There was a long pause.

"All right, now go." Godalming waved his hand in dismissal. 

Whatever he might say, Quincey knew that permission to approach Lu as equals was still a privilege that Godalming had bestowed on him, and Quincey must acknowledge the gift. He reached across the desk and took Godalming's hand with both of his. Godalming startled, but Quincey was committed to the gesture now: he bowed his head over his hand and pressed a bloodless kiss to it, the way that Papa would do with Father when thanking him or placating him. He felt Godalming shudder under his touch.

He still suspected that this whole scenario was some sort of test, and that Godalming would punish him for it, but at least he could be on his guard now— and at least he could invoke Godalming's words against him if he tried to change his mind. Papa had taught him that it was important to remember exactly a person's words, so that you could use them in the future if you needed.

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said, looking earnestly into Godalming's face. One of his eyes was twitching, and Quincey could hear his heartbeat loudly. "I will treasure this kindness." Then he raced out of the room before Godalming could change his mind.

*

Arthur groaned and sank back in his chair, feeling a shiver go through his whole body. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, see the soft, bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye. Jack raised his hand to speak.

"Don't," Arthur snapped. "Don't say a single word, Jack Seward."

Jack stood instead and walked to his side, planting a kiss on his head. "I'm proud of you, just the same," he signed, before using his hand to feel along Arthur's neck for his pulse. He pulled back and shook his head disapprovingly. "Blood pressure, young man, blood pressure."

"I said not a single word."

"I'll get you a cigarette."

"Jack!" Arthur grabbed his arm, and felt suddenly that Jack was the only real thing in this upside-down world where he had just allowed a vampire to start courting his daughter.

Jack paused, then settled himself onto Arthur's lap, linking his arms around him. In this position he couldn't speak, but he breathed long, slow breaths, his way of reminding Arthur to breathe, too. Arthur shuddered through several shaky breaths before he was able to slow enough to match Jack's pace. 

The unknown loomed before them, like a great blackness in his mind. He couldn't protect their daughter forever. Lu would make her own decision, and then… well, then there was nothing to do but wait and see.

~~~

[thateldribitch]

Neon Visions

You know, I realized I never posted this fic onto the tumble as well; so here's the link to it too. Seems pertinent to drop it in spooky month too.

Chapter One

Content Warnings: Vampires, trippy imagery, gore, violence, injuries; your one reminder that I love writing horror

The world pulses, like a heart—

And you are dead.

Sunlight seeps through leaves to dapple along the grass. Mushrooms dot the bases of mole hills; they also bore through the porous holes bored in your skin. The bugs made way for their spores, in voracious scavenger tunnels digging through your flesh. Carving patterns like worm trails through wood. The colorful caps crest over the pits of your eyes; maybe when the bugs are done, amanitas will grow from the sockets too. 

The crows left a long time ago, carrying off your flesh.

You don’t breathe, but every pull of carbon dioxide becomes your inhale. Every puff out of oxygen, your exhale. Funnily enough, the opposite of what it was in life. Life… huh. The world melts into the songs of spores and trails of animals. The grazing deer cutting teeth through green blades…. The squirrels beating their paws against the dirt. One buries an acorn where your heart once lay. 

And it blurs into color and it blurs into nothing ….

…

…

Until the footsteps.

“...Oh Darling,” he whispers, voice singing the same song as the grass and the mushrooms and the moonlight. You just know his words. And because you know his words… you can feel when he curls his hand into your jaw bone, when his forehead brushes against your shattered skull. “I’ve finally found you.”

A tear waters the acorn.

A tree feeds off your buried bones.

***

…It’s shitty waking up from a peaceful dream about death. Bore your eyes through the ceiling; tiredly search the cracks in it. It doesn't make it better. Doesn’t disturb the eerie tranquility crawling across your skin. What the hell was that? No plaster can spew answers from the popcorned texture pocked against the ceiling. A siren blares. The train blasts by, a bright streak of lights and a blare of noise against the neon night. White powder dusts down. Fucking hell…. The last dregs of daylight smear across your walls. Dragging your hand across your eyes, you wonder if you should dare to look at your alarm clock—

BRRRRRRRRRRRRING!

“Up and at them, I have breakfast.” Like clock work , Rollo knocks his palm against the door. Eight at night, on the dot. Groaning out a pillow-muffled half-scream, you chuck the clock at the wall. CRASH! Rapid footsteps. “What in God’s name did you do to—?!”

And then your pillow smacks into his head. He sputters and immediately chucks it back with the world’s lamest warcry. At least in your opinion. “I will go back to using the bucket!”

“No you fucking won’t—”

“Language!”

“WHORE!” 

He shrieks your name, clutching at his crucifix beads. His pure indignation burning in all its glory is enough to make you roll out of bed. “I did not raise you to be so uncouth!”

“Mmmm pretty sure we’re both orphans, Rolls.”

“I am seven years your senior, I may as well be your parent.”

…

…

“No, you’re right, that’s weird,” he nods after a minute. 

“ Fucking right?”

“...Ugh.”

“You have to admit it sounded gross.”

“Yes, yes. Now come along.” You bump shoulders with him as you pass him on your way to the table. Immediately, he whacks your back in a ‘dumbass’ kind of way. “Go get dressed.”

“Breakfast, then shower, then dress.”

“Fine, fine,” he musses your hair. You smack at his hands, but slip into your chair. Plastic crinkles against the cushions. Rollo put them on one day and never took them off; germaphobe claims it’s to keep them from being ruined, but now you just have plastic to clean. And it crinkles against your sheep-print pajamas. Dishes clatter in the checkerboard kitchen. Stacks of clean plates dry beneath a pristinely cleaned window.

Only a spider goes unscathed in the corner, and only because you’d pointed out that Francis catches the gnats. And Rollo can’t kill anything named after a Saint. Still, you can recognize the signs of his obsessive cleaning episodes. “...Did you seriously not sleep again?” 

“I meditated and committed to my evening routine.”

“That doesn’t count as sleeping .”

“Discipline keeps us alive .” Well. Guess you can’t argue with that. Your lip pinches as you fiddle with a hole in the cushion cover. A chipped plate scrapes across the worn wooden table. There’s still a sticker on it from the pawn shop you’d both dragged it from. It’s rickety, and needs a napkin wedged under one leg, but it’s yours. Sirens screech. A car horn blares and a man’s voice yells out. Dry toast sits against your tongue, drowned by cheap, bagged tea. You both finish before the sun can fully set. 

“Come along,” he dabs his napkin across his mouth. The fire escape awaits. A few thriving plants spill over the rusty rail. The leaves reach towards the last strains of light, just as he does. It’s like he thinks he can catch the rays in his hands. Rollo looks so serene, like this. Golden hour sunbeams highlight his hair a sparkling white, not dusty gray. Makes him look young and old all at the same time, but… at least younger than normal. And maybe you can convince yourself, for a moment, that this is all normal. 

But when Rollo bows his head to the sun, you follow suit. His hand finds yours and squeezes it. “Thank you, Lord, for another day. Thank you, Lord, for the beautiful sun. Let these rays follow us as we do your Work. And let us not succumb to the night.”

“And let us not succumb to the night,” you echo.

“ Amen .”

As you leave to shower, the sounds of sharpening knives follow after your footsteps. A rough scrape of metal on metal—the silver knives, expertly prepped for their work, are the most pristine, expensive objects in your home. One for you, one for him. And then there are the guns to clean, the bullets to bless. He never does any of it until after the prayer. Maybe that’s why he tries to catch the sun in his hands. Maybe he thinks it’ll bless the weapons all the more. 

It’s your last thought before you click the bathroom door shut.

***

The rumble strip of a busy, concrete highway slashes through commercial suburbia, vibrating the air with the droning hum of passing cars. Cuts of manicured greenery mix with industrial elements— straight lines of caged trees in islands of grass, square bushes line cracked sidewalks. There’s not much light. Maybe a spotlight on an ad, a stray street lamp, or the neon glare of gas prices blaring against billboards. But there’s just a single lamp here, and an airplane marker blinking on top of a tower. Two gargantuan piles of gravel and fill dirt loom before you, twenty feet of probable road material for summer repairs. A silo clings to endless webs of metal support beams. Hair rises on the back of your neck. You nudge Rollo, nodding in confirmation.

It’s here.

Immediately, he draws his knife, raising it in front of you as he takes the lead. You follow suit, eyes combing the shadows. Take a deep breath. In, out… and you can open your Eyes. Nothing visually changes. Shadows reign. But… as you wander further and further into the depths of the darkness… cutting quiet silhouettes against the occasional beam of light from the streetlamp… your hair stands on end.Your shoe scuffs softly against chipped paint lines along the cracked cement. Gravel hisses underfoot. 

“It’s close,” you warn—

WHAM! Rollo slams his fist into a shape that comes barrelling out of the metal webwork. Instinctively, you splay your fingers and roll your wrists. Golden light sparks in your palms. “Rolls!” You snap out, before the light in your palms flashes in a bright burst! Gray hair, you register. The shape darts back into the shadows.

Quickly, you yank Rollo to steady him on his feet and he slams his back into yours. You steady your breath against the brace of his spine. Rollo keeps his knife at the level of his eye. The silver knuckles wrapped in his fist glint. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, fingers sparking. Your skin sizzles softly, pulse pounding. His steps shift slightly. Following the pattern you know by heart, you both begin to turn. A backward dance of keeping your eyes alert. Scanning the shadows for the enemy. Hackles raised, you try to quickly pick up its trace. “Fledgling?”

“Seems it,” he tightens his grip on his knife. CRASH! Pain. Your back plows into Rollo as it tackles into you. Rollo locks his arm in yours and yanks you to the side. He catches a quick flash of teeth with the back of his knife; you clench your fist and flick out your fingers. Sparks shower into its face. Catch a glimpse— young. Youthful features, gray hair. Just like Rolls.

Your heart aches as it leaps back again. Rollo immediately pulls you behind him, shielding your back with his arm. “Hey—”

“You’re squishier and it’s targeting you.”

“Fuck off.”

Focus. You shake your head. Use Rollo as your compass. Turn slowly, calculatedly. Find it. Take it out. You can’t let this thing hurt anyone. Steadying a breath, you focus your Eyes…. And the world… bursts into… color. It’s like flipping a switch. No shadow, no harsh white light. You can… See… everything . The rust stains on the tower burst into oily rainbows of muddled color; the plane light is a blaring beacon of neon. And it blooms with bright red flowers. And they bloom beneath booming bells of moon trees. And the stars rain down and the blossoms die and you can’t help but drift your eyes all the way to the tip of this brilliant pillar of color—

Black. White. Crimson. All the other colors drain into sparkling, vivid pinpricks. Like a black hole, with a haloed ring of intensifyingly neon red and a void black center, all other colors die beneath those eyes. Eyes . Looking right at you—

Click.

DEEDEEDEEDEE—

A safety device shrieks as Rollo yanks its pin and tosses it behind you. He curses as he scruffs you into the shadows. He doesn’t like using it. Good distraction; too much attention; and there’s one other reason that you can’t recall. One other important thing, but your dizzy brain can’t— can’t— fuck, focus!

“Close your Eyes , damn it.” Rollo grits his teeth through his angry-panic. Something stings. Something rough presses over your vision. But you can still See his wide eyes and hear the curses tear out of his lips. “—bleeding worse than last time—”

“Rolls—” You choke out, but he shakes his head. 

“You stay here, your eyes are—”

Red eyes.

“ Rollo!” Snarling, you snatch his hands away. Bandages fall. Your vision runs red with burst blood vessels. You look monstrous, shaking your brother with shot-wide eyes and stained, bared teeth. Frantically, “We need to go , we need to call someone— someone— anyone, there’s— there’s an Ancient—!”

But Rollo’s not in your grasp anymore. Your brain barely has time to register. Crash! Crack . Thrown into the gravel pile, tossed like trash to be buried by the rock. Doesn’t yell. Quiet, why is he so quiet— pain . Claws pierce through skin and muscle to grasp bone . Your body drives into the ground. Another crack. Your own, your back, maybe? Adrenaline blacks out most of it. Heart pounds. Looming. Tall. Gray hair and youthful features . Strong. It pins you to the ground and hisses at your pulse. Desperately, you thrust your hands out, sparks flaring and your eyes burning . But it bashes your hands into the ground. Drool drips onto your neck, drip, drip, drip .

Shit, shit— do something, it hurts , anything, Rollo help me , fuck, move, move, move!

But the bite never comes. It’s a small delay, but it’s enough. Enough for your brain to react on instinct, to blast your hovering assailant off your prone form. The night lights up with a beacon of brilliant light. Something sizzles, smoke, pain, blood. Doesn’t matter, it’s not on you, you’re alive, you’re alive, fuck, Rollo . You barrel to your feet, slip and slide in the dirt and scattered gravel. Brother, where’s your brother, dig through the rocks with your damn bare hands. Hurts, it hurts, your hands hurt so much —

An arm plunges by you. Yanks your bloodied brother from the pile. A brief, intensely cold presence. And then it’s gone. Maybe it was you, maybe you’re just that in shock that you can’t recognize your own limbs. No time to think, it doesn’t matter. It’s all a blur as you haul Rollo out of the rocks. Into the car. Zipping off down the highway…

A pair of red eyes lingers in the rear view mirror, until your tires screech off into the night.

Literally cannot tell you how "big brother Rollo" got stuck in my head, but it's been fun writing it.

[reasonablerodents]

So for your drabble requests collection. I would love it if you could write a ficlet about vampire Hotch having a thirst for Spencer, who's so beautifully willing (read horny) when he at last dares to drink from him.

I am nothing if not an absolute simp for absolutely anything to do with vampires and this is just suuuuuuch a good prompt!!!!! I had so much fun writing this and listening to Bauhaus and The Damned, really getting into those spooky (and hopefully) sexy vibes.

There’s no real description of the environment in this but feel free to imagine the most ott Anne Rice sort of deal because that’s totally what I was thinking.

Sanctum Sanctorum (M)

Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Vampire AU, Blood Drinking

* * * * * * * * * *

“Please,” Spencer breathes, tilting his head to the side to expose the delicate blue veins in his neck. “I know that you want this, Aaron.”

Of course he does. How, in any possible universe, could he not? Resisting the urge for this long has been torture, just as painful as a silver crucifix being pressed into his skin- and he knew how much that hurt, still had the scar to prove it.

“You need to be sure, Spencer.” Hotch tells him seriously, although if he had a heartbeat he’s sure it would be faster than it’s ever been. He cups Spencer's jaw with one cold hand, making him look directly into his eyes. “If I do this, we’ll be linked forever. Drinking directly from someone isn’t the same as blood that’s been stored, you know this. There’s nothing I’ll be able to do to sever our bond.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, his sincerity visible even in the dim moonlight. “And that’s why I want it. I want you.”

Hotch knows that there’s no point in arguing further. Spencer had been trying for months, almost immediately after they’d started these midnight trysts. Every time, he’d got closer to giving in, a little more of his resolve weakened. By this point, the wall surrounding his urges was little more than a pile of rubble.

He uses his grip on Spencer's face to tilt his head further to the side, getting him exactly where he wants him. One hand goes to Spencer’s thigh, just close enough to his crotch to be tempting but too far for any actual contact- after all, Spencer had been teasing him for this long, it was his turn now.

Hotch gently lowers his head, licking over Spencer's neck in preparation, feeling the warmth of the blood as it rushes under the thin skin. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he does so anyway before he opens his mouth properly, indulging in one final nod to humanity before it leaves him completely.

The second Hotch’s fangs pierce him, Spencer moans, eyes fluttering closed as his lips open, his breath coming out in short pleasured gasps. Hotch can quite literally taste his arousal; it flows through his blood like a perfume, sweet yet dirty, a filthy and hedonistic undercurrent to it all.

He grips harder onto Spencer’s thigh when the younger man tenses up with another low moan, automatically jerking up into the air in a desperate search for friction.

“Please, Aaron,” he whispers reverently. “Touch me.”

[nihilistic-rick]

It has been two days since their disappearance, and in those two days, Nihilistic had held himself locked up in his lab. The only thought was finding them, bringing them home safe. It was the only thought that consumed them, day and night. Part of him felt guilty for not being there, for not protecting them. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself.

Nihilistic knew that there was attention drawn to them, since they started hanging out. He was fully aware that others were curious and some even judgmental. Others were supportive and then there were others that were just not having it.

It was like seeing oil and water mixing together, the two changing physical substances, and separating. They were not to belong together. They simply didn't mix.

"Again..." His exasperated voice was heard inside the empty lab as he stared at the screen before him, watching the red dots scramble about. "Re-routing, coordinates. Tracking... Tracking... Tracking... "

Taking a seat in one of the empty chairs, he ran a hand through his hair, and let out a sigh. He hadn't been sleeping well either. When was the last time he ate something or even drank something other than liquor and coffee. Shoving their hands in his lab coat, he felt something inside of it, and pulled out the rosary.

Richard's rosary.

In his hand he turned it over, looking at the crucifix. Nihilistic was no praying man, he didn't believe in a lot of things especially in God, and let alone the religion that is Catholic. Yet here was he hunting down a man who did believe in these things.

"I'm sorry Richie..." He murmured as he still held onto the rosary in hand, and let his head fall into the other hand, leaning back in his chair. The computers beeping the only sound for the time being. "Tracking.... Tracking.... Tracking...."

The silence was interrupted by the labs doors opening, the familiar whooshing sound, making him sit up and pocketing the rosary, he heard footsteps, accompanied by the most annoying voice ever.

"Hey good looking, need some company?"

"Incubus... I see you're ready to cause more trouble..." Nihilistic looked over at them and gave them an annoyed look.

"Trouble? I'm offended. How dare you asshole."

Making a disgruntled noise, Nihilistic turned to look at Incubus, who was standing there with a smug smirk. "So have you found them yet genius ?"

"Does it look like we've found them ?" Nihilistic practically snarled at them, his exhaustion getting to him at this point. "No fuckface that's why I'm asking you !"

"Not this again ! Look did you just come down here to bother me or what ?" Nihilistic held Incubus's gaze as he waited for their answer. "Sorry.. sorry it's just .. we need him back .. " Incubus sat in a chair, his face just as tired looking as Nihilistic's own. "I know we do..." He replied as he turned in his chair to face Incubus.

"You look like shit... That Chef guy did a number on you..."

"Yeah well it was to do something about it and or get Richard killed on the spot."

"Fuckin' Hivemind bitch taking him..." Incubus paused as he looked over at Nihilistic. "You want to know what they're calling you around these parts because of her .." A shit eating grin was on their face as he watched Nihilistic.

Raising an eyebrow at the other, Nihilistic looked at them."Do I really want to know..."

"Yes."

"..... What."

"Guard dog pfft hahah."

"Ugh... Great...more names..."

Nihilistic would show them just how much of a guard dog he would be for them, once he got his hand on those that took him.

[see-arcane]

Last Night

It isn’t a dream. It isn’t moonlight or mist. It’s him.

The pretense shed, the door at his towering back, the teeth bared with a glee that borders on the giddiness of a child finally unwrapping a gift dangled out of reach until the appropriate holiday. All the world is shrunk down to the pieces of him Jonathan has had to endure by increasing increments. Mouth, hands, eyes. The latter are trying to hook him. He feels the push of them just as the Weird Sisters’ influence had fogged his sense when he was too near to sleep to fight.

But he is awake now. So horribly, implacably awake with that fearful energy which visits all prey spotting the pursuer’s jaws. Run! that energy demands. Run! Hide! Fight! Something, anything!

With no mode in which to answer any of these instincts, the energy is left to pace through his veins in frantic circles. It feels as if his own blood is leaping to answer the Count’s wishes, churning itself into a froth. Sickly, he thinks he sees exactly that answering delight in the horror’s pallid face; a twitch of the nostrils, a salivating shine on the saber teeth, a darkening of the eyes. A wolf before a lame calf.

“I do wish to thank you before we part. Most sincerely.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t dare meet the trap of the eyes. Watch the red mouth. The white hands.

“You have given me so much more than I dared hope for after all this time.”

“I only,” his voice is thinned down to a rasp. A raw quavering. “I only came to sell you a house. That was all.” The flatness of the fact seems almost comical when said aloud. A noise that can’t decide between a laugh, a sob, or a scream lodges in his throat.

“And so you did. So anyone might have. Anyone else,” the Count takes a step closer, as Jonathan moves back a pace, “would have come and gone within a day. Less than. A mere workman, a living appliance good only for one thing before being discarded. Not so for you, my friend. You have gifted me such aid and pleasure in your company that it merits mention. That and more.” Step forward, step back. The door is visible over the high cloaked shoulder. Locked? Unlocked? Does it matter?

Jonathan digs for a response that isn’t bile, begging, or more incessant playacting to suit the damned game. All he can dredge up is more hot coal in his throat, more wet burning behind his eyes. He wants to wake up. Please, God, now if no other time, let the nightmare end, let him out, let him wake—

But you are. You are awake.

A single word makes it past his tongue. Empty and pleading, but there.

“Why?”

“Because.” Step. “Since your coming, since your staying, I have been met again and again with a joy I thought dead in me.” Step. “Dust piled on the clockwork of my mind has been swept away.” Step. “You have brought lifeblood into my nights and made me feel things I feared were buried in long-gone ages.” Step. “A lifetime of paling distractions, suddenly alight with something worth attention.” Step. “Such a perfect prelude to dear England. But more than that…”

Jonathan’s heel strikes a leg of the bed.

Door, door, get to the door—

He gets scarcely an inch before the white hands are on him. One is the manacle grip on his arm that first stole him up into the caleche and drove him away to this benighted hell. The other locks around his jaw like a cold vise, seizing him where the crucifix had once barred that touch on the night of his last shave. With bleary inanity, Jonathan wonders if there would be any difference if he wore it now rather than leaving it pinned as scant protection on the wall. The Son hangs his tiny head and cannot guard him from his spot above the bed.

Not that Jonathan could look him in his carved eyes now. The hand at his jaw has wrenched his face up and the red eyes are worming their way into him like maggots coiling through loam. A braided sensation of dread and calm, terror and welcome stitches itself through him. When he tries to open his mouth for a last word—he can’t guess whether it would be a prayer or an animal-cry of protest—there’s only the slackness of a doll.

“…you have made me feel young, my friend. In so many ways.” Cool digits stroke and cradle. “For that, you deserve all I mean to give.”

The red stare does not blink. Does not move. Does not end as the pressure of it softens the world’s edges into a dreaming haze. Jonathan feels himself going away. Away…

Dracula says things he can no longer hear. The room tilts as he is tilted, neck taut, back folded over the strut of a dead man’s arm, and it is bliss not to know the words whispering their endless litany in his ear. Murmurs of youth, of forgotten pleasures, of life, of love, of a dozen other endearments made profane through the sieve of those lowering teeth are all lost to him. Even the farewell, padded as it is in stroking hands and cold lips, hushing him away to an oblivion without sight or tears, melts into ether.

When the blood begins to flow, he does not have to see the turning of the wild white mane into a fall of iron.

[ice-cap-k]

Get Some Rest

Cross-posted on AO3 here: Get Some Rest

______________________________________

“Skizz! Psst! Skizzleman…”

“I think we have to be louder, Grian. Try getting closer.”

“If I got any closer I’d be on top of him. Skizz! Come on, wake up old man.” 

Skizz didn’t want to wake up. He was just so nice and cozy and warm in his bed. Even Kevin Bubbles Malone Refrigerator Jimmy Mad-Eye Dugon complained from his spot on top of the covers. The poor pup whimpered in annoyance as he covered his ears with his paws. Skizz wished he could do the same. Instead, he settled for pulling the pillow over his head as he rolled over. “I don’t want ta-” he managed to mumble. 

“Well, you gotta,” Grian said with a huff. “If me and Scar can’t sleep, then neither can you.”

“Meh.” 

“Well if that ain’t the comeback of the century.” 

“Don’t just stand there doing nothing, Scar. Help me.”

The wonderful warmth of his blanket vanished as someone pulled it away. The cool air came as a shock to his half-asleep system, but he kept his eyes screwed shut even as he reached after it. The two tricksters were too fast, though. The blanket was flung off his bed before he had a chance to snatch it back. Defeated, he could only grumble into his pillow and wish for them to disappear. “Let me sleep. Go bother Impulse instead.”

“We tried-” Scar started, only to have Grian cut him off. 

“Impulse said he’d throw a crucifix at us if we didn’t leave him alone.”

“And you’re the only other one of the Dads left,” Scar added. “I still can’t believe Impulse, though. He’s always so nice and polite, and here he went and threatened us. It’s so unlike him.” 

It was unlike his buddy to go and do that, but then again sleep deprivation made people act out in some wild ways. He might be tempted to do the same if he had a crucifix in arm’s reach. Not that he’d ever actually go through with it. Well, maybe… No, he’s just joshing with himself. Alas, all he had was an alarm clock, and that was plugged into the wall. Not a good choice for a projectile. Speaking of which…

Skizz dared to crack one eye open to get a look at the clock. The number 3:16 glowed bright green back at him in the dark. There were two things very wrong with this picture, and he was stashing away the fact that Scar and Grian had slipped into his house uninvited without so much as turning on a light as the one to address later. 

“Dudes, do you realize how late it is?”

“It’s dark,” Scar provided unhelpfully. 

“And it’s late,” Grian said with a smile. He threw open the blinds to Skizz’s bedroom, leaving a clear view of the stars twinkling outside. “As far as I’m concerned, that makes this the perfect time to go looking for ghosts. Let’s go back to Tanglewood and do a hunt!”

At this point, Skizz had given up on the possibility of them just going away and leaving him be. With a massive amount of effort, he managed to push himself up to a seat and out of the warm embrace of his bed. Kevin looked just as put out as he felt. He doesn’t blame the poor pup for crawling off the mattress and padding out of the room to look for someplace quieter to sleep. 

“No guys. We are not doing a hunt right now. It’s way too late for that. I need my beauty sleep and so do you.”

“We already told you we can’t sleep,” Scar said with a shake of his head. 

“Then you should go be at rest, or whatever else it is you guys can do,” Skizz shot back, throwing his hands up.

“We can go on a hunt,” Grian said again, a mischievous smile on his face. “That’s what we can do.”

“Come on Skizz.” Scar’s eyes become glossy as soon as he sees the look on his friend’s face. “Just one more. We can go back to the house. I can set up the motion sensors in the garage and Grian can do his spirit box thing… And you! Oh! You could run the camera this time instead of Impulse. And then if we get lucky we could find ourselves a monkey paw-”

“Or,” Skizz butt in. “And here me out with this one. Honestly, it sounds fantastic. Sounds like we’ll have ourselves a lot of fun and all, but how about we wait for tomorrow?” 

‘Never mind that they probably wouldn’t be able to do any of those things,’ he thinks to himself. Almost 90 percent of everything Scar just said was literally impossible right now. But he doesn’t dare say that out loud. He can already see the smile drop off his two friends’ faces and it makes Skizz feel bad. Really bad. Gosh they look so disappointed. He was always such a softy. “Aww, no long faces. Just think about it for a moment, really. We already had a pretty bad run yesterday. If the three of us go at it right now on our own, we’re never going to get the job done. That ghost is going to flatten us like pancakes and eat our faces for breakfast.” 

Grian didn’t look too pleased. “You mean ‘flatten us and eat our faces for breakfast again,’ right?” 

Skizz could only shrug. “Yeah. I mean again.”

“Then what do we do?” 

“We go tomorrow. Us three, and a well-rested Impulse with an actual set of equipment and the van… Hey, we could even ask Gem to help us out this time. She can watch our backs while we scope the place out.”

“Then what are me and Grian supposed to do until then,” Scar asked, sounding pretty sheepish. “We thought maybe a big strong Skizz would be able to handle it. Work some of his crazy Skizzleman magic.”

Stay strong Skizz. You have to stay strong for the sake of sleeping, and for the sake of tackling tomorrow well rested. He needed to be in tip top condition to catch some ghosts. But then he saw that Scar brought out the puppy dog eyes. Big wide glistening brown eyes of sadness and sweetness and he can feel himself melting the longer he looks at them. 

“If you think that flattery will get you anywhere…”

“Then you’re right,” both he and Grian say at exactly the same time.

“And you know me too well,” Skizz finished with a sigh. These two really did know him too well. He takes one last longing look at his cozy bed, because he knows what he has to do. And he doesn’t like it. “Fine. How about this, dudes? How about I go back to hang out with you guys until the morning? Then I’ll go get Impulse and Gem and we can go ghost hunting then. How does that sound?”

Grian looked a little skeptical, but he knew by the smile plastered across Scar’s face that this was happening. “Absolutely!” 

“Alright. Let me grab my coat and some shoes. Gentleman, let’s get ready to go.”

_______________________________

“I thought the weird hissing noise meant that it was an Oni?”

“No, apparently. Like, I don’t get it either. I don’t know why it means it’s not an Oni, but Impulse keeps saying that’s how that works. Right Skizz? Skizz…? Helloooo… Earth to Skizz!”

Grian’s loud voice jolts Skizz back awake before the tires can hit the bumps on the side of the road. He really shouldn’t be driving while drowsy like this. 

“You alright, Skizz,” Scar asked from the back seat. “Do we need to talk louder to help you stay awake?”

Grian tapped his fingers against the dashboard. He looks a little nervous, but then again he didn’t have much reason to be nervous about the situation right now. Skizz caught the young man shooting him a few sidelong glances out the corner of his eye and figured Grian must be more worried for his sake than his own or Scar’s. “You probably shouldn’t be driving drowsy like that. Want me to drive?”

“Oh please. You can’t drive,” Skizz huffed. 

“Very true, and for more reasons than one.” 

“We’ll talk louder,” Scar piped in, practically shouting into Skizz’s ear. Somehow, the man in the back seat managed to project his voice loud enough to leave Skizz’s ears ringing.

He wasn’t about to start dealing with that for an extended period of time. “Nope! No. No need for that. I’m good. We’re all good. We’re almost there anyway. I can stay awake for the next mile and a half.”

The other two didn’t respond right away, and the silence quickly became awkward. He could only endure so much time without background noise to focus on. There was always the radio. He was just starting to debate whether or not he should turn on some tunes when Grian spoke up once more. “Are you seriously going to stay with us all night?”

“Sure dude.” He flicks on the blinker as he pulls up to a stop sign. “It’s kinda my fault things went wrong earlier today. I’m the one who opened my big mouth when she came out to play. I sort of owe you guys.”

“Not true,” Scar jumped in. “That ghost was just an angry jerkface.”

Skizz could see Grian nodding in agreement in the rearview mirror. “We all were triggering hunts left and right. We’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Yeah, but I still feel bad.” 

“Don’t,” Scar insisted. He added a little more quietly, “but we’d really appreciate the company if we’re not going back to check the house.”

,

“We’re not,” Skizz confirmed. “There’s no way I’d be able to pull it off.”

“We,” Scar corrected him. “You mean ‘we.’”

Skizz nodded. “Sorry. I mean ‘we.’ But we can chill out until everything gets sorted. And if this will help you guys, then maybe I can even get some sleep myself.”

Grian scoffed. “Outside?”

“Sure. Stranger things happen all the time.”

“Thank’s Skizz. You’re the best dad ever.”

Gosh, that nickname was still so weird. But the weirdness wasn’t enough to keep the sentiment from making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Awww, stop it.” 

The car came rolling to a stop alongside the open field. They were just outside the edge of the suburb where they frequently checked Tanglewood for ghosts. Nobody was around. They were all probably asleep in their beds like normal people who didn’t get pestered by their friends in the middle of the night. You know, the boring kind of normal people. Skizz threw open the driver-side door and stepped out into the cool night air. He rubbed at his shoulders, glad he had thought to bring his coat along. He didn’t hear the back door of the car open or close, but wasn’t surprised when Grian and Scar caught up to him.

“Which way was it again?”

“Over there,” Scar says, pointing towards a familiar row of trees. “It’s honestly a lovely spot. We could probably find you a nice mossy place between the roots to get comfy in.” That got a few giggles from Grian. 

It’s a bit of a hike, but the promise of sleep is plenty of motivation for Skizz. Even if that meant sleeping on the ground. The dew had just started soaking into the hem of his pants when they reached the first tree in the line. 

“It really is a nice place you two have here,” Skizz said as he leaned against the trunk. “Remind me to visit more often.”

“Hardy har-har,” Grian snapped back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Keep that up and it will be you staying here next time things go south. We’ll see how you like it then.” 

“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll pass.” 

Scar looked much more comfortable to be back here at least. He was already settling down in the grass, taking a seat with criss-crossed legs. Skizz found himself marveling at how unfazed the man was by the dampness. The dew-laden grass brushed past his pants without leaving so much as a wet spot. “You and Impulse will find that monkey’s paw or the tarot cards, right?”

“Better believe it, dude.”

“And if everything goes wrong again, you both can hang out with us here until Gem figures out-” Grian started, but Skizz cut him off.

“Hey, don’t think like that. We’ve got this. Remember, we’re professionals. The best ghost hunters the world has ever seen.”

He can still make out a glint of skepticism in Grian’s eyes, but his friend doesn’t try to protest further. Instead, he settled down next to Scar in the grass. Skizz decided to join them, letting his back slide down the side of the tree trunk until he was seated in the damp moss lining its base. He frowned as the dew seeped into his clothes, but it wasn’t as bad as the grass. Things could be worse.

Scar yawned. He stretched his arms over his head in a nice big stretch. “Good,” he managed after the yawn faded. “I can’t wait to go back home and see Jellie.”

“Now how about you get some rest,” Skizz offered. “I’m here now. Just… I don’t know. Don’t move on or whatever it is that might keep you from coming back.”

“No worries,” Grian said, suppressing a yawn of his own. “We’ll be around. And if not, we'll see you on the other side tomorrow.”

“Grian! Don’t say things like that!” 

The young man made no attempt to correct himself. He broke into a fit of giggles before letting himself flop backward. His back hit the mound of dirt behind him and the laughter abruptly cut off as he vanished from sight. 

“Hey! Don’t go incorporeal on me now, mister! Someone’s got to teach you about the wonders of positive thinking.”

Scar started laughing too, though with less gusto than Grian. “Night Dad,” he said before falling backwards as well. Skizz watched as his remaining friend disappeared into the dirt mound behind him. 

It was quiet with the two of them gone. Only the sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves over his head was left to keep him company. He was alone now. Probably. Maybe. It was hard to tell with ghosts. 

Not that Skizz would have minded the company. Clearly, they were glad to have him nearby. So he settled down in his own bed of moss alongside the two graves and tried to get comfortable. He even made sure to face the mounds in case Scar and Grian needed him for any reason. Hopefully, they would let him get some sleep tonight… Then he felt the jab of a branch in his back and realized, yeah, he's not getting much sleep tonight.

Tomorrow he and Impulse would hunt down a cursed object and wish them back to life. They wouldn’t have to stay in those temporary graves for very long. But until then, he had to get whatever sleep he could get during this impromptu little sleepover. Going into a haunted building half awake was a surefire way to get himself a hole of his own right next to Grian and Scar’s. 

[lunellum]

Have I ever shared the story of gun Elmo house?

A few years ago we were looking at a lot of houses and I don't know about anyone else but I love looking at other people's interior photos, especially when they're fucking bonkers. Sometimes that means looking at something way out of your price class because you're curious and discovering a porn house (that's a different story) and sometimes that means looking at a house that's perfectly normal on the outside, until you click through to the interior shots.

Like a tiki bar that takes up most of the living room. An impressive collection of hanging balls with little castles and dragons and other fantasy accoutrements on them. A bathroom done up entirely in fake Egyptian glory, with plaster columns and fake gold and a huge statue of a pharaoh.

And, the house's crowning glory, because yes all of this is THE SAME HOUSE, gun Elmo.

I only witnessed gun Elmo on a photo as we never dared to view this house in person. As far as I could tell, he was a regular Elmo plushie mounted on the living room wall (next to the tiki bar). His arms were folded around some sort of firearm (probably fake but who knows). He was hanging slightly above eye height, like a weird fluffy crucifix.

All I can say is, good on these people for not caring about resale value. They must've had a lot of fun in gun Elmo house.

[jo-harrington]

🩶🩶🩶

Request for Heaven-era AASB Eddie x Reader: discussing their favorite cryptids. (and why is Eddie's Mothman)

Mothman you say? Oh. Oh baby I’ve got you.

Haven't ready Heaven yet? Find it here.

I’m finishing this at 4am. This is most definitely not edited.

April 1984

“Would you rather…” you hummed thoughtfully. “Oh! Ok I have a good one. Would you rather drink the juice that collects at the bottom of a dumpster or eat a half-eaten moldy pizza you found on the side of the road?”

“Easy,” Eddie scoffed. “Trash juice. Next.”

“Are you kidding me?!?!” You practically jumped across the the booth to grab him by his vest. “The trash juice?!”

“You’re the one who thought of them!” He laughed heartily as you shook him.

It was your first date. Sort of. The first real one, just the two of you.

Thanks to your work schedule and his…well, more your work because he would happily skip class if it meant seeing you…it was hard to find time where the two of you could be alone. You were happy to meet at the Hideout on Tuesdays and listen to the band play, or spend a Saturday morning before your shift in the Caldwell’s garage while they practiced.

Or, at the very least, you insisted you were.

Having the guys around, however, meant that everything you shared with Eddie, you shared with them too. As addicted to you as he had become, there was very little he got to cherish for himself. And he coveted those little intimate moments.

He hadn’t even kissed you yet…

So, after some careful scheduling, here you were. Tucked into a booth in the Pizza Hut off highway 70 as you shared jokes and secrets and dreams.

He learned that you had a rebellious streak. You had dropped out of some stuffy all-girls Catholic high school as soon as you turned 18, despite your father’s threats to send you away to a convent if you even dared. You’d been driving around in your best-up, hand-me-down Marquis for a year before you simply had to stop running.

“Which led me to Hawkins. And you.”

“Almost like fate.”

“If you believe in that kind of thing.”

He also learned that you enjoyed silly party games, like “would you rather,” but no one ever wanted to indulge you.

Eddie greedily jumped at the chance to make you smile.

As soon as the first question left your mouth…

“Would you rather have your dick chopped off and thrown into a meat grinder or have sex with Ronald Reagan?”

…Eddie knew he was in love.

Beneath the innocent facade—the sweet smile and silver crucifix on your necklace that you fiddled with constantly—you were feral. And he could see why no one would play with you.

He, however, never wanted to stop.

For hours the two of you went back and forth, coming up with increasingly mind-bending challenges for one another and losing your minds at the other’s response.

While you went on and on about the merits of questionable road pizza over dumpster juice, though, Eddie formulated the ultimate question that would surely stump you.

And he could kiss the dumbfounded look off your face once it did.

"…and the point isn’t that you’re just sticking anything dirty in your mouth. It is the point of consumption!!! You might get sick if you eat something moldy. Trash juice would kill you! Instantly! Your…I don’t know, immortal soul forever disintegrated by the germs.”

You shook him once more for good measure, then fell back into your seat and gestured for him to go as you took a sip of your Mountain Dew.

Eddie took his chance and scooted out of the booth to quickly slid beside you on your side, preening as your giggles washed over him. As his arm found its way over your shoulder to tuck you into his side and make the moment more intimate, he suddenly understood the appeal of couples sitting on the same side of the booth.

“Would you rather,” he whispered into your ear, his voice taking on a deeper, richer quality the way it did when he DM’d. “Fuck the Jersey Devil or Mothman?”

You made your cute honking laugh and slapped his chest. Then, with all of the composure in the world, you looked him dead in the eye and answered.

“Mothman, duh…”

Something in Eddie short-circuited as you rested your head against his shoulder and elaborated, words fading into the background as he spiraled.

“He’s massive…the cuddles…protect you with his wings…nuzzle you…”

Because…of course to him, the correct answer was Mothman. Not necessarily to fuck, although that would be pretty metal.

Eddie had sketched Mothman many times in the journal he kept for DND. Had been obsessed with the story the first time his uncle had told it to him. The height, the wings, the general…it was not even benevolence…Mothman simply was. Flying around, living his life, sometimes scaring people, but generally a good guy.

Just like Eddie.

To be honest, he was a little surprised you even knew who Mothman was. But you seemed to know a lot of creepy, crazy shit so he just went with his gut.

But for you to…answer so confidently. You must have considered it before. Or maybe…

There was a soft pressure on his lips and Eddie came back to reality.

Lips? You were kissing him. Right. Right. Be cool.

His hand immediately found your cheek and held it reverently as he savored the sweetness of you. And in that moment, something inside of him—inside his soul—sighed in relief.

When you eventually pulled away, you giggled.

“Had to get you back to the real world somehow.”

You both savored the tenderness throughout the rest of the date. There were a few more rounds of “would you rather” with tamer topics. More kisses were exchanged, ones that took Eddie’s breath away and made his heart flutter.

And at the end of the night when he dropped you back off at home, right before you hopped out of his van, he asked the question that had plagued his mind since the moment before you kissed him.

“Did you fuck Mothman?”