#and a lot of it just happens to be bloody
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itsoutrageouss · 10 hours ago
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pt.1 pt.2 pt.3
Part four of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing you cry for the first time, due to demand which I am (so) grateful for. Simon’s accidentally a little mean at the wrong time lol- readers on her period.
It’s the second time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that he looses himself into some kind of caretaker instinct.
The last time it had happened, it was after a brutal mission where he’d found you as a crying heap on the floor. So naturally his heart started pounding painfully in his chest when he creaked the door open to your room and saw you curled in bed, sniffling softly.
Once again the vulnerability you showed seemed to hurl him away like a storm. It was such a precious, private side of you and he wanted to go on his knees for you in thanks for allowing him to see it.
He’s by your side with three stalking striders, crouching down next to the bed. His hand hovers over your waist, then your shoulder, then your face because he doesn’t know if he can, or even where he should touch you right now, your shoulders shaking as your head nuzzles into your tear stained pillow.
“Hey. Stop.” He says, voice almost holding a small tremble, laced with panic because as much as he adored this side of you, he wanted you to smile again. Please?
You didn’t respond, only curled further away like an uninterested cat. He frowns and then grabs your neck, gently turning it until you meet his gaze. He wants to gasp at how pretty you look with glistening, red cheeks and glossy eyes, lashes sticking together as you pout at him.
“What is it lovie?” The nickname slips before he knows how to stop it and he winces internally, tensing. But it seems to coax you to nuzzle your face into his hand instead, and he keeps it completely still, scared that a single movement would scare you away. He feels your cold cheek press into his palm, itching to curl his fingers into the soft skin.
“Nothing” you whine.
He huffs. Jesus Christ.
“Nothing, yeah? That’ why you’re crying like a baby?” He smiles, eyes crinkling behind the mask but yours have closed and he sees your face contort into more sadness, more crying and his eyes go wide, immediately holding you a little tighter.
“No! No, shit, sweet’eart it was a joke” he says quickly, voice urgent. You usually took all his teasing with great stride or an even better comeback, but seeing you cry even more because of him made a strange knot form in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow down.
You demonstratively turn your back to him on the bed. It was actually insane to him, seeing you like this. You were always sharp, focused, witty; slapping Johnny and Simon on the arm when they start bantering too much on the way to a mission.
He was sort of addicted to it, he thought, as even your back turning made something warm flutter in his stomach as he reached for your shoulder, entire hand able to envelop it and tug gently.
“M’ sorry? M’ sorry just… talk to me.” Silence ensues.
“Please.” The word falls unnaturally from his lips.
It seems to be the keyword because your head turns painfully slow until you blink up at him, now with a slight scowl.
“It hurts” you whisper, bottom lip jutting out. He immediately pulls your cover down to your thigh to start looking you over for injuries but your cold hands tug his wrist and puts his palms over your lower stomach. He blinks.
“You pregnant?” He blurts.
Your eyes widen and he swears he sees a hint of a smile and triumph floods his system. “No you idiot! I’m on my period. Cramps!” You say with a shake of your head, eyes closing for a beat.
He was a bloody idiot to be fair. A lot of things from today seemed to click for him when you said that, and his shoulders relax, head tilting as his eyes narrow, framed by the black mask. His hands on your stomach fan out, thumbs stroking the skin under your shirt. He feels your muscles tighten at his touch.
“Sensitive?” He muses.
“Shut it” you mumble, looking away and trying not to let the enjoyment of his touch show too much, but your eyes flutter closed and he could practically hear you purring. But he doesn’t say anything, once again afraid he’ll ruin this little bubble that you’ve let him be a part of, for reasons he doesn’t understand.
After long minutes of comfortable silence, his hands running over the expanse of your stomach, caressing and massaging softly, he sees your lips part in soft breaths. Slowly and lingering, his hands retreat so he doesn’t do anything stupid. But you whine, immediately noticing the lack of his touch, even in your half asleep state, grabbing for him. His jaw flexes as he tried not to smile.
“M’ gonna run you a bath, lovie. I’ll be right back.” He promised, suddenly turning into some kind of caretaker role he never thought he wanted to be. Until you came along and now he finds himself wanting to do all kinds of things for you, after seeing how you reacted to his touch. The scrunch of your brows when he tells you he’ll run you a bath gives him a high he can ride for days.
He’s just trying to repay how sweetly you bandaged his hands weeks ago. To repay how you played along to his little story at the last mission about how you and him had met.
Trying to repay these insatiable and foreign feelings you brought forth in him, so you wouldn’t take them away. Ever.
Now maybe he just had to actually tell you about them? No. No way. The thought was forced from his mind immediately.
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mikuluvu · 13 hours ago
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TACTICAL DISTRACTION
Summary: Task Force 141 goes undercover at a nightclub for a mission. You wore a bold, eye-catching "Euphoria"-style outfit to distract a VIP guard, allowing the team to infiltrate undetected.
A/n: 2/10 COD fics posted! And yes, I did put some designs here and there lmao. Requests are open for COD/Tf141
The loud music vibrated through the crowded nightclub, neon lights flickering around the club. Task Force 141 was scattered across the room, each blending into the crowd while keeping their eyes on the mission. They all sported casual outfits to stay low-profile—Soap in a bomber jacket and jeans, Gaz in a leather jacket, Price looking like an unassuming older patron in a dark button-up, and Ghost opting for a simple black hoodie. But you? Oh, you stood out like a beacon, wrapped in an outfit that screamed Euphoria—sparkles, mesh, and barely-there fabric that had them all questioning the mission.
Soap leaned closer to Ghost, trying to be heard over the music. “She’s really leanin’ into it, yeh?” he said with a chuckle, gesturing to you as you sauntered toward the VIP area.
Ghost’s eyes, partially obscured by his hood, followed your path.“Bloody ‘ell, she’s got the lad starin’ like he’s never seen a woman before,” he muttered, lips twitching like he wanted to smirk but wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction.
Price’s voice crackled in their earpieces. “Stay focused, lads. We’ve got a job to do.”
Meanwhile, you approached the guard stationed outside the VIP room. The man barely registered you at first, but as soon as you flashed a sly smile and toyed with a strand of your hair, he stiffened.
“Hey there,” you purred, leaning closer. The guard blinked, clearly trying to keep his composure but failing miserably as his eyes darted over your outfit.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he stammered.
“Really?” you teased, brushing your fingers lightly along his arm. “I thought this was where all the fun people went.” Your tone dripped with playful mischief, and you stepped even closer, making sure his eyes were only on you.
In the comms, Soap snorted. ““She’s bloody good at this. Poor lad’s practically droolin’.”
Gaz’s voice chimed in. “She’s making it look way too easy. Remind me not to owe her a favor.”
While you kept the guard distracted with flirty banter, Price and Ghost slipped behind him unnoticed, disappearing into the VIP room. You caught the faintest glimpse of Ghost’s nod before turning your attention back to the guard.
“So,” you said, leaning on the counter beside him, “what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this? You don’t look like you’re here for the party.”
He chuckled nervously, completely oblivious to what was happening behind him. “I’m... working.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” You tilted your head, pouting slightly. “You deserve to have some fun. Maybe…with me?”
Price’s voice crackled in your earpiece. “Good work, love. We’re in.”
You smiled sweetly at the guard, then straightened up. “Actually, I just remembered—I’ve got somewhere else to be.” Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving him utterly confused and flustered.
As you rejoined the team near the club's exit, Soap greeted you with a wide grin. “Ye’ve got a dangerous talent, love. That was somethin’ else,”
You smirked, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”
Ghost’s low voice cut through the banter. “Next time, let one o’ us handle the target, aye? You’re gonna put the lot of us in an early grave.”
You laughed, shooting him a teasing look. “What? Jealous, Simon?”
He didn’t respond, but the slight tilt of his head told you everything you needed to know.
Gaz came up next, leaning casually on the wall beside you. “You know,” he said, his voice smooth, “if you ever decide this whole Task Force thing isn’t for you, you’ve got a bright future in acting. Or breaking hearts.” He gestured to the VIP entrance. “That poor guy’s probably still trying to figure out what just happened.”
You smirked, crossing your arms. “He'll be fine...”
Price chuckled from behind his cigar, his tone playful but warm. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried. You might’ve set the bar a little too high for the rest of us, love.”
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Captain,” you teased, tilting your head at him. “I’m sure you’d be great at flirting your way past security.”
That got a laugh from the group, even Ghost, who stood a little apart but was still listening.
“Flirting’s not exactly my specialty,” Ghost finally said, his voice low and dry. “But if I did, it wouldn’t involve wearin’… that.” His gaze flicked over your outfit, lingering just a second too long.
“Aw, you don’t like it?” you said, feigning a pout. “I thought it was pretty effective.”
Soap interjected before Ghost could reply, grinning wickedly. “Oh, don’t mind him, bonnie. He’s just a wee bit shy.” He pulled you closer, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary. “Though if you’re takin’ votes, I’d say the outfit’s a bloody masterpiece.”
Gaz raised a hand. “Seconded. Might need to keep it on standby for future missions. You know, for ‘tactical purposes.’”
You rolled your eyes, shaking off Soap’s arm but laughing as the group continued to rib you. “You’re all acting like you weren’t ogling me from the second I walked out in this.”
Price raised an eyebrow, an innocent look on his face. “Who, us? Neva'.”
Soap leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. "I mean, ye can’t blame us, lass. Ye’ve got a certain… presence about ye". His voice dropped to a mock-whisper. “Dangerously distractin’, really. Almost too good at yer job”
Gaz smirked, nudging Soap out of the way to stand closer to you. “Ignore him. If anyone’s got the charm to keep up with you, it’s me.”
You laughed, hands on your hips as you looked between the group. “You’re all hopeless, you know that?”
A/n: WKWKKW IM HAVING TROUBLE DOING SOAP'S ACCENT
Buy me a coffee?
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beomiracles · 2 days ago
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you’re dating beomgyu and he’s so sweet and caring then you find out he’s serial killer and he has hidden body parts in his house but instead of being mortified you’re intrigued so you help him with his next victim then you fuck cause why not…. could also be good with soobin or taehyun
you know what? hell yeah!
tw, gore, soobin is literally a murderer, decapitating, dead bodies, hm they're equally freaky, penetrative sex, bloody sex.
soobin was a weird guy. socially awkward, shy and never fitting in larger crowds. your friends had all told you from the start that there was something off about him... something uncanny. you never believed them, soobin was so sweet, like a big friendly giant.
but you can't deny that the late nights spent alone in bed, followed up the petty excuses about working late he'd make had started to get to you. ― he was hiding something from you, that much was clear.
what you hadn't expected for it to be was the decapitated head you found in his freezer one Friday night.
"Binnie.." your voice is shaky as you call for him, your eyes glued to the dull eyes of the stranger that currently stared back at you. your boyfriend hums from downstairs, the sound of his heavy footsteps thumping in your ears as he emerges from the basement.
when he enters the kitchen he stops in his tracks, his gaze immediately landing on your find. immediately he springs into action, slamming the freezer door shut in your face as he steps between it and you. ― "it's not what it looks like" "I can explain" "please just give me a chance to.."
you cut him off with a finger to his lips. "did you...did you do that yourself?" you peer up at him with questioning eyes and soobin swallow as he slowly nods, mumbling out a quiet, "yes."
your lips part, a small breath passing them as reality sinks in. your soobin he... he... you blink, tilting your head to the side as you study him closely. ― "can I watch next time?"
it starts like that. with you sitting on a chair in the corner of the basement, watching as soobin works. his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny forearms. they're covered in a thick layer of dark blood, his face is too, it had splattered all over him.
methodically sawing the limbs of his victim apart one by one. he's silent, save for the occasional grunt as he rips an arm off. ― with big and fascinated eyes you watch him, taking note of his every move.
it's not long until you join him, your own sleeves rolled up as he stands behind you, guiding your movement on the saw as you slice the body before you. ― it turned out to be a lot heavier than you'd expected, but it was quickly something you grew to like.
his large and bloody hands make you tingle as he slides them along your arms. once you've gotten the hang of it he lets you have a go at it yourself, busying himself with feeling you up. ― you try to ignore the way his fingers brush against the hem of your jeans, how they mindlessly fiddle with the button as you focus on decapitating the leg of the body before you.
but when his hand slips inside your pants, long fingers gliding between your already soaked folds, and when you feel the outline of his hard cock against your ass, it becomes impossible to ignore.
the body is long forgotten about when soobin shoves you against the basement wall. his cock throbs deep inside your cunt as his bloody hands tear your shirt open. ― you're both a mess, the smell of death mixing with your arousal as the sounds of pleasure fill the dim basement.
"you're a natural", soobin groans as he feels you clench around him. your heart swells at the compliment and you lean in to kiss him. ― "I happen to have a good teacher", you hum, fingers tangling in his dark hair, giving it a harsh tug.
soobin curses under his breath as his hips snap against yours. ― "fuck I can't wait to see you behead your first body."
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stupidphototricks · 2 days ago
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Rincewind just might be the character of all time. (Part 1, probably)
“You’re all missin’ the point. He survives. You keep on tellin’ me he’s had all these adventures and he’s still alive.” “What do you mean? He’s got scars all over him!” “My point exactly, Dean. Most of ’em on his back, too. He leaves trouble behind. Someone Up There smiles on him.” Rincewind winced. He had always been aware that Someone Up There was doing something on him. He’d never considered it was smiling. -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
Rincewind shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said. “I hate it when people are nice to me. It means something bad is going to happen. Do you mind shouting?” Ridcully had had enough. “Get out of that bed you horrible little man and follow me this minute or it will go very hard for you!” “Ah, that’s better. I feel right at home now. Now we’re cooking with charcoal,” said Rincewind, glumly. -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
Adventure! People talked about the idea as if it was something worthwhile, rather than a mess of bad food, no sleep, and strange people inexplicably trying to stick pointed objects in bits of you. -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
He was no good at anything else. Wizardry was the only refuge. Well, actually he was no good at wizardry either, but at least he was definitively no good at it. He’d always felt he had a right to exist as a wizard in the same way that you couldn’t do proper maths without the number 0, which wasn’t a number at all but, if it went away, would leave a lot of larger numbers looking bloody stupid. -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
And he probably had saved the world a few times, but it had generally happened accidentally, while he was trying to do something else. So you almost certainly didn’t actually get any karmic points for that. It probably only counted if you started out by thinking in a loud way “By criminy, it’s jolly well time to save the world, and no two ways about it!” instead of “Oh, shit, this time I’m really going to die.” -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
“Say something in wizard language!” “Er. Stercus, stercus, stercus, moriturus sum,” said Rincewind, his eye on the knife. “‘O excrement, I am about to die?’” -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
“I saw him, I tell you! A legion of soldiers collapsed with the wind of his passage!” The wind of his passage was beginning to worry Rincewind as well. It always tended to when he was frightened. -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
“That is correct,” said Two Fire Herb. “We will overcome because history is on our side.” “We will overcome because the Great Wizard is on our side,” said Butterfly sharply. “I’ll tell you this!” shouted Rincewind. “I’d rather trust me than history! Oh, shit, did I just say that?” -- Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
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definitelynotshouting · 22 hours ago
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saw this post assigning devastating quotes to each life series members, got incredibly inspired, and decided to try my own hand at it but specifically with snippets of the poetry ive personally written throughout the years :] thoughts and musings on several of my choices will be under the cut if you're interested in that sorta thing!! Enjoy<3
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Bdubs: "it's all so blue. so blue, so wet, so cold, but you've got a fire in your heart like a hundred rockets. you aren't hungry, but you could eat the dead, / cut your teeth on a rotting corpse."
BigB: "SOMETHING HAS FRACTURED HERE AND IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. EACH DAY YOU WILL CHASE THE FAULT LINES LOOKING FOR A BRIDGE ONLY TO FIND IT ALREADY BURNT."
Etho: "I am above myself, hovering, pressing pale fingers into the dull bruise of yesterday to test its lingering ache. Is this all that's left?"
Gem: "what are gods if not the mothers of our own inventions. we are the avatars of violence and love and hope and fear in equal measure."
Scar: "I think I want to live. I know one day, I must die. In the cosmic wheel of fortune, I am a gamble in the making, gentle breath washing a little luck over the dice."
Grian: "Within the shape of my clawed fingers are knives: scrabbled dirt; scarlet lines; the escape route / Between a fence and / Tall grasses."
Impulse: "Life's bitter, stilted offering / Is that every person we meet / Will one day become a perfect stranger."
Martyn: "Dangerous beasts must earn / Their survival. / You are no different than a knife / In the hands of murderers."
Lizzie: "When I think of the egg-tooth, / I revel in purple glass; the lightning; the shatter; the knife-slip between / Death, and a wake."
Mumbo: "This is your life now, / Found in the cracks and crevices, scraps pried between laughter and reckless abandon."
Pearl: "I am begging, raw in the face of absolution— do not hate me. Please, keep watering me in your garden, / Despite how closely my heart resembles a weed."
Ren: "— and sometimes hearts are forged in violence /— and sometimes blood cannot form scabs / — and sometimes wounds carry half-hearted sutures / — and we are all but living fragments / —"
Skizz: "Just a little longer. Please. / There is light pooling at the bottom of the flower vase."
Scott: "I can only hope that with the rising of the dawn / I will pass through darkness and return to day, / Where I am a solar ray blinding— teeth and claws sharpened, the stretch of my skin carrying gold / Above the dull, dug out earth"
Joel: "Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; / Yes, there is a loss."
Jimmy: "for year after bloody year, i clung to life with aching fingernails, grasped at every straw, took every scrap of double-barrelled hope and shot myself in the chest with it."
Tango: "every time you claw yourself from the ashes you insist it will never happen again. every time you reach the breaking point, it happens a little bit faster."
Cleo: "It's about catharsis, not letting go. / Because a part of me wants to hold this, / A swelling hurt deeper than tides, / Hotter than stars. The kind of rage / A mother might raise against her own child."
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I dont share my poetry on here very often, partially because it tends to end up coming from a very personal part of me, but since this was actually a lot of fun maybe i'll start posting my poems more often here :]] i think what i found most interesting about this exercise was that as i scrolled my notes app and cherry-picked quotes for each character, it felt like the ones i chose naturally became part of a larger conversation-- as if the characters were speaking to me through my own words about their lowest points, about their ultimate views on the games filtered through the lens of a red life.
It felt enlightening; i dont often feel like im speaking to characters or being informed about their plots/preferences, etc. the way many other writers discuss in workshops or casually online, but by the end of this exercise i felt like i just... understood them, better than i had before. There's something inexplicable about reading your own words and consciously finding ways to apply them in a way that encapsulates them down to a character's core that just... truly highlights the specific qualities that resonate most with you. And i think stumbling upon that organically was a very vivid and incredible experience for me
Admittedly, i did struggle on Scott, Ren, and Etho a lot-- im not as familiar with them as characters, and for a while i couldn't quite pinpoint what exact themes they tend to carry with them throughout all their life seasons. But when i started to really look at everyone's quotes as a whole, i realized they felt like a story, like the response to a question-- as if i was being TOLD what they felt and how, and that that was how i needed to frame the rest of my selections. So Scott's ended up being about control, and the desperate hanging onto of it; Ren's is about the acceptance and bitterness of what he cannot change; Etho's is a quiet resignation rounded out with softer disbelief. The more i looked at these choices, the more they felt correct to me-- and while i still think i have a ways to go before i fully understand these characters, i feel like this has helped me a lot with that ultimate goal :]
Of all these poetry snippets, though, i think Scar, Skizz, and Joel's are my absolute favorites. Skizz's poem is actually the whole poem in its entirety (as is Cleo's, funnily enough)-- it's a short, very simple poem that is incredibly close to my heart for many reasons, but the main one being because it was written at one of my lowest points a few years back. Its about clawing for hope when there isnt any, and finding even the smallest of beautiful things to hold onto, and begging yourself to keep holding onto that at any cost. The pure, clean beauty of watching light refract through a vase of flowers, and knowing that sometimes, that's all there is to live for-- I felt like that really spoke to Skizz's life series character as a whole: finding the beauty in every tiny thing, no matter how small, and scrabbling for more time to appreciate it.
Scar's snippet comes from a much longer poem of mine about the difficulty of reconciling the idea of a future when you havent had to think of one before (incidentally, Etho's snippet comes from this poem as well). I think out of everyone, this quote encapsulates him the best; i like how it subtly references that inner well of vivacity he draws from that many other characters struggle to find, and how that in turn ties in with the lore that he never died a final death during Secret Life. And i love how it simultaneously manages to encompass the way he utilizes the social game in each season as well-- Scar's an incredibly intelligent social player, and i think the imagery of a gambler breathing their luck over the dice as they cast it, and as he casts himself at others for alliances and enemies, truly does fit him.
As for Joel, the full poem his quote comes from is one im particularly proud of, especially for its final lines. I think, quite honestly, i can let this poem stand for itself in its entirety:
They say transformation is letting the light in, But in my mind it's a violence. A coarseness, a fracturing, the bloody vowels between a scream And a howl. How do you transform without killing yourself? When I am a lion, my hands and feet Grow claws; my teeth sharpen. No longer do I spark— I ignite. Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; Yes, there is a loss. To transform is to leave behind a body And eat its still-breathing corpse.
I find myself referencing this poem a lot even in my daily life-- as longterm readers of mine already know, one of my favorite themes is that of replacing yourself and permanent transformation. This poem really is just about how changing, in any shape or form, alters you forever; how you can look back on yourself from even just a few months ago and feel like a completely different person despite remaining the same. Connecting it with Joel's character, and how he acts during his red lives in each season, was a natural and intuitive progression once i really sat and thought about it.
Alright thats enough yapping from me 😂😂😂 im not used to writing meta nor delving into my poetry on here, so this was a bit of an experimental post for me. If youve read up until this point, i both applaud your patience and really hope you enjoyed this window into my personal works and thoughts on them :]] cheers, and thanks to @/chipperchemical the op of the original post for inspiring me!!!❤️❤️❤️
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lvnleah · 3 days ago
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breaking the news.
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strap in for this little mini series! it’s four parts long and a new part will be put out every tuesday <33
bit of a short one as it’s only 1.4k
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Beth and Viv always knew that they weren’t going to play at the same club forever but they never expected it to come as soon as it did. They’d both been called in to discuss their contracts for the following season. 
Beth’s went well and she decided to stay, she was happy where she was. Viv on the other hand wasn’t. They’d had a long conversation about it before the meetings. It was a long one once you were in bed. 
They talked for hours. They talked about where Viv would potentially go, how the living situation would be and most of all how it would affect you considering you were attached to both of them so much. 
After hours of talking, Beth and Viv sat in silence, both processing the weight of their conversation. Viv ran a hand through her hair. 
“I knew this day would come,” Beth finally said, her voice soft. “But I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
Viv nodded, her gaze focused on the floor. “Me neither. But Arsenal made it clear… they’re moving in a different direction. I can’t stay here if they don’t want me.” There was a heaviness in her words that Beth felt deep in her chest.
“I don’t want to hold you back,” Beth said gently, “I know you still have so much to give. It’s just… hard to imagine not having you here every day, for me and especially for Rory. She’s so used to us being together.”
Viv sighed, “I know. That’s what makes this even harder. I don’t want to confuse her, or make her feel like I’m leaving forever.”
Beth shook her head. “We’ll make it work. We’ll explain it to her in a way she’ll understand. We’re still a family, no matter where you are.”
Viv smiled at that, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “If I go to City like I’ve been offered already, I’ll be two hours away by train. I’ll come back every chance I get. And we’ll figure out something for the longer term. Maybe I can get a place closer to home.”
Beth nodded. “We’ll have to talk to Rory together, make sure she knows this will work.”
“Yeah,” Viv whispered, her thumb tracing circles on Beth’s hand. “It’s just… I hate that I’m the one leaving. I don’t want her to feel like I’m choosing football over her.”
Beth gave her a reassuring look. “She’s smart, like you. She’ll understand that you’re doing what you love. And we’ll always be here, waiting for you.”
They sat quietly for a moment, knowing that this was only the beginning of many hard conversations to come, but also determined to face them together.
A few days later, after a long training session, Beth and Viv found themselves in the locker room with a few of the Arsenal girls. The atmosphere was light, with the usual banter going around, but Beth could feel a tension sitting between her and Viv. They hadn’t yet told anyone outside of the staff about Viv’s move.
Leah plopped down on the bench next to Beth. “You alright? You’ve been a bit off lately.”
Beth forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… a lot going on.” She glanced at Viv, who was lacing up her boots slowly, clearly deep in thought.
Leah followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on with you two? You both look like you’ve got something on your mind. Are you splitting up?”
Beth sighed, her shoulders slumping. “No no…Viv’s leaving at the end of the season.”
The room went quiet for a second, and a couple of the other girls stopped their conversations, glancing over at Viv. Leah’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, ‘leaving’? As in… no, not Arsenal? Sure not.”
Beth nodded. “Arsenal’s not renewing her contract.”
Leah’s expression softened as she sat back, processing the news. “Bloody hell… that’s a lot to take in.”
Viv looked up, sensing the shift in the room, and gave a small nod. “It’s not like I want to leave, but it’s what’s happening. It’s not up to me anymore.”
Leah frowned. “And what about Rory? How’s she taking it?”
“We haven’t told her yet,” Beth admitted. “We’ve been talking about how to explain it in a way that doesn’t make her feel like Viv’s abandoning us.”
Leah sat quietly for a moment, then said, “You know, when Jordan left for Villa last year, I had the same worries with Buddy. Rory’s strong, and she’s got both of you. As long as she knows Viv isn’t going anywhere for good, she’ll adapt.”
Viv nodded, clearly appreciating Leah’s perspective. “I hate that I’m the one leaving, but I’m hoping we can keep things as normal as possible. I’ll come back as often as I can.”
Leah smiled softly. “You two have got this. And if you ever need help with Rory or even just someone to talk to, I’m here. You’re still part of the family, both of you are.”
A few months had passed since Beth and Viv’s conversation, and the end of the season was approaching quickly. The days felt shorter as they tried to prepare for what was coming, but the hardest part still had to happen—telling you.
Most people knew and somehow they’d managed to keep it all under wraps from you. They wanted to keep things as normal as possible for you and somehow they had. It was now the April and you still had no idea. 
One evening after dinner, Beth and Viv exchanged a look, silently agreeing that it was finally time to talk. They’d been putting it off, hoping to find the right moment, but there never seemed to be a perfect time.
You were sitting on the living room floor, playing with some of your toys, completely unaware of the serious conversation that was about to happen.
“Munchkin,” Beth said softly, sitting down next to you while Viv sat on the other side. “We need to talk to you about something important.”
You looked up, “What is it?” You asked, crawling onto Beth’s lap. 
Beth wrapped her arms around you, gently brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “You know how Mamma and I both play football, right?”
You nodded a proud smile on your face. “Yeah! You play for Arsenal!”
Beth chuckled softly. “Well, Mamma’s still going to play football, but she’s going to play for a different team next season.”
You tilted your head, trying to understand. “Not Arsenal?”
Viv cleared her throat, her voice gentle as she spoke. “No, sweetheart, not Arsenal. I’ll be playing for a different team. It’ll be a little further away so Mamma won’t be home all the time like I am now.”
You blinked, your little brows furrowing in confusion. “Why? I don’ want you to go. You stay here!”
You didn’t want Viv to move away, you were happy with how things were.
They were both with you all the time and you couldn’t imagine your life changing like that. 
Viv’s heart ached at the sadness in your voice, but she leaned in closer, pulling you onto her lap. “I know it sounds scary, but I’m not going anywhere for good. I’ll still come home as much as I can, and we’ll still see each other all the time.”
“But you won’t be here every day?” you asked, your voice small. “You won’t get to take me to school and tuck me in at night?”
Beth wrapped an arm around both of you, her voice soft and reassuring. “Mamma’s not leaving you, okay? She loves you so much. We’ll make sure you can visit her, and she’ll come back whenever she can. Nothing’s going to change between us, we’re still your family. We’ll even be able to stay with Mamma and have a sleepover!”
You looked up at Viv, tears starting to well in your eyes. “But I like it when ‘ou here every day. You stay?”
Viv swallowed hard, her heart breaking. “I wish I could, kleintje. Even though I’ll be playing for another team, I’ll always come back. You’ll never be without me, I promise.”
Beth wiped away one of your tears with her thumb. “It’s going to be different, but you’re going to be okay, and we’ll be right here with you.”
You sniffled, cuddling into Viv’s chest. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice still wobbly. “But you have to promise you come back lots. With chocolate!”
Viv kissed the top of your head, her voice thick with emotion. “I promise. With chocolate, as much as I can.”
Beth kissed your cheek too, and together, the three of you sat in a quiet moment, holding onto each other as you began to understand the change that was coming. It was hard, but you knew that no matter what, your Mamma and Mummy loved you, and that love wasn’t going anywhere.
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blueishspace · 2 days ago
Text
Hero, Villain God 48
(Prev) (Next) (First)
Chapter 10
*Grian's pov*
You freeze in place, your mouth widens then flattens then widens again... You feel a bit like a fish right now. You watched Scar as the tendril pierces his body and your mind just went blank, just poof and then nothing... This wasn't supposed to happen.
It took you a surprisingly long time to process what just happened... Are you being mocked? Your first day out and Hotguy is dead? What is this?? There's just no way that this actually happened.
...
When time begun and you were first spun from the primordial void you already knew a lot of things, you knew the way matter worked, you knew who were your siblings and their domains and most importantly you knew there were rules to the universe that no one should break, as the god of chaos you broke each and every single one of them again and again for sport and watched the universe almost fall apart multiple times because of it ...Except for one, there is one rule that you have never even considered breaking in all of your years, that which forbids from trying to manipulate Time's domain... Yet, when you see the bloodied tendril strike trough Scar's heart...as you reach towards him in three three different bodies the world around you stops in place...The moment you reach him everything has frozen in place including him... You can feel him with your hands, is he cold because he's dead or because time is stopped? You feel like you would normally be able to tell something that simple but you are...stuck, not thinking and yet thinking too much at the same time.
You feel too much right now, the silent coming from all around you makes the concurrent beating of all three of your vessel's hearts extremely loud even while nestled in their semi-mortal bodies...and the body beneath, It's just too-
Pain, unexpected, like your whole essence was grabbed and flattened and pulled, you almost kneel as you feel the fabric of reality itself stretch and bend in ways it wasn't meant to as the other gods your equals begin pulling to fix what you just broke, your grip on the universe wanes as other domains -Time, Order, Space- begin to push and pull against your own -Action, Change, Energy- you aren't going to be able to do this for much longer...The question is...what now? Whatever happens now you'll have to decide in relatively little time.
You don't understand why you are reacting like this, you could do this even without Scar here, three of your five personas don't even know him in any meaninful or personal ways.
You could just let this happen and do a bit of what the mortals call improv, maybe say a few words at his funeral and simply do your own thing from there. It might even make things easier for Mother Spore and Poultryman...
...No, you did not break time for nothing, that would be dumb and a waste and the idea of letting this happen is something you-... it doesn't matter, not really, what matters is you are not letting Hotguy die like this... which brings to the earlier question, what now.
You can't do this forever, not without so many gods ganging up on you, you need to do something big, a final push before time resumes.
Time...... you have an idea.
Time, you already broke it you might as well break it more.
Time, the constant increasing entropy, disorder growing in the universe every second of every minute of every hour...you feel it tightening around your soul and body and you use all the force you can muster to pull on that weave like a lead or rain or something else a mortal would say.
You are chaos itself, it would be logically impossible for you to reverse time, decrease the universe's disorder... Yet, you are chaos, the laws of reality bend for you... always have.
You blink your millions upon billions of eyes and open six of them back to a city, back to a meeting and back to an apartment... All around two hours before the fight and Hotguy's death.
That... that works.
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About to go on a random tangent but i feel like the s5 house finale with houses very real, very serious mental breakdown really changes the way foreman sees him....when john house died foreman took houses disinterest 100% at face value,even went to chase and cameron to complain about how disconnected from humanity house is. Chase was the one who had to tell him that House is probably a mess under all the fake bravado and foreman didn't seem to believe him.
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When house first starts losing it fr, (s5 ep23) he locks himself in his apartment for an unspecified number of days. Cuddy sends foreman to find him. House opens the door looking haunted and disheveled, he tells foreman that he is taking a day off, that he can't come to work. Foreman dismisses all of it, he tells him to sober up, to send the hookers home and come to work or cuddy will fire him. When does house not look haunted and disheveled? He is house. He can't be any worse off than usual. Foreman doesnt take him seriously.
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House goes to work and foreman is the first one to get suspicious of his behaviour. He can tell that something is Seriously wrong this time. He pries the same way house would have because why wouldn't he? Noone in this office can let anything go. A lot of things happen.
House drops out of a case. Wilson says he is unavailable, full stop, no negotiations. And after the aftermath of it all, when house goes to Mayfield the team must have heard at one point or another about what happened. The details of what was going on. Did foreman connect the dots? The red bloody dots that connect Ambers accident, Kutner's suicide, John House's death to houses deteriorating mental state? House told Wilson that he was seeing Amber. He told cuddy that he hadn't slept through the night since Kutner shot himself in the temple with his own gun. Did foreman go looking for answers? Did they tell him more than they should have? Did he realise that the reason why his boss was looking haunted that morning he ambushed him in his apartment was because he was literally seeing ghosts?
And then of course s6 starts and foremans attitude towards house hasnt really shifted...they spend most of the season "fighting" for dominance over the diagnostics department. But then the s6 finale (help me) happens and house is clearly affected by the death of the woman whose leg he amputated under the rubble. Foreman attempts to comfort him. He doesn't dismiss everything as just house being house. He can tell that this could be it, this could very easily be the night house relapses. He tells him that he shouldn't be alone right now. House ignores him and leaves. First episode of s7, foreman is asking after house. The rest of the team dismisses his worries and he replies with a simple "you didn't see him yesterday".
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In s8 when wilson is revealed to be dying foreman again attempts to stand by house. House accuses him of trying to take Wilsons place after he dies. "Dont worry about me, im probably not gonna fall apart." I just can't imagine a foreman from seasons 1-5 understanding house in such a way or making an effort to comfort him. I really feel like Mayfield was a pivotal point in their bizarre employee/boss- boss/employ-friends-antagonists-i don't want to turn into you relationship.
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gullemec · 20 hours ago
Text
Cross the Line
Golden Cage - Chapter Five
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Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader
Summary: Truth or Dare, Murder, and Sex. Or, you and Butcher go on a road trip.
Warnings: SMUT (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, nipple play, dirty talk, creampie, discussions of previous murders, language, unsafe driving, attempted flashing, One Bed Trope™️, reader has poor self esteem and is Going Through It, straight up vehicular manslaughter, brief description of dead bodies
Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3
WC: 7.7k
A/N: Here she is!! My first ever f/m smut scene! Please be kind. Also a very action-packed chapter. Please read the tags before diving in because there's a LOT happening here.
Monday morning rolls around with an alarming speed, the pace of your days having taken a decided turn toward the speed of light. 
It had nothing to do with your apprehension around being with Butcher again, you were sure. 
Certain. 
The plan, not unlike the last plan, is supposedly simple. As the CytoGenix van carrying the vials of V2 makes its way upstate, you and Butcher will tail it at a distance, waiting until the time is right to strike and run the van offroad using a spike strip.
You've thought up about two thousand ways this could go wrong. You could probably think of a thousand more, but your brain started to hurt when you tried.
You pull your bag over your shoulder, every step to Butcher’s van downstairs weighed down by a strange mix of adrenaline and dread. He’s waiting for you, leaned against the driver’s side door with his usual cocky smirk, dark aviators shielding his expression.
“Look alive, sunshine,” he says as you climb in. “Big day ahead.”
You settle into the passenger seat, forcing yourself to play it cool. The hum of the engine fills the silence as you pull away, but within moments, the tension in the van feels as suffocating as the thick summer air.
The first two hours crawl by. Small talk feels like dragging a boulder uphill, each attempt to bridge the gap between you met with curt, monosyllabic responses. Weather. Traffic. A half-hearted quip about a roadside diner that doesn’t even earn a smirk from Butcher.
It’s maddening. Days ago, this man had kissed you like the world was ending. Now, he's talking about the possibility of impending rain. You feel insane.
Eventually, you can’t take it anymore.
“Truth or dare,” you say, throwing it out like a grenade
Butcher glances at you, his brow furrowing beneath his sunglasses. “The fuck did you just say?”
He scoffs, muttering something under his breath about it being a child's game. “And how exactly do you suppose we play truth or dare in a moving vehicle, hm?” He asks. 
“I don't know, but what I do know is that we have a four and a half hour drive ahead of us and if this awkward silence is going to continue, I'm going to jump out of the window right now.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “What are you, twelve? What’s next, a round of bloody ‘I Spy’?” He shoots you a look of bemusement before returning to the road, ignoring your request. 
He's not getting away that easy. 
“Look, it's either truth or dare, or we talk about the k—”
“Jesus Christ, alright I'll play your fucking game,” he relents. 
Success. 
You nod toward him expectedly. 
“What?” He asks 
“Truth or dare? You have to pick, it's kind of how the game is played.”
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Fine. Truth.”
You pause to think for a second, racking your brain for a good question. You could, of course, go straight for the jugular, asking him why he pulled away from the kiss, why he didn't push you down on the couch and take everything you were willing to give him right then and there. But you think that might be a little intense for a first question, so you settle on something easier. 
“How many people have you killed?”
His reaction is instant, an incredulous laugh that’s more bark than humor. “Straight for the jugular, eh? You don’t muck about.”
“I’m curious,” you say, holding his gaze. “Isn’t that the whole point of the game?
“Sweetheart, if knowing how many people I've kidnapped is a second date question, this has gotta be a fifth date question.”
“Okay,” you say thoughtfully. “Well, if you count all the late night stake outs, and if you count our first date, the one where you kidnapped, me as three dates, which I do, I think we're well past the fifth date by now.” You raise your eyebrows at him, laughing.  
“Alright, alright,” he huffs. The smirk on his face betrays the fact that he kind of wants to play, but his tough facade necessitates that he put up a valiant fight about it first. 
But once your laughing subsides, his grin falls, and you realize that this was perhaps not the best question to ask. His eyes are fixed on the road when he answers you. 
He exhales sharply, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I lost count. Got to twenty-five, maybe thirty, last time I bothered to keep track.” His voice is calm, almost too calm, but there’s no pride in it. “You happy now?”
His admission is like a shock to your system. You knew that he'd killed before, having tossed the idea around in your mind, considering the things you knew about the man you were unquestionably attracted to. He has killed, yes, but he has also lost. He has lost everything, and he has helped, and he has been kind, too. And yet, hearing the words from his mouth, putting a number, if only estimated, on the amount of times a life has been lost at the same hands that were wrapped tenderly around your body only days ago, sends a painful jolt to your heart. 
“I know what you might think,” he starts, his voice faltering. “You think I'm cold and evil, or whatever.” His fingers readjust around the steering wheel, an anxious tic you're picking up on. “But I had to do it. I believed it was for some… greater purpose, I guess. I believe that, but maybe because I have to.”
You're speechless. You weren't expecting this sudden moment of vulnerability in Butcher, this emotional nakedness. If you're honest, it scares you, because it causes the sand beneath the already unsteady foundation of your relationship with him to shake. You have to say something, anything. 
“How do you feel about potentially killing two more people today? Does it make you nervous?” You ask. You're vaguely aware of the van driving ahead of you, a pinprick dot of white on the endlessly winding highway. 
He sighs, then smirks, looking entirely too pleased in comparison to his somber expression only moments ago. “Uh–uh, your turn now.”
He's got you there. 
“Truth,” you say, and it's only fair that he throws you a hardball too. But he doesn't. 
“What’s your favorite memory with your mum?”
The question throws you for a moment, its tenderness blindsiding you. You have so many, you could almost argue that this isn't an easy question at all. All the same, your mind wanders to the same memory that always pops up when you ask yourself this question. 
“My seventh birthday,” you begin, your voice tinged with nostalgia. “Dad was off in the Bahamas for some meeting, and I didn’t have any friends because we’d just moved. So it was just me and her. She took me to Coney Island, and we spent the whole day there. Rides, games, cotton candy. It was the best.” A tear twinkles in your eye, but you wipe it away before it comes to fruition. 
He looks like he's about to say something, maybe offer some comfort or ask a follow up, but you're too quick for him. 
“Now you, truth or dare?”
He picks dare, following your lead and ignoring what you shared about your mom. You appreciate his ability to pick up on your nonverbal cues. 
You resist the urge to reach across the console and brush your fingers through his wild, wind-tousled hair. You let yourself imagine for a moment a scenario in which the two of you are out for a drive on a beautiful day for pleasure rather than business, where you might entwine your fingers with his on the center console. But these thoughts are dangerous, and you need a distraction. 
“Drive in the oncoming lane for ten seconds.”
“Are you bloody mental?” he snaps, glaring at you. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, and you want me to pull a stunt like that?”
You shrug, and you relish in the utter frustration that Butcher exudes, the way his accent comes out in full-force when he's this worked up. 
“You said dare,” you counter, your tone teasing. “A dare’s a dare.”
He groans, muttering a string of expletives as he slows the van. “You’re a bloody pain in my arse, you know that?”
“Slow down a bit, so they won't see us,” you suggest, your voice low to control the giggles that threaten to peek out. “Come on, Butcher.”
He hesitates. It's a sick kind of satisfaction knowing that, if it was anyone but you, Butcher would have probably just let you jump out the window at this point. 
“One, twooo… Threeeee…” You exaggerate your words, giving him every opportunity to acquiesce to your demands. 
Finally, you feel the van slow and dip to the left as Butcher careens into the oncoming lane. 
This is getting too easy. 
You count out the next ten seconds slowly, agonizingly. 
Ten. 
Nine
Eight. He shifts his eyes between you and the road, imploring you to call off the dare. Absolutely not. 
Seven. 
Six. 
Five. A speck materializes on the horizon. An oncoming car. 
Four.  The speck transforms into a white sedan. 
Three. “I'm switching lanes,” he yells. “Three more seconds!” You argue back. 
Two. You can tell now that there are two passengers in the sedan. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”
One. The driver of the sedan lays on the horn, the loud bleat sending shockwaves through your system. 
Butcher swerves back into the right lane, a chorus of curses spilling out, the sedan’s honking fading out behind you. Your laughter spills out, obnoxious and loud and absolutely drowning out Butcher’s string of profanities. Shortly after he course-corrects, the white van falls back into your line of sight. 
No harm, no foul. 
Butcher’s breathing evens. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“And yet, here you are,” you retort, still grinning.
“You better pick dare this turn. I didn't realize we weren't playin' fair,” he smirks, and you're knocked back again. It's criminal how this man speaks, so deep and yet so melodic, his accent and charm breaking down whatever defenses you still had standing. 
“Do your worst,” you dare, and he smiles widely. For a moment, you feel a real flare of heat in your chest. You don't want to think about what you'd realistically do for this man right now, but the thought crosses your mind, sending a pang to your core. 
“Flash the next car that drives past us.”
Now it's your turn to blanch at the request, your face scrunching up in response. 
“You can't be serious,” you say. 
He simply nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead in feigned concentration. 
Well, the best way out is always through. 
You pull your seatbelt off, balancing on your seat and the console as you pull yourself through the van’s open sunroof. You pretend not to notice Butcher's right arm snaking protectively around your left leg. 
You watch as a dark green truck materializes before you, a lone cowboy hat wearing man inside. You pinch your fingers around the edge of your shirt. The truck speeds by as you begin to lift it up. Suddenly, the arm wrapped around your leg pulls down, forcing you back into the van. 
“Hey! What was that for?!” You exclaim, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion. 
“You weren't seriously going to flash that truck, were you?” He asks. 
You nod. “I mean, yeah? You dared me to do it. A dare’s a dare.”
He huffs and puffs, shaking his head intermittently. He's frustrated with you, and it's pissing you off. 
Time to turn the tables. 
“Okay, well it’s your turn now I guess. Truth or dare.”
“Truth,” he says smugly, and you laugh, because you know what you say next is going to shake him. 
You take a second to stare at him, an unabashed good look at him. The way the breeze tousles his dark hair, the angle of his jaw catching the golden hour light. The warmth in the glow softens him somehow, makes him seem almost human, almost kind. You can't deny that you want him, and you can’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wants you too.
"Did you like it?" you ask abruptly, your voice low but clear.
Butcher furrows his brow, clearly puzzled. "Like what?"
"When you kissed me," you clarify, your heart pounding in your chest. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
The silence that follows is deafening. You hear him inhale sharply, see the slight hitch in his posture as the words settle between you. His face shifts, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. He stares straight ahead, jaw tightening, fingers curling around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.
Your pulse quickens. Oh, God. Why did I say that? The weight of your own recklessness presses down on you. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity as he struggles with something unspoken, his lips parting as if to say something—
Your heart stops.
—and then, with a sharp gasp, his hand slams the horn and his foot hits the brake.
"Oi! Cunts!" he shouts, jerking the van to a sudden halt. Both of you lurch forward, your seatbelt biting into your shoulder.
Your head snaps toward the road just in time to see the CytoGenix van swerving off into the parking lot of a run-down motel.
The spell is broken. The tension you’d built up between you vanishes, replaced by adrenaline and a sinking sense of inevitability.
At least he'd stopped you before you'd shown your tits to some unsuspecting cowboy. 
Butcher’s face hardens, his attention fully back on the road as he mutters a string of curses under his breath. He keeps driving for another mile, the air in the van heavy and stifling. It’s as though the cracks you’d glimpsed in his armor have sealed up entirely, leaving only the impenetrable man you met at the start.
Finally, he pulls off just past a mile marker, the van grinding to a halt on the side of the road. He throws it in park and turns to you, his expression unreadable.
"Out," he orders, his voice clipped.
You blink at him. "What?"
"Get out of the van," he repeats, this time more firmly.
Despite every instinct screaming at you not to trust him, you obey. He follows you out, slamming the door behind him, and gestures toward the dense line of trees. "Start walking. Don’t stop ‘til you’re deep enough in that you can’t see the road anymore."
“Now wait a goddamn minute,” you fight, “I want to be a part of this. You're not exiling me to the woods while you do the dirty work. I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not,” he snaps, his tone cold and final. “You don’t want this blood on your hands, love. Trust me.”
Your temper flares. "You’re such an asshole, you know that?" you spit, heat rushing to your face.
You're all bite, all fight, until you see the look on his face. The harsh lines of his face are softened, his eyes weighed down with something heavier than anger. Guilt? Regret? He doesn’t want to do this, you realize. He thinks he’s protecting you.
And maybe you just don't have much of a fight left in you anymore.
You swallow hard, clenching your fists. "Fine," you say through gritted teeth. "But don’t think for a second I’m letting this go."
Without waiting for a response, you storm off into the forest, branches snapping underfoot as you push past ferns and brush.
You find a mossy rock and sink down beside it, hugging your knees to your chest. The familiar ache of being abandoned washes over you, pulling you back into yourself. You wrap your arms tightly around your body, closing your eyes and imagining the comforting embrace of your mother. The memories come easily, like they always do. Her laugh, her warmth, the way her hand always found yours when you were scared.
You lose track of time sitting there, flipping through those memories like pages in a well-worn book. Hours could have passed, or maybe it’s only minutes. You don’t know, and for a while, you don’t care.
It’s the crunch of heavy footfalls that pulls you back to the present. You blink up to see Butcher looming over you, his expression grim and drawn.
"If a van crashes in the forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it even make a noise?" you quip, smirking despite yourself.
He scowls. "What the fuck are you on about now?"
"Either that was the quietest car crash in history, or you lost them," you say, crossing your arms.
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "They never came through. They’re holed up at the motel for the night. We’ll head back, stake it out, and wait for them to move on." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the road.
He extends a hand to help you up, but you ignore it, pushing yourself off the ground and brushing dirt from your clothes. Without a word, you start walking ahead of him, back toward the van.
"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, falling in step behind you. 
The short drive back to the motel is silent, the energy between the two of you having soured considerably. You stare out the window, arms crossed, seething. You're pissed and you want him to know it, to feel it. The mission feels like a joke, like you’re a joke. No matter what you do, you’ll always be the inept kid getting in the way.
The Piney Point Motel comes into view just as the sun dips behind the pines, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges. You spot the CytoGenix van immediately, parked conspicuously by the entrance of the motel. As far as you can tell, it's empty. 
“Did they really just… leave it there?” You ask, incredulous. 
Butcher chuckles. “Your old man really should stop cuttin’ corners on security.”
A flurry of hope stirs in your chest. “So we could just break into the van and steal the vials, right? And then no one would have to get hurt?”
He gives you a look, one that’s half pity, half impatience, before gesturing to the motel’s facade. Security cameras dot the walls, floodlights primed for motion. “Sorry, sweetheart. Looks like your dad could learn a thing or two from Piney Point.”
And just like that, the spark fizzles. 
Butcher pulls the van into a shadowed corner of the lot and kills the engine. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed.
You stare at him. “Well, are we going in?”
“Nah. You can crawl in the back if you wanna sleep. I'll take first watch.”
He can't be serious. 
“You want me to sleep back there?!”
He shrugs. “Or up here, but I don’t reckon it’s any comfier.”
You shoot him an incredulous look. “Or—and hear me out—we could sleep in the motel right in front of us?”
“And risk losin’ ‘em? Yeah, no thanks.”
You argue back and forth but the man is an infuriating, unflinching wall of stubbornness. Eventually, you give up, arms crossed as you glare at the moonlit motel. You consider going and getting a room just for yourself, but you reason that Butcher won't hesitate when he sees the men leave and you'll be left behind. Sleep tugs at you, but you refuse to crawl into the cramped backseat. Not after this.
The moon begins its arc across the starlit sky. Stars scatter above you, brighter and clearer than anything you’ve seen in years. You step out of the van, stretching stiff legs, the cool night air brushing against your skin. For a moment, you forget your frustration, gazing up at the wide, sparkling sky. It reminds you of Muskoka, your last vacation with both parents—before the office bedroom became your dad’s permanent home.
The ache of the memory lingers as you climb back into the van, only to find Butcher slumped in the driver’s seat, snoring. His chin tucked into his chest, a low rumble filling the space. You burst into laughter before you can stop yourself.
Butcher jerks awake, eyes darting wildly until they land on you. His expression shifts to a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.
“Alright, laugh it up,” he grumbles, voice gravelly from sleep. “Your turn to keep watch. Good luck stayin’ awake.”
You plant your hands on your hips, glaring at him. “I’m dead tired, and so are you. We need actual sleep, Butch. I’ll pay for the rooms. Final offer.”
He pretends to consider your offer like the thought of a bed, even a springy motel bed, doesn't sound downright heavenly right now. After a moment of feigned thoughtfulness, he pulls himself from the driver's seat and stalks toward the motel. 
“Don't look so pleased,” he mutters as he stalks past you. “We’re up at 4:30, no later. Understand?”
You trail behind him, hiding your grin. Right now, you’d agree to anything.
~~~
The reception area of the Piney Point Motel looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s. The wood-paneled walls are warped in places, lined with crooked shelves cluttered with knick-knacks, miniature ceramic animals, a faded “World’s Best Grandma” mug, and a jar of mints that looks more like a trap than an offering.
Behind the counter sits a bespectacled woman in her sixties, a paperback romance novel in one hand and a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside her. The air smells like pine-scented cleaner and stale smoke. She looks up as you and Butcher enter, giving you both a thorough once-over.
“Hourly or overnight?” she asks flatly, like she’s heard every excuse in the book.
The question hits you like a slap. Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
Butcher doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take two rooms for the night,” he says, ignoring your mortification.
The receptionist shakes her head with a lazy shrug. “Only got one room left. One bed. Last two-bed went to a couple of truckers about an hour ago. It’s that time of year.”
You and Butcher exchange a look, sharp and synchronized.
“No,” you and Butcher say in unison, your sharp tone and immediate refusal surprising the older woman. 
But your mind wanders back to the van, it's aging leather upholstery and stiff cushions and lingering coffee smell. The weight of your eyelids expands tenfold at the thought. No way in hell are you going to be prepared for what tomorrow brings if you have to sleep in there. 
“Fine,” you sigh, taking the key from the receptionist’s outstretched hand, replacing it with a stack of bills.
“What d’you mean, fine?” Butcher asks, trailing after you as you head to the room. His boots echo dully on the cracked linoleum floor. “We’re better off in the van. Safer, too.”
You ignore him, jamming the key into the lock and twisting hard. The door creaks open to reveal a shoebox-sized room with peeling wallpaper, a squeaky ceiling fan, and a bed that looks like it’s seen more fights than rest.
Still, it’s a bed.
Without a word, Butcher follows you inside, closing the door behind him. For a man so determined to sleep in the van, he seems strangely reluctant to leave now. You glance at him, confused but unwilling to ask.
“You’re not staying, are you?” you finally say, half-turning to face him.
“’Course I’m stayin’,” he replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not leavin’ you alone in some dodgy motel where the closest weapon’s probably that broken lamp in the corner.”
You blink at him, torn between irritation and a flicker of gratitude. Before you can respond, he smirks and brushes past you toward the bed.
“Dibs,” he declares, flopping onto the mattress with all the grace of a drunk elephant. The springs groan in protest, but he doesn’t care.
“No, no! Absolutely not!” You shout, but he's already stretched his arms behind his head, feet crossed. “You're not taking the bed, you didn't even want this room!”
“And yet, here I am,” he replies, tucking his hands behind his head. The smugness radiating off him is enough to set your teeth on edge.
“You're an asshole, you know that right?”
“Yeah, you keep remindin’ me,” he says with a grin. “Now are you gonna stand there gawkin’ all night, or are you gonna make yourself comfortable?”
You grab the pillow out from behind his head and secure it alongside yours down the middle of the bed, creating a makeshift wall between your bodies. 
“What’s this, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“The Great Wall of Don’t-Touch-Me,” you deadpan, climbing onto your side of the bed and glaring at him over the makeshift divider.
He chuckles, low and amused. “You think I’m gonna bite?”
“More likely that I’d be the one biting you,” you retort before you can stop yourself.
The second the words leave your mouth, your cheeks flush hot. You busy yourself adjusting your pillow, pretending you don’t see the way his grin widens.
“Noted,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make you shiver.
You roll over, facing the wall. The bed creaks as Butcher shifts, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence. His scent, the warmth radiating off him, the way the air seems heavier when he’s near.
Neither of you bother crawling under the covers, facing away from each other to make it extra-clear that this is a no-nonsense, all-business sleepover. 
“Goodnight, asshole,” you mutter, hoping the bite in your tone masks the thrum of nerves in your chest.
“’Night, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice softer than you expect.
You want to savour this moment, but you're out in seconds. 
~~~
Suspended in a haze of warm sunlight, the cool edge of unreality covers you like a blanket of fresh snow. Strong arms wrap securely around your waist, across your chest, their weight pressing into you like a protective cocoon. The scratch of a beard grazes your neck, and the faint warmth of breath tickles your skin. Gentle snores vibrate against your back, a low, steady rhythm that lulls you further into the dreamlike state. You fight to stay there, curling deeper into the embrace, savoring the rare, fleeting serenity.
But serenity never lasts. A creeping discomfort nags at the edges of your mind, like an itch you can’t quite reach. The illusion splinters. The sunlight grows sharper, the weight around you heavier, the awkward press of something hard on your ass undeniable.
Your eyes snap open, reality crashing in. It’s blindingly bright, far too bright for what should be the early, predawn hours. Panic spikes through your system as you take in the scene, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You thrash instinctively, and Butcher’s grip loosens just in time for him to tumble unceremoniously off the bed.
“Bloody hell!” Butcher groans from the floor, rubbing the back of his head.
Your voice comes out in a frantic rasp. “Butcher, wake up! We slept in!”
The words are like a starter pistol. He’s up and moving in an instant, yanking on his boots while simultaneously reaching for the door.
“Shit! Goddamn it, move! Move!” he barks, his voice sharp and commanding.
The two of you are a blur of motion, grabbing, stumbling, swearing. Your bodies move on autopilot, faster than your sleep-addled minds can process. In seconds, you’re in the van, Butcher slamming the door shut and peeling out of the motel parking lot with reckless urgency.
Anxiety builds in your chest, each erratic swerve of the van feeding the dread coiling tighter inside you. As you glance back at the motel, the sight of an empty parking spot—a lone Mustang where the CytoGenix van had been—confirms your worst fears. They’re gone.
Butcher’s jaw tightens as he accelerates onto the highway, weaving through lanes with a focus that’s almost terrifying. The towering pines blur into streaks of green on either side of you as the van hurtles forward. You scan the horizon frantically, desperate for a glimpse of white metal that refuses to appear.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before Butcher finally slows the van, pulling into a deserted roadside gas station. It’s eerily quiet, the pumps sitting idle, the building dark and lifeless.
“This is the last stop for miles,” Butcher says, his voice low and grim. “That's the last stop they would've made before going to the lab.”
The weight of his words slams into you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heart races, panic tightening its grip. This was it, the window of opportunity to intercept them had closed. It was all your fault. You’d fought tooth and nail for the motel room last night, insisting you both needed the rest, convincing yourself it was a small indulgence that wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.
You were wrong.
Maybe he was right, maybe your father was right, maybe they're all right, everyone who's ever doubted you. It's cruel, the way that the frayed threads of meaning in your life seem to continually fall from your grasp. 
Shame and guilt crash over you in waves, heat rising in your face as your chest constricts painfully. You blink back tears, but they gather stubbornly at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.
“Butcher, I’m so sorry,” you stammer, your voice trembling. “I—I screwed up. This is all my fault.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he stares out the windshield. The silence stretches, unbearable. Fear claws at you, the thought of him cutting you loose from the Boys—or worse, giving up on the mission entirely—hitting like a punch to the gut.
“Please,” you continue, desperation creeping into your tone. “I know I fucked up, but don’t… don’t give up on this. Don’t give up on me.”
Butcher’s head swivels toward you, his eyes softer than you expect. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost unrecognizably so.
“Hey,” he says, holding up a hand. “Breathe. It’s okay. Hold your apologies, yeah? We’re not done yet. I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve.”
You blink at him, stunned into silence. This wasn’t the reaction you were expecting, not the anger, the harsh words, the fury you thought you deserved. Instead, his calm confidence throws you off balance, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
“Butcher…” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat.
“Just wait,” he says, lips quirking into a faint, reassuring smirk. “Keep it together. We’ve still got work to do.”
With that, his foot presses down on the gas pedal, the van lurching forward and pinning you back against the seat.
You're certain you've never driven this fast before, not even during those rare joyrides with your father in his Bugatti. The van rockets forward, moving like a bullet out of a gun, the world outside warping into a blur of trees and sky as the tires scream against the asphalt. Your grip on the door handle tightens with every jolt, the tension in the cabin as visceral as the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
Despite the chaos of the day, the abrupt wake-up, the panic, and Butcher’s uncharacteristic gentleness, the unbridled anxiety screaming inside you speaks only of the lives of the two men in the CytoGenix van, unknowingly hurtling toward their end. Anxiety claws at your chest, raw and unrelenting. You shut your eyes and try to focus on breathing, but it’s no use.
“Oi, cunts!” Butcher’s voice explodes, and your eyes snap open.
Thirty feet ahead, the CytoGenix van comes into view, its white exterior glaring against the green blur of forest on either side. To your right, the trees abruptly fall away, leaving nothing but a battered guardrail and a steep ravine beyond.
“Hold on tight,” Butcher orders, his tone calm but edged with a manic sort of energy.
Before you can question him, he floors the gas pedal. The van lurches forward, barreling into the oncoming lane to overtake the other vehicle. Butcher twists the wheel expertly, positioning your van just ahead of the CytoGenix one. Then, in one brutal motion, he jerks back and rams into the side of it.
The impact is bone-rattling. Your body slams against the seatbelt, the van shuddering violently as both vehicles swerve erratically. For a moment, you lock eyes with the other driver, his face contorted in a mix of rage and confusion. But Butcher’s already at it again, pulling back just enough to ram the CytoGenix van a second time.
This hit sends the other van wobbling wildly, the driver fighting to regain control. Your ears ring, blood rushing so loudly that you’re not sure if the scream you hear is yours or simply imagined. And then, with a final, sickening crunch, the CytoGenix van plows through the guardrail and plunges down the ravine.
Butcher swerves hard, narrowly avoiding the gaping hole in the guardrail. The side of your van scrapes against what remains, metal shrieking as sparks fly. He brings the van to an abrupt stop on the shoulder a hundred yards ahead, slamming the gearshift into park. The engine dies, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing in the cabin.
“Holy shit,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Holy shit,” Butcher echoes, his grin wide and reckless.
You both sit there for a moment, staring straight ahead, before the tension breaks. Anxious laughter bubbles out of you, and to your surprise, Butcher joins in. The two of you volley expletives back and forth between bursts of laughter, the absurdity of the situation sinking in.
When the laughter subsides, Butcher reaches for the door handle. “Stay put,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna want to see this.”
That sends your adrenaline spiking all over again. You throw your door open and stomp after him, slamming it behind you. “No. You’re not doing this. Not again.”
He turns to face you, brows furrowed. You jab a finger into his chest. “I’m capable of this, Butcher. And if I’m going to be part of the Boys, I need to prove it. No more babying me.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you, his hazel eyes searching yours. The tension between you is almost unbearable as you silently plead with him to understand. To let you have this. To understand just how important this is, how this transcends the circumstances you currently find yourselves in. Finally, his shoulders sag slightly, and he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But don’t make me regret it.”
Together, you make your way down the ravine, the incline steep and unforgiving. Butcher offers his arm to steady you when you stumble, and you grudgingly accept. At the bottom, the wreckage comes into view. The CytoGenix van lies on its side in a shallow creek bed, its back doors hanging open.
You rush to the driver’s side, heart hammering in your chest as you peer inside. For the past week, nightmares have plagued you—visions of Adam and Emily lying lifeless in the wreckage. But when you see the two men slumped in their seats, necks twisted at unnatural angles, neither is familiar. Relief washes over you, mingling uneasily with guilt.
“They’re nobodies,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Butcher. “Collateral damage.”
His hand falls heavy on your shoulder. “The hard part’s over,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It gets easier from here.”
You desperately want to believe him. 
You both turn your attention to the back of the van. Butcher grips one of the broken doors and yanks it free with a grunt. Inside, a sleek black lockbox gleams ominously. Without hesitation, Butcher brings his boot down on it, cracking it open.
Inside are rows upon rows of vials, their green liquid glowing faintly in the fading light. You pick one up, holding it between your fingers and marveling at its beauty. The liquid seems alive, swirling and shimmering with an otherworldly energy.
And then, without thinking, you hurl the vial at a nearby tree. You watch in awe as the glass shatters, the glowing substance splattering across the bark and dripping onto the forest floor.
“Shit—I don’t know what came over me—” you start, but Butcher is already laughing, a devilish grin spreading across his face.
“Fuckin’ diabolical,” he says, grabbing a vial and smashing it under his boot. You both gape at the way it explodes under his foot, staining his boot like a glow stick, before you burst into shared laughter. 
You both fall into a wild, unhinged rhythm, smashing vial after vial. The forest around you glows eerily, the remnants of V2 painting the trees and ground in streaks of neon green. Laughter bubbles out of you, uncontrollable and cathartic, as the absurdity of your destruction takes hold.
When only one vial remains, Butcher reaches for it, but you stop him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. We should keep one. For testing. Just in case.”
He looks at you, then smirks. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You keep me around for more than that.”
His smirk fades, replaced by something darker, more intense.  The air shifts between you, the laughter forgotten as your proximity feels suddenly charged. Whatever force is behind the constant push and pull of your attraction to Butcher is now pushing in full force, the glowing green crime scene around you fading into nothing. It's just you and him and the screaming urge inside of you to untether. 
Butcher advances toward you, pulling your face into his hands, crashing his mouth into yours. This time you get the chance to react, the opportunity to reciprocate. And you do, wholeheartedly. You pull at the lapels of his jacket, fingers fumbling for purchase in his wild hair. His hands move over your body, down your back and across your ass, squeezing you closer to him.
When he finally pulls away, his eyes are wild. “Someone’s gonna notice the skid marks and the guardrail. We’re gonna have company soon if we don’t move.”
“Back to the motel?” you ask, bold and breathless.
His answer is immediate. “Yeah.”
Without another word, he grabs your hand, practically pulling you back up the ravine toward the van.
You had a taste of Butcher's penchant for speeding earlier, but something about the way he races down the road back to the motel now has butterflies erupting in your stomach. His right hand is placed firmly on your left thigh, your own hand keeping his there. You're ashamed to admit that his touch alone is driving you crazy. 
Thank god you never had time to return the key this morning, because you both race back to the room, his mouth in your ear, arms encircling your waist as you fumble to unlock the door. The second the door closes behind you, he has you pushed up against the door, his tongue parting your lips and hands digging into your waist. You wrap your arms around his neck as he lets a hand fall to your ass, squeezing tightly. He lifts you up, wrapping both of your legs around his middle. You moan at the way his hands explore you, the closeness of your bodies. 
“Do that again,” he instructs. 
“Make me,” you dare. 
He throws you down on the bed, both of you using the opportunity to work your shirts off. He spends an unabashed moment staring directly at your tits, chest heaving. Like you're a work of art he can't wait to defile. You unbutton your pants before Butcher pulls them off of you, leaving you bare before him, save for your underwear. He crawls up onto the bed, knees nudging your legs open, his imposing frame towering over you. 
“You have no idea how goddamn much I've thought about this,” he admits. Your eyes search his face, hands combing through his hair. He kisses you deeply, tongue exploring your mouth, before moving down to place licks along your collarbone. He moves down to your nipples, your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your underwear. He looks up in silent request. 
“Please,” you beg. “Don't stop.”
And, with your permission, he practically rips the soft cotton as he pulls them down, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders. You share a glance, both with bated breath, before he finally puts his mouth on you, eating you like a man starved. 
Your head tilts back involuntarily as he licks at you, alternating between languid, savoring strokes, his wide tongue exploring deep inside of you, and quick, tight little circles over your clit. You've never been the kind of woman to be particularly loud or vocal in bed, a complaint you'd heard from lovers in the past. But now the moans fall freely as you fall apart on Butcher's tongue. Your sounds only serve to egg him on, his fingers digging deeply into your plush inner thighs, his growls reverberating through your pussy, matching your low moans. You barrel embarrassingly quickly toward the edge. 
“‘m so close,” you whimper. 
He doesn't stop, every determined movement a silent encouragement for you to chase your high. 
Your hands reach down, tangling in his messy hair. He responds, deepening the push of his mouth against your core, rhythmically drawing his fingers back and forth against your inner thighs. Your fingers clench around the tendrils of his hair, pulling so hard you know it must hurt him. He doesn't seem to notice, his rhythm never stalling. Then, starbursts exploding behind your eyelids as you fall over the edge, legs clamping involuntarily around his head. 
Dizzying, pure, unadulterated bliss.
Head falling back against the pillow, you're sure you've never come this hard before. Your limbs are absolutely weightless, cheeks flushed. A euphoric smile on your lips stretches so wide you're certain you look deranged. 
But not to Butcher. 
“You're so bloody beautiful,” he says from between your legs, and you can do nothing but laugh deliriously in response. 
He gazes up at you, working his way back up between kisses to your stomach and swirling his tongue over your pert nipples. You grasp a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him up to kiss him on the mouth, your other hand reaching down to encircle his hard length. 
You're pleasantly surprised at how much of him there is, pumping his thick length several times before you position him at your entrance. 
You feel his body jolt involuntarily as his cock makes contact with the wetness he just created.
“You sure?” he asks, and you nod, words refusing to form on your lips. 
He shifts his hips forward and you gasp sharply as he breaches you. You reach your other hand down to caress his ass cheek, pulling him in deeper, desperate for more.
“Fuck yes,” you moan. “Yes, Billy, just like that.”
That's all he needs before he's driving himself deep, stopping only when he's fully seated inside of you. You gasp as he stretches you out, like he's splitting you right down the middle. He pulls your knee up, hooking it over his shoulder, allowing him to go deeper. You whine at the fullness, earning a growl from him. 
“You like this, baby?” he asks as he pulls back, looking down to where your bodies connect before plunging himself back into you. “Fuck, because I really like this.”
“R‒really like this,” you manage to sputter out. “P‒please, please, fuck me Billy.”
“I got you, love,” his voice is raw. He sets a punishing pace, his cock filling you over and over and over again, pushing you toward the brink of something you've never experienced before. 
Your hands wander over him, tracing every scar, fumbling through his hair, squeezing his ass as you pull him in even deeper. You want to memorize everything about this, the sweet aroma of his sweat, the weight of him atop you, the stream of consciousness filth that flows from his lips as he falls more and more pussy drunk. 
He reaches down, thumb on your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His mouth explores your chest, dividing his attention between your nipples and sensitive, open neck. You bound toward your release, fingers scraping down his broad back. 
“Fuck, fuck, Billy, I'm gonna come,” you moan between huffs. He continues, pace unrelenting. 
Then, stars. 
Expanding blooms of light, full-body eruption. Sweet release, a dynamite stick in your core, exploding out your mouth in a silent scream. You heave around him, bucking your hips, impaling yourself deeper on his cock. He fucks you through it, half words falling from his lips into your mouth. 
Tha's right. 
Mm, baby. 
You go’ it. 
It's all too much, the soft moans escaping your mouth, the image of you in ecstasy before him, falling apart on his cock. He's too close behind you to stop now. 
“Fuck, you're gonna make me come. Where d’you want it?” he asks frantically. 
You can't help yourself. “Inside,” you beg. 
He really doesn't try to make it a habit of denying you, and he certainly won't start now. He groans, spilling himself inside of you. You moan at the heat that grows between your legs. 
He collapses atop you, the weight of him pushing you I to the cheap, springy mattress. You feel the wetness spill out onto the bed beneath you. 
“Holy shit,” you manage to get out between gasps for air. 
“Holy fuckin’ shit is right,” he agrees. 
Over the next eight or so hours, you and Butcher acquaint yourselves with each other, very, very, closely. On the bed, on the floor, against the dresser, in the shower, on the bed, again. You speak only a few times in rushed half sentences, too preoccupied with finding out just how many orgasms you can achieve in one go to think about much else. All of the tension that has stewed since the day Butcher first laid eyes on your dazed face has been unleashed in Room 206 at the Piney Point Motel. You stop only long enough for Butcher to drive twenty minutes down the highway to retrieve a bag of greasy fast food, hastily devoured fuel to allow you both to continue at least a few more times. 
By the time you both succumb to your utter exhaustion, you're sweat-sticky and bone-tired, with a soreness between your legs you know is going to have you walking funny tomorrow. You don't notice it though, because Butcher has you pulled in his arms, lips on your ear, your heart firmly in the palm of his hand. 
@bluemerakis @mystic-writings @imherefordeanandbones
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weisshapt · 9 months ago
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𝖆 𝖓 𝖘 𝖔 𝖓
when you close your eyes, what do you see? do you hold the light or is darkness underneath? in your hands, there's a touch that can heal but in those same hands is the power to kill are you a man or a monster?
for one of my favorites from one of my favorites @alistairs
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finnprof · 6 months ago
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je m'excuse.................
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teaisfandoming · 2 months ago
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I will forever love the conversation between Eddie and the priest because what Eddie truly needs is to forgive himself and to have someone give him permission to do just that.
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shad0wchateau · 7 months ago
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uhhh fixation got so bad i made an au do we like weird yuri…
single imgs under the cut
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telesodalite · 18 days ago
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I need to be weirder about the scavengers and cannibalism...
#its been a long day... but im feeling better now. (thanks for the well wishes and such btw <3-)#(-sending my well wishes in return by tenfold bcs. damn. it seems stuff is really going around rn)#but yeah... just. augh. theres just smth about how the scavs sorta translate into more like. thriller-esque genres pretty well?#like. i feel somehow those themes compliment their characteristics? or could compliment their characteristics in a more rounded out way#sure. theyre generally a light hearted romp of absurdity with occasional themes of a not good not bad handling of 'mental health matters'#but they just really shine a bit in horrific circumstances. esp with the sort of absurdity they bring to the table#theyre odd people. even in the context of their generally weird and alien universe. and that right there feels like a trove of potential#its like. ok. the lost light crew? also odd. but thats a huge ship. full of people and variety and a sense of purpose and normalcy post-war#(normalcy being. whatever all those background folks were getting up too while plot happened around them. cruise ship stuff ig)#but in contrast. with the w.a.p crew. its an ark class ship with like. a handful of people. and a whole lot of junk and free time#both just cruising through space endlessly for years. one with hundreds of people. and one with like 6 people.#so both are technically isolated when theyre not making pit-stops planet or station side. but again. 100s vs 6 dudes.#think. top of the line cruise ship from hell with a small town sized populace vs a big shitty boat and 6 starving guys#both have the capacity to become case studies in madness. both could do really well thriller wise. but the scavs being a smaller group?#it only being the 6 of them emphasis the isolation perhaps. less variety. less change. same 6 people for 5(?) years#things could get weird fast. codependent mentalities. us vs them mindsets. an otherness about everyone else outside of their group#and then! then you add to the mix the fact that theyre eating/drinking from corpses?! *chefs kiss* awesome. love it.#non-stationary isolation + cannibalism. ough. perfect mix. a classic of maritime horror but in space! :D!#a big ship. small crew. living while knowing that as soon as you kick the bucket. your body is the meal. your body is the fuel.#no decorum about it. no faith. no belief. just perverse survival. bcs they might enjoy it. a bloody gluttony. with a bite. a sample. a taste#it takes seeing your buddy as a walking talking burger to another level. bcs every corpse you come across is also a burger. and a gas can#also fulcrum making candy out of corpses is so. particularly perfect when it comes to the horrifically absurd. just. smth about it. idk#but also also. the line. where was the line drawn for each of them? and when did they each cross it?#most of them dont seem like the type to jump head first into that. so how did they justify it to themselves? had they done it before?#and then. when did it become normal? a habit? smth enjoyable?#i might be running out of tags. but yeah. them being weirder. esp about each other and others.#nothing brings a group of people together like the overhanging knowledge that you sort of kinda wanna eat each other#(rlly wishing i could stomach realistic thrillers rn. but i just cant. gotta stick to written or artistic styles or risk panic attacks :/)#(ive tried a couple movies and shows now. and cant get through most of them. praise be synopses and peoples long rambles about them tho :D)#(nothing like reading someones passionate ramble about the meaning/symbolism of some gory nightmare without having to actually see it lol)
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zlobonessa · 2 years ago
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one aspect that always fascinates me about the witch cult is how much they are used-to-be humans-but-now-not-really-are. they were just people who sometimes were good in the way people are and sometimes were bad in the way people are. and then their lifes had been altered by powers so fundamentally that they just. lost touch with any humanity that they had. how do you comprehend being a hundreds years old? how do you comprehend being able to kill a human as simply as a mosquito? how do you comprehend being beyond time, beyond aging, beyond life and death, beyond your own body, beyond your own memories? it's a horror scenario accepted willingly, horror where instead of running from monster you shake its hand and convince yourself that that's all you ever wanted, because the alternative? the alternative is the existence so miserable you'd rather die than go back. the existence that may ask you to take responsibility for your actions, navigate your own life, change who you are as a person.
they cannot do that. they never could do that. they live for years and years, having powers to do literally anything and yet led by instructions in the book, further and further conservating in the state they were from a start, the moment they took a deal.
doomed from the beginning. never having a chance to escape. never wanting to escape, instead allowing your humanity to slowly seep away as a price for not bearing the weight of that it means to be human. damn.
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eyestrain-addict · 7 months ago
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I feel like I should say I don't believe lestats version of events is entirely accurate because we're given multiple times where he just straight up lies (in the faux trial he omits that antionette was his mistress before they got claudia, during claudia, and after claudia left, trying to imply he only went to antionette when Louis wasn't sleeping with him (which wouldn't be a defense anyway but I'm just bringing up what he says)) so I think it's fair to say he wasn't being completely truthful but I also don't believe he was completely lying either because it doesn't seem like anything is truly different, it's just it seems the threads of Louis' mind were fraying way before they attempted to kill Lestat. Like we already knew Louis begged Lestat for Claudia. We already knew they fought.
However one glaring detail I noticed immediately and thought "he's lying" was during their fight, Lestat has a lot of blood on his face. As opposed to Claudia's account where he was completely unharmed. Given what we know about Lestat and Louis' strength, I don't think Louis would have been able to do that much damage to him even if he was trying his hardest and Lestat wasn't stopping him. I do however believe Louis laughed, because we already know Louis has a maniacal laugh, he does it in Dubai.
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