#and i want her to be as nasty as possible

[loves-alibi]

john price x reader

summary: you ask John to do the last thing he’d ever want to do

tw: mention of dying in the military

*****

John Price who’s following the nasty footsteps of his family– a long line of men killed in the army, by their blind loyalty to the crown. John Price won't give up his job. John who knows that he’s not breaking the cycle– the curse. He won't suddenly be the first of many John Prices (because, of course they share a name) to see his fifties.

The same John Price who marries you. A non-military sweetheart. At first he thought you found it charming, brave of him to put his life down for the crown and for the world. You let him put a ring on your finger. You let his crew come to your intimate wedding (so intimate that your extended families aren’t invited). You let him disappear from your home for weeks on end, no contact, and welcome him back like it’s perfectly normal.

Then why are you so upset? Why are you standing before John on the morning of his deployment, tears in your eyes begging him, it’s time to retire.

He doesn't get it because it's all he's ever known. All the Prices have been cursed to ever know. You beg him to retire but you don't understand that he can't. That every fiber of his being will cease to exist if there isn't gunfire whizzing by his ear and someone calling him Captain. That John Price is fated to the same end that his father and his father before him and- hell -probably his father before him met. The Prices are simply born to serve.

He tries to help you understand. He gives you his mum's phone number, tells you to call her when you get lonely or worried on deployment. Call your mother? The woman widowed by war?

John cringes. The sun is peeking over the horizon. He needs to go and he tells you that. You crumble. Your hands tremble as they hold onto his chest, padded with layers of clothing and jackets. It's winter, when deployments are always the worst. It's only winter in half the planet, yet somehow John always ends up in the cold.

His thoughts pull him away from you, your heat, from the damp warmth of your breath to the molten tears streaking your face.

Please, John, you said, for me.

Give it up, for me.

Give up, for me.

Give up.

He leaves you for base. You whose picture John looks at a little more than usual during this deployment, and Simon Riley, who notices.

Simon Riley who sits next to John during his night watch. He pulls two cigarettes from his pocket and hands one to John, lighting it without a word. They’re in Siberia, of course. John’s been crying, but the bitter cold dries his tears before they can leave his eyes.

"Pretty bird," Simon says, gesturing his hand to the picture in John's hand. John's thumb brushes over the curve of your cheek. "Lovely bird."

John's fingers twitch, ready to refold the picture. Simon notices and places a calm hand on John's wrist.

"She's making me retire," John blurts.

"That true?" Simon muses, taking a drag like he knows it’s not. Frankly, he does know. John’s his longest friend, and Simon can read him like a book. "I didn't know that was possible, giving you orders.”

“Neither did I.”

Simon puts a hand on his shoulder, “Why don’t you head in? I’ll take watch.”

John goes inside wordlessly. He heads to the bathroom and in the mirror he sees the face of his father. He’s always looked scarily like his old man, down to their idiotic facial hair. John grew it out like him in his twenties, when he was finally able to grow more than pubescent scrap. Now, with a fuller beard and duller eyes, he’s more similar to his father than young John ever thought possible. His father— a man who never had the privilege of going gray. Sure, he died a few years older than John is now, but he was never exactly old. Dead at 42. John's got... 5 years left by that count. 5 more years fighting, five more years with you.

John shaves it off. He leaves his stache, but that’s about it. He doesn’t want to see the old John Price, put six feet under before his boy— his namesake —graduated primary school. His hand shakes while he shaves. He should stop. The knife he’s elected to use is too sharp to risk a case of unsteady hands, but John needs it off. And off it goes. The skin beneath the beard is paler than the rest of his face. It’d take much longer for that to go away.

Someone pounds on the door of the bathroom. “Captain,” Johnny, “I know you’re takin’ a shite, but could you hurry up?”

John chuckles softly, “Fuck off, MacTavish.”

John shuts the toilet lid with his boot and takes a seat on it. He shoves a hand in the chest pocket of his coat, to the pen with a piece of paper stuck in the clip. John carefully unfolds the paper.

Armed Forces Pension Application Form.

John clicks the pen and gets to work.

[skywalkr-nberrie]

Crying my eyes out because I won’t find anyone like Anakin who’d trespass the rules and expectations of his career just to save the love of his life and stop anything from possibly harming her like how he does throughout all of AOTC.

OW just straight up telling Padmé they ain’t pulling out all the stops cause they got rules to follow and a job to do, but Anakin out here declaring his pledge to Padmé that he’ll hunt down whoever the sicko that’s hunting her is, and OW has to try and keep him in check by telling him they’re not going out their way to do anything other then their task 😭

Anakin bursting into Padmé’s room, jumps on her bed to slice and dice those nasty worms that would have killed Padmé, boy wasn’t motivated by his dedication to the Jedi is all I’m saying 😗

Then Anakin putting the whole weight of the Force into his interrogation on Zam Wassel, and OW once again noting that this ain’t coming from Anakin’s dedication to his job 😭 (yeah, it’s called wanting to keep the love of your life safe so you become overprotective and possessive.)

And ofc how could I make this post without mentioning one the best scenes in AOTC, aka one of my favourite scenes 🤧 Padmé falls out the ship, and Anakin immediately without a second thought was ready to jump out of a flying ship to save his beloved and once again OW fighting tooth and nail to try and stop his madly in love padawan from ditching his duty in favour of letting his emotions win.

What I love most is how Anakin wasn’t even phased by OW mentioning how he’d be kicked out of the Order if he did this and Anakin straight saying “I can’t leave her!!” So OW’s last resort being to ask him what Padmé herself would want him to do, which is the only thing from out of every consequence he mentions that actually works because Anakin values Padmé’s values, opinions, and beliefs and he never wants to look like a failure in her eyes. (Even though he never would.)

[Anakin Skywalker : A Jedi's Journal]

Anyways, where can I find me someone like this?

[tanis-fics]

You're gonna go far, kid

The FBC and the Oldest House were dangerous waters to thread and Barry knew that, luckily he could find kinship in an old acquaintance, a girl he met on his former band's glory days who would grow up to be more important than any of them ever expected.

Relationships: Jesse Faden & Barry Wheeler ♦ Words: 1873 ♦ Notes: Partly based on this post by @lostinthewoodsomewhere

[on ao3] ♦ [read on site]

 The mess hall of the FBC was a crowded place, a neutral zone of sorts where people from all the different departments could meet with one another, eat and wind down. In any other moment Barry Wheeler wouldn't mind the crowd, he would quickly grab something to eat and move somewhere quiet to review what he'd worked on so far, or, most likely, he would use that time to preen and show off whoever his client was at the moment. This particular mess hall, however, was one of the very few places he didn't fear the floor would eat him alive, and it had been some time since he had any particular clients. Not ones he wanted to flaunt over, at least.

 Hard to preen when the stupid dress code kept his options limited too, he sighed, annoyed, as he tried making a beeline to the cafeteria, when a figure standing up knocked him off his feet.

 "Sorr—"

 "Hey, watch where you're fucking—" He hissed, grabbing the couple files that flew off his hands before glancing at the other person, instantly feeling the sense of familiarity attributed to a déjà vu until the realization hit him. He was talking to the woman whose portrait adorned every hall. "Shit, sh- I- I'm sorry, ma'am. Miss?" She was younger than he anticipated. "Boss. Didn't see you there."

 The Director simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and possibly irked, and Barry cursed in silence for making a fool of himself in front of the only person here who was worth a damn.

 "It's fine. Just try to be more careful next time." Her tone was dry and he bit his tongue.

 “Will do.”

 Barry thought —hoped— that that would be it, that she would excuse herself and march forward to wherever she was going to when she bumped into him, but before she could turn away the Director did a double take and squinted. Barry stood in high alert as she scrutinized him.

 "Have I seen you before?"

 Barry stared like a deer in the headlights. If the only way he had known her face was because of those portraits the chances of her knowing him were slim at best, unless she recognized him because of what happened in Cauldron Lake, which would be potentially disastrous.

 "Nope, no, I don't think—" The Director kept squinting at him as he dragged his words, until she looked to the side for a second and then snapped her fingers.

 "You were with the Old Gods of Asgard a few years ago, weren't you?"

 Suddenly, surprisingly, Barry felt like he could breath again.

 It had been more than a couple of years, but he could work with that. A tentative smile grew on his lips, the green Communications Agent being replaced by the seasoned Band Manager.

 "I was with them, yeah!” He puffed his chest, wishing he was wearing something more impressive than a white shirt and an ugly, simple tie. “I managed the band for a couple years during their revival tour. You’ve ever been to one of the concerts? Because if you did, you’ve probably seen me there. Yeah, you definitely know me from those." The Director chuckled, and Barry could see some of her stiffness washing away.

 “I wish.” She shook her head. “I never got around to actually seeing them live, unfortunately. But one time, they… they actually showed up at work, my previous work. Got into a pretty nasty fight too.” Barry winced at the memories of having to tail them down night after night, of having to break up fights and pay for whatever was broken this time, but her smile spoke of nothing more than fondness. "You, uh, you gave me a free t-shirt back then."

 Barry snorted. Of course he did.

 Chasing that feeling of familiarity beyond the aforementioned portraits of directorial sobriety he tried recalling where exactly he saw that same red hair before, and was met with a couple matching wide eyes behind a counter. Wide eyes and a grin. Barry remembered being surprised at her happiness despite the mess. Not many people glowed whenever two ancient men started breaking tables around them.

 Funny thing was, she also seemed to be glowing a bit now. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Either way, he hummed.

 "Y’know, I think I remember…” He scratched his chin, deep in thought. “Yeah, weren’t you working at some bar? Wasn’t there a guy…?

 Who was, if memory served, very close to harassing her, or at the very least annoying her. Barry never finished hearing the full story, truth be told, the only people present being the old rockers themselves, but according to their drunken ramblings the man had been hitting on her the entire time they’ve been there despite her clear lack of interest. He remember wondering whether the reason why she hadn’t tell him off was because she really, really needed the job, because even at the time she’d seemed perfectly capable of handing herself if things got hairy.

 Which they did, at the time.

 According to Odin he confronted the man and next thing they knew all hell broke loose, a push here, a push back, a glass being thrown around and a bottle shattering against the wall. Usual Anderson stuff, all things considered.

 “Didn’t Tor smash a table on that guy’s back? I remember having to pay for… a number of things.” At least not for her silence. That was what the shirt had been for originally, of course, but Barry would be lying if he said her surprising excitement hadn’t brought a smile to his face in that mess of a night.

 Now it was her turn to wince a bit.

 "Yup. That was me behind the bar. And I’m pretty sure he had to go to the hospital afterwards."

 “Shouldn’t have messed with my boys. Or been a creep, for that matter.” Barry chuckled, before raising an eyebrow. “You... didn’t get in trouble for that lil’ stunt, did you?”

 “Oh, I did.” The woman wrinkled her nose and squinted, thinking back to that time. “Even with all the money you gave me for repairs they still kicked me out.”

 “Fuckin’ bastards.” She huffed, rolling her eyes.

 “Tell me about it. But hey,” shrugging, she pointed at the building above, “got a pretty cool promotion.” He laughed.

 "I can tell! Say, speaking of, how does the under payed waitress from some shitty bar end up as the Director of a secret organization? No offense, of course."

 After a pause, she shrugged.

 "None taken, just came knocking at the right time, I guess. What's a band manager doing in the FBC?"

 His smile cracked for a second, flashes of nightmares that might or might not been real flooding his head before coughing.

 "Oh you know. This and that. I've always been a big fan of the supernatural." He lied.

 The Director looked at him, humming, and for a second Barry thought she was looking through him. Or looking at something behind him? He ignored the impulse to turn his head. This was a test of character and Barry Wheeler could handle it, God dammit. He also knew he couldn’t tell her about his search of anything relating to Bright Falls. To Al. As much as he was fond of the woman, his smile shinning with pride despite the very short time they’ve known each other, he simply couldn’t trust her nor the FBC. Not yet at least. So many things were redacted and behind closed doors, he couldn't, as she put it, simply come knocking. Couldn't he?

 The woman finally opened her mouth to say something, when a third voice distracted her.

 "Jesse!" Jesse? A blond woman with a notepad called at the end of the hall —Barry swore he’d seen her at the Communication Department at some point. Wasn't she one of the Heads of something else?— and the Director replied with a warm smile and a raise of the hand.

 Blondie couldn’t have come at a better time.

 "Well! I won't hold you any longer, Boss." He clapped his hands with finality, taking a step back and holding out one before him out of habit. "Barry Wheeler, at your service."

 Maybe he couldn't ask her right away, but getting in the woman on top’s good graces seemed to be a good idea (better than come guns blazing to a place that could easily kill him by itself, at least). He didn't realize the small wrinkle on her forehead at the name, close to recognition.

 "Jesse Faden." She eventually replied, shaking his hand. Before she could finally make her way out, though, Barry saw a flicker of something on her eyes. "By the way, do you... by any chance do you have any Old Gods shirts left? I know it's a long shot, it's been a while, but-"

 "Hey, I get it. The only thing those rags are good for after eight years is to use as pajamas.” He reassured her. “Don’t worry, I also pop a new one from the pile I couldn’t get to sell from time to time." She —Jesse— chuckled, but a heavy shadow replaced the brief amusement on her eyes.

 "It's not for me, actually, it's... it’s for my brother. He..." For a moment, she seemed to be at loss for words, lowering her eyes for the first time in that conversation, before smiling back at him. “He used to be a big fan of the Old Gods too. I’d love to give him anything from them.”

 Barry wasn't unaware of the looks people around them have been giving them since they’ve first crashed against each other, he remembered what it felt to be around such focal point of gravity, but something about her last request stroke a chord in their vicinity that he couldn't help but wonder about. Something about her brother, clearly. Something rather significant. He'd have to check that out later, but for now, he smiled. Maybe a bit more honest at the admission.

 "I'm sure I can find a couple t-shirts left. And a CD too! If... you still have anything to listen to it."

 Jesse laughed, and for a moment Barry was taken back to that shifty dead-end bar, and the mighty Director became the girl with stars on her eyes.

 "I know someone that might. Thanks."

 "The pleasure is all mine, Boss."

 And just like that Jesse —the Old Gods of Asgard fan— —the Director— walked away with the blonde woman, and Barry finally got to grab his lunch, with the particular glow of someone who’d seen an old friend.

 It would be much later that he would come to realize that if they actually had, in fact, any information of Alan and whatever that might or might have not happened in Cauldron Lake, maybe going around saying his full name might not have been the brightest of ideas.

 Barry was lucky, then, that if there was a person who understood what it was to walk into the lion’s den for a chance to see their loved one again, it was the same girl he met by happenstance after that random pub brawl so many years ago.

[tsfennec]

Watched the Emma Thompson Sense and Sensibility with some friends last night, and we had an excellent time doing the usual cheering for the fun characters, metaphorically throwing popcorn at the nasty ones, cringing at the Awkward moments. A+ all around.

Then I mentioned that it was so interesting that Willoughby, in the first scene where he rescues Marianne and just in general, barely even LOOKS at Margaret, much less acknowledges her in any real way. In that first scene the only thing he says to her is his first dismissive comment about the horse not being dangerous and then she might as well be invisible to him, despite being clearly very distressed, not one word of concern or reassurance. He's not mean to her! He just does not see her as mattering at all.

Where Edward, by contrast, from his very first encounter with Margaret is protecting her from his nasty sister, refuses to displace her from her room during his stay, concerned about her feelings and wanting to help her, enjoying playing with her and acknowledging her interests.

And it's just such a good subtle way to indicate from the minute Willoughby comes on the scene that his "nice behavior" is entirely self-serving, ultimately, and doesn't apply to people he doesn't see as having something valuable to him, whereas Edward's is because he's a genuinely kind person, independent of any desire to impress Eleanor.

Anyway, the friends' reaction was "OH... we have GOT to watch more movies with you." 😂 Was not expecting such a startled response, but. I am getting a good grade in "ambassador for the media analysis tumblr girlies," a thing which is both normal to want and, apparently, possible to achieve. So I have that going for me, if nothing else. 😌

[maggotbxby]

Coup De Grâce - Deadite Ellie x OC/Reader - Chapter One

"and the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire and sulfur where the beast and the false prophet were, and they will be tormented day and night forever and ever" Revelation 20:10

Or...

Greta is a God-fearing, wannabe actress with a particularly strange family history, and an impressive talent of stumbling upon disgusting scenes. When tragedy strikes her home in an old LA high-rise, she quickly realizes her fate may be much more twisted than she was brought up to believe.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6,349

TW: Religious Trauma; Gore; Suicidal Thoughts; Violence; Everything in Evil Dead Rise.

---------

This building is dead.

It died a month ago when the landlord dropped letters in our mail slots letting us all know we have to be out by next month. He didn't even give us the courtesy of calling, just a print and copied half-assed apology letter to the tenants who pay out their livelihoods every month in rent so he can buy a new Ferrari and not fix the lights.

It’s not that I want to be here, particularly. There is just no other apartment on this side of LA that I would be able to afford. No others would even consider me, if I could. No stable job and a 480 credit score doesn't bode well with most landlords.

A category 5 earthquake was just a death blow, and exactly what I needed to truly understand it was, in fact, God's will for me to return to Tennessee.

The apartment is nearly pitch dark, even with the couple of candles I lit. A blackout coming with the aftershocks while I was packing explains a lot about how my luck has been the past few weeks. It’s as quiet as the dead, aside from the typical moans and groans of the old building. If my neighbors weren't stomping around, I would consider it eerie. 

I sit on a rickety stool that came with the place as I sort through my papers. Every tiny shift in my body causes the stool to creak and groan, just like the rest of the wretched building, so I try to be perfectly still.

The candlelight picks up my papers just enough for me to sort through them and chuck them into boxes- or the trash. It's nearly 10:00 and on a normal night I wouldn't keep packing, especially during a post-earthquake blackout, but I want out of this place as quickly as possible, and if I have to suffer for a while to do that, I will. 

I pick up a folder on my desk, and even in the dark I recognize it as my portfolio- or my pathetic excuse of one. I open it up to see my year-old headshots and my resume. I’ve never been a bad actress, particularly, I’ve just been bad at landing roles. Sure, maybe I didn't work hard enough to find a manager, but even if I had, my off-screen charisma has always been lacking. I scored one decent role in a film, only for it to be scrapped halfway through production. But I have kept trying, I tried theater, I tried commercials, I even tried volunteering into the musical theater at my local church; I’ve tried lots of things.

Because my father left me on this earth alone, and try is all that I can do.

I need to keep living, for reasons undisclosed to even my own mind.

I tell myself that my father left because God wanted him to come home. He spent years of his life driving out evil spirits, freeing tormented souls from the clutches of the Devil, and maybe God thought his work was done? I like to believe that over the probable truth that his fear overcame him; that what he has been running from his entire life finally caught up to him. There is a devotion to God and, with it, a fear of the Devil that has been passed down for generations throughout my family. My father, and many men before him, suffered because of it. 

But if God called my father home, what does that tell me about our home? Does God not care about our family? Why wouldn't he take both of us? No matter what I have done to myself after he died, the agony I have both endured and inflicted upon myself, I am still here. So maybe I do have a purpose on this earth. Or maybe God doesn't want me in His Kingdom at all. 

I remain faithful that these thoughts are untrue. I pray to God every day and every night. I spread His word to those I meet, and I follow His guidance in everything I do, so maybe that’s why I'm still here. 

Packing my, and the rest of my fathers belongings a second time has my mind cruelly bogged with memories, scents, feelings; just pure sentimentality. I have never been host to it before, being estranged from the rest of my family young never granted me the privilege. I do not have the patience for it. My body aches as I look at my shattered dreams, and I feel something cold and awful prick at the throbbing muscle inside my chest, frigid claws that dig deep into my being and tear away so subtly.

My anger gets the better of me and I throw the folder into the trash, causing it to topple over and spill papers and garbage all over the floor. Tears of exhaustion and frustration well up in my eyes, and I grip the sides of my head in my hands and bite back a scream. I will not let myself cry over this. I created this problem, I have to dig -or well, clean- myself out of it. 

I admit, I am an exposed nerve, and have been for the last year, my father's death having ripped off my epineurium.

I hop up from the stool, making it creak wretchedly, scraping the wooden floor, and I grab a broom from the kitchen to clean up the mess.

It’s because it is so quiet that I hear footsteps outside my door.

In most apartments, this wouldn't come as a surprise but considering I live around a corner, at the end of the hall, on the top floor, it’s a bit odd to have foot traffic this late. I tend to be left alone down here, no one vying to get in aside from the rats and dust bunnies.

I keep cleaning, because if someone has come to rob me, they will surely be disappointed, and if they have come to kidnap or kill me, my weak body and dry-rotten broomstick surely aren't going to stop them.

The steps draw closer, and I can hear their breathing; sharp, heavy, fast. The pattering footsteps stop but the breathing doesn't, however it draws farther away.

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slowly approach the peephole in the door. I take in a deep breath only to relax when I see it’s one of the neighbor kids, peering around my little back corner out into the long-stretched hallway with the other apartments. I can’t see that hallway from my room, however.

The moment of relaxation is cut short as I realize the kid is crying. His eyes are wide and red, and his breath is quick, like a rabbit being hunted by a fox.

Then I hear a scream coming from the hallway.

Then another.

Then another.

The child is still hiding around the corner and even though I can’t see what he’s hiding from, everything in my nature tells me it is something he needs to get away from, now. I go to open the door and before I can unlock the deadbolt, the kid takes a mad dash down the long hallway.

…

……

...……

Another scream.

A thud.

My eyes well up in tears of panic and fear as I stand frozen, staring out of the peephole. I see nothing, but I hear everything.

Screaming, crying, ripping, squelching, banging, a gunshot.

Laughing.

Across that sequence of events, which lasted all of 3 minutes, I decided to make peace with death. Because it is all that I can do.

Then it goes quiet again. This time the quiet is eerie. No loud neighbors, no footsteps, nothing.

The air at the top of the high rise is thin, always has been, but trying to breathe it in during a panic feels like there is no air left at all. My hands shake, my chest feels as if it is about to explode. I unlock my cell phone and dial 911 only to be met with a repetitive beep. The earthquake took out the cell towers, of course. Self-preservatory panic overstimulates my senses and I drop to my knees at the door in a terrified heap. I cannot stop the sobs that choke out of my throat, and I fear even my body knows that whoever- or whatever is out there is going to come for me soon.

I clasp my hands and bow my head as I sob out the only thing I can “The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I fear no evil; for you are with me.”

I whisper prayers until my voice is hoarse. Because that is all that I can do. If anyone saw me at this moment I would be mortified. My neighbors are being attacked just outside my door and I have done nothing . But what can I do? Face a mass murderer by myself. Whoever is out there hasn't been stopped by the entire floor of people. They're a predator, and I am just as much a lamb to be slaughtered as anyone.

What I do need, is to get out of this place.

My mind is frequently unreliable, especially with time, however I have been hyperfocused on sounds tonight and I can confidently say the hallway has been pretty silent for at least 10 minutes now.

This can mean one of two things:

Everyone here except me got the hell out of this building, because they didn’t hide in their apartments like cowards, and the authorities are on their way.

Or everyone here except me has been killed, because they didn’t hide in their apartments, and ran out like idiots, and I am just waiting for my turn to face death as well.

Regardless of the right answer, staying in my apartment is going to get me nowhere. The only available exits are the elevator -which is a terrible option post-earthquake- or the stairs, both of which are at the end of the hall.

I get up from my heap on the floor and scour my apartment to grab the rest of my essentials to get out of here. I toss my phone, keys, wallet, and bible all into my purse, and I slowly and quietly unlock the deadbolt.

The moment I put my hand on the door handle to pull it open I feel my stomach sink and my body tense. The narrow hallway feels like a chute, and I feel as soon as I turn the corner my executioner will be waiting with a captive bolt ready to be driven into my skull. 

I take two quiet steps outside my door towards the other hallway and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my heart threatens to crash its way out of my chest, sending a painful wave of thunder to my wrists and my neck. The sheer force of my blood pressure reverberates into my ears. I keep my body to the wall and clutch my bag to satisfy my brain’s need to have leverage and I use every ounce of courage in my body to peer around the corner into the hallway and-

Corpses.

There are corpses.

Horrifying, mutilated corpses of my neighbors. The corpse of the child who, if I was a second faster, could have been brought into my apartment.

Skin sloughed from muscle, muscle from bone and I am sick sick sick sick si-

The putrid, infectious scent of bile, blood, and exposed flesh makes its way to me, and by some miracle I do not vomit but my body doubles over, and my eyes and mouth are pooling while a black haze creeps into the borders of my field of view.

When I glance up, the sensible part of my brain makes my obscured vision focus on the only thing still moving in the hallway.

I, as anyone who knew her would, recognize her from the tattoos on her exposed flesh and the distinct red hair on her head, Ellie Bixler.

But very much not Ellie Bixler.

Her skin is pale and gray with death, and she is caked in blood and bits of everything that are no longer inside my neighbors' bodies. The curve of her arm is made jagged, and My God limbs are not meant to bend that way.

I suddenly believe that every prayer I have ever spoken has come to protect me at this moment, as she somehow does not notice me while she is focused on what I think is the door to her own apartment. I do not let my luck go to waste as I rush back behind the wall, out of sight of anyone in that hallway.

The quiet I got too comfortable with finally comes to an end in what I assume is the sound of her breaking, or trying to break through her door.

I peer around the corner like an idiot in some sick daze of infatuation when I hear the scream of a child.

Ellie is pushed halfway into her apartment, holding onto what I can only imagine is her youngest daughter, Kassie. Someone else inside the room comes to help as the door is slammed onto Ellie’s arm and she recoils back into the hallway.

She then throws herself into the door, furiously banging on it.

  “OPEN THE DOOR LIKE YOU OPEN YOUR LEGS YOU STINKING GROUPIE SLUT!”

 The voice sounds like a twisted, savage, faux version of my neighbor’s and I feel the overwhelming urge to vomit again as I dart back into hiding, and I take the opportunity of the noise to rush back to my apartment.

The contents of my stomach do end up on my floor after I close and lock the apartment behind myself.

I despise vomiting. Tragically, I was cursed with a weak stomach and an impressive ability to stumble upon revolting sights. A deadly combination only I could be so lucky to have. 

I do not think to clean up the vomit on the floor that will soon be covered in my own blood when I am inevitably found.

I quickly realize as my body autopilots into my bedroom, that spilling my guts combined with a severe spike in adrenaline has given me three things; sharp chest pain, energy renewal, and a massive degree of mania.

I now know what I need to do.

I haven't touched these books since I moved out of Tennessee, not that I should have. Every time they have been opened they consume the one who opens them. My father was constantly buried in these writings, wasting his life trying to make something of them. Something that would allow our family to repent from the sins of our ancestors. I have never been so unlucky to read them, until now.

I know exactly where I hid them. I drop to the floor in front of the old, dusty armoire that came with the apartment, that definitely should have been thrown out years before I moved in here.

I flatten myself on the splintery floor and snake an arm under it, finding what I was looking for. I pull out the wooden box and rise to my knees as I pop open the latch. There is a stack of 3 handwritten journals. Journals scrawled by my great-great Grandfather, Marcus Littleton.

My body quivers, and adrenaline and fear flow through my veins as I pull one of the journals out of the box, illuminated by the moonlight.

I take the box and journal to my desk. I re-light the candle upon my desk and I open the treacherous tome up. My heart is frightened; however, my mind is set.

I have heard my father describe demons for the entirety of my life. ‘Twisted, rotting corpses intent on causing chaos, destruction, and pain everywhere they are found.’

I never fully believed his tales. Of course I didn’t, there was never any public recordings of such events. His stories were from the 1920’s, it could have been nothing but hearsay. Hearsay that he lived and died for. Hearsay that, if I do nothing, I will also die for. 

He never let me touch these books when he was alive, he kept them hidden for himself. When I inherited them, I never opened the box. Partially because I respected my fathers wishes, partially because I didn't want to become consumed in them as he was. My father and I always were alike.

The handwriting of my great-great grandfather is sloppy, and every word is abbreviated, shortened, or misspelled. These books were scrawled in a panic. I knew this. I was, however, never told the extent. I skim through the most legible parts of the pages, many words and phrases unreadable.

“The words I uttered have unleashed a demonic entity beyond my darkest nightmares”

“The book, it cannot be destroyed.”

“Their bodies twisted, decaying.”

“Rotted from the inside out.”

“It does not stop.”

“The possession will spread.”

“They will tear you apart, and bathe in your guts.”

“Run.”

“It cannot be stopped until innocence is destroyed.”

“I cannot escape this.”

“It's going to get me soon.”

I slam the book shut. My body trembles so wildly I begin to spasm. My heart is beating as fast as a racehorse’s and my breathing refuses to slow. The fear of being discovered from the thing just outside my apartment is the only thing keeping me from screaming.

The chicken scratch writing described a book. I have heard about this book for years. A book that was hidden away for the good of humanity. My father wanted to keep us as far away from Los Angeles for a reason. He never knew where the book was hidden away, but he knew it had to be here.

And of course, it would make total, logical sense, that by some absolute joke from God, out of all the old buildings in this city, I manage to land an apartment in the one the book was being held at.

Or perhaps I really am cursed, and some sick string of fate brought me here to die and end my family's bloodline.

The only way this could be happening is if someone found the book. My father always said, ‘They have no power without the book, so long as the words aren't spoken.’ I’m hoping he is right. If he is, maybe there is something in the book that can be used to save whoever is left in the building. Something my great-great grandfather missed.

There is only one problem.

I have absolutely no idea where the book is.

This building has 14 floors, and hundreds of tenants. It would be nearly impossible for me to find it without a mass murderer trying to kill everything in its sight. 

The chaos does seem to be contained to this floor, and by the looks of it, Ellie is the only one causing it. That could potentially narrow it down to someone on this floor having it, unless of course Ellie was just the unlucky one, in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone. 

Ellie Bixler didn't deserve this. The journal said the souls of those taken were corrupted by the demon, damning them to burn in hell while their body and partial consciousness remains to wreak havoc among men. Ellie Bixler does not deserve hell.

------------

Ellie Bixler was one of the first faces I saw when I moved to this treacherous place. Moving alone was a nightmare, especially moving alone into the top floor of a high-rise, into the apartment farthest from the elevator. 

I thought the nightmare was ending when I got to the last boxes in the truck. However, when I picked them up, and almost toppled over with the weight of them, I realized my bad luck streak continued. I glanced at the label on the top box and sighed—of course it would be my dishes. I hear the ding of the elevator and feel a sudden whoosh of thankfulness.

“Hold the elevator!” I called, hoping that whoever was inside of it heard me. But seeing as I didn’t run into the doors, they must have. “Thank you," I said breathlessly, in passing, and then slumped against the wall of the elevator, balancing the bottom box on my thighs.

“Do you need some help?”

I peered around my stack of boxes to see the woman who had been kind enough to hold the elevator door for me; she was still standing there, dressed in a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt, dark blue ripped jeans, and leather boots. She wasn't dressed like the women I grew up around in the Bible Belt, that's for sure. And judging by her dyed red hair and tattoos, I would guess she didn't act like them either. She was staring at me hesitantly with blue eyes that looked as exhausted as I felt.

“Oh, no, I’ve got it,” I said quickly, disappearing back behind the boxes once I realized I had been staring a few moments too long at the gorgeous, courteous stranger while looking like I had been hit by a bus. “Thank you, though.”

There was a soft hum of contemplation, and then, a few moments later, a swish of the elevator doors sliding closed. I slumped against the elevator wall, thankful that I wouldn't have to converse with my new neighbor while coated with dirt and sweat.

“I think I have to insist, then.”

I jolted up so quickly that the box on the top wobbled precariously, only for it to be slipped off the stack and into the arms of the tall stranger. I stared at her, eyes wide, as the woman slouched under the weight of the box and flushed, before straightening up and smiling at me. 

“Um.” I cringed at myself. What a way to be eloquent. “Thank you, but you really didn’t—”

“I know,” the woman smiled back. “What’s your number?”

I blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?” There was no way this lady just asked for my number. Who did she think she was?

The woman’s mouth fell open and she was immediately blushing. Her brow furrowed and she chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head. “Your floor… Number. Is what I meant. For the elevator?”

Oh . I looked over at the rows of glowing white buttons; I hadn’t pressed the floor number when I rushed in.

“Oh, yeah! Right!” I replied awkwardly, still not looking at the woman. I shouldn’t have felt bad—after all, this stranger is the one who said it—but I couldn’t help feeling like I was the one who made everything uncomfortable.

“Fourteen,” I finally replied, sighing, after clearing my throat. The woman grinned, a big beautiful smile, and pressed the button.

“Well hello neighbor! I’m on 14 as well, apartment 85.” I looked back over at her sheepishly. “Expect to climb a lot of stairs. This elevator is out of order more often than it’s working.”

“Of course it is,” I commented dryly. Well, at least it appeared to be working on the day I needed it to be. Hopefully that luck holds true for grocery days, too. I thought. “Stairs aren’t a problem. Besides, it gives me an excuse to drink a third cup of coffee in the mornings.”

The woman laughed. “Sometimes I need at least five. Don’t have kids.” the stranger joked.

“You have kids?” I asked.

“Three.” She started, “Two sweet girls, Bridget and Kassie. And my boy, Danny, who is always the culprit if you hear loud music coming from my place.”

“Wow you've got a handful then.” I replied. “I’ve always wanted kids… but it doesn’t seem in my cards anymore.” I winced, and wanted to kick myself so bad for accidentally sounding super melancholic. 

The woman nodded kindly, smart enough not to pry. Or maybe she just didn't want to entertain depressing, deep conversation with someone she met less than 3 minutes ago. 

“I’d shake your hand…” the woman said, her voice hesitant as if she could sense the awkward tension in the elevator, “but…” she glanced pointedly at the box, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“I appreciate the concern for my dishes.”

“Dishes,” she said, staring at the box. “Well, that explains things.”

Like the fact that it’s a lot heavier than you thought it would be , I thought, and couldn't hold in my chuckle.

“My name’s Ellie.” The stranger—or Ellie, apparently—looked over at me. “By the way. Since we’re… Going to be neighbors.” This time, Ellie was the one who cringed.

“Well then, neighbor.” I stressed the word around my smile. “I’m Greta.”

“Greta.” Ellie said. My name sounded so pleasant coming from her lips compared to my own. I quickly eliminated that thought from my mind. 

“Ellie.” I intoned in the same manner, and Ellie laughed. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open; Ellie inclined her head, as if to say you first , and I nod as I step through the doors. 

“I probably should have warned you that I live all the way at the end of the hall.” I shifted the box in my arms and glanced over at Ellie. “Before you decided to be a good samaritan.”

“I’m always a good samaritan,” Ellie responded, her tone of voice slightly defensive.

“Careful. You told me where you live. I might abuse that.” That sounded a lot creepier than I meant it, but Ellie just laughed, which slightly lifted my embarrassment.

I stepped through the doors of my apartment. I didn’t expect Ellie to be impressed—chances are we had the same exact apartment, hers just… properly decorated—so rather than trying to play the role of host, I simply led Ellie straight to where I put the box containing my disassembled Ikea kitchen table.

Ellie did, however, let out a low whistle as she looked around.

“Wow, you’ve been at this all day, haven't you?” She slipped the box on top of the Ikea box while I laid mine on the floor. 

“Yes, tragically. I slept on the floor and left the truck full of my non-essential stuff last night. Looking back, I definitely should have gotten robbed.”

“Long drive then?”

“You could say that.. Knoxville.” I sighed.

“You're telling me you drove here… from Tennessee?” She looked at me, eyes wide in shock. “With seemingly no help?”

“Just me and god.” Ellie laughed at that, but then caught herself when she noticed my expression, and the cross on my necklace, and realized I was serious.

“Well, then… I’d be happy to help, if you’d like?”

“That’s really nice of you, Ellie, but I’m afraid you're just too late. Those were my last boxes.”

“I have impeccable timing, huh?”

“Seems like it.” We both laughed, a bit awkwardly.

“What brought you all the way to the City of Angels?” Ellie interjected, cutting the awkward tension once again.

I breathed a heavy sigh, “It’s a long story…”

“Well, you could tell it, if you come have dinner with me.”

I recoiled, “I couldn’t- No. No thank you, I really should start putting all this stuff away.”

Ellie put her hand on my arm, “I insist. My husband, Jay, is making steak tonight and when he cooks, he cooks for a village.” Not that 3 children isn't a village.

I flinched, then relaxed slightly under the hand on my arm, I looked up at Ellie, contemplating, but there was little I would do to argue. I was exhausted, and I shouldn’t decline free food, even from a stranger. “I suppose I can't say no.”

  ------------

That night was the first, and the only time in a long time I felt safe. 

I didn’t spend a lot of time with Ellie outside of that night. She was a very busy woman, and I was constantly trying to find work, or locking myself in my apartment stressing about trying to find work. I often passed her in the hallway, or stopped to chat while doing laundry, but that was the extent. For the most part.

We were also very different, spiritually and morally. She wasn’t religious and I was not going to try and convert an entire family of 5. Our lives were just very different, as much as I felt drawn to her. I often, for some reason, constantly had the gnawing ache to go back to her apartment and spend time with her, and just be in her presence more than I should. It’s a feeling I have felt before, when I was young, and something deep rooted in my consciousness told me I shouldn’t give into that ache.

‘For god cannot be tempted by desire, nor does he tempt anyone; but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed.’

I found out about her divorce when we crossed paths in the hall. It came as a shock, to an extent. Externally they seemed like the perfect couple, but being their neighbor, I had heard a fair number of screaming matches between the two of them. Divorce is something my family has always been against, especially when there are children involved; however, I believe that God would forgive Ellie if her husband abandoned her.

Ellie was a kind person; Ellie does not deserve Hell.

Ellie’s family –by the looks of it– is still alive in her apartment. As long as no one in the apartment has been possessed, it is possible they can be saved.

I just have to, you know, get there, without the demon in the hall ripping me to shreds before I take a step.

I sit at my desk, chewing on my cheek as I think out the most insane, ludicrous plan to save my neighbors, and to free my family from this book that has haunted us for generations. 

There is an estimated 10 percent chance of getting out of this alive, but there are little alternative options.

There was a shotgun in the hallway. 

If I can get ahold of it, and subdue Ellie long enough for her family to let me in, I can get ahold of the book, and with it, and my great-great grandfather's journals, I could find a way to get us all out alive.

That is, if they will even let me in, and if the book is even with Ellie’s family. This is where my odds drop further.

This plan is flawed. It is dangerous. It is stupid.

But I am all of those things, yet God has kept me alive, so perhaps there is hope to be found somewhere.

As I pack the journals into my bag, and I pull my largest and sharpest knife from the kitchen, I feel the full weight of my mortality sit upon my chest. 

I am mad for this.

But what is my life going to be otherwise? What did God keep me alive through so much for? I have to have faith.

I bear the knife in my hand, and wrap a rosary around my arm and wrist. My bible is held in my bag and I stand before the door to my death once again, praying for my father’s forgiveness if I mess this up.

As I carefully unlock the piece of wood separating me and the Devil, I go white-knuckled on my knife, and I feel bile begin to creep up. I am already out of breath due to panic, dissociating out of my mind, and trembling so forcefully that my teeth chatter. I bite my tongue until I taste blood, and I push open the door.

I am not sure how I want to do this, but planning now would only exhaust me further, and I need to think on my feet. 

Grab the gun, shoot the demon, get inside. 

I take a few, quiet, petrified steps into the hallway and look around the corner when I see-

Kassie?

Ellie’s youngest daughter is standing in the hallway, moving to help a young, dark-haired woman off the ground. From what I have heard, this is Ellie’s sister, Beth, whom I have heard referred to as ‘The Groupie’ from various neighbors.

Their attention turns to me, Beth looks shocked, eyes wide, as she moves to grab the shotgun from what I now sickeningly realize is the corpse of Mr. Fonda. 

The smell, Christ. I have sworn off vomiting again, but my body desperately wants to overrun my mind at this moment. I fight bile and slowly approach them. Kassie puts a finger over her lips, assuring I know to stay quiet.

Where are Bridget and Danny? I already know, at least, I should already know. My twisted mind does not choose to process that in the moment, only focusing on the two people merely 20 feet from me.

It is my fear that allows me a keenness to sound -even over my heartbeat in my ears- and I hear the cracking of glass and bone behind me as I begin to pass Ellie’s apartment.

No.

Please, God, don’t let this happen to me now. Not when I’m this close.

I freeze, because I am a prey animal, no matter what anyone says, in this building, right now, I am prey, and as a prey animal, I have developed the intuition of knowing when I am being watched. 

Its gaze is fixed on me, and I am all taut muscle and dilated pupils underneath it. I know it is behind me, and I know with every fiber of my being that I am going to die if I do not move.

But my body will not allow my muscles to relax enough to bend my limbs.

I am gripping the knife in my hand for dear life and my eyes are locked with Beth’s, who is, currently, my only hope in surviving this. The groupie raises the shotgun, and points it behind me. It is then that I decide to turn and look at-

There is a hand on my neck.

There is a hand on my neck. There is a hand on my neck. There is a hand on my neck. 

It is cold and wet and awful and I set my jaw and every muscle in my throat tenses more than they already were. My teeth threaten to break each other under the force caused by my fear. 

I attempt to drive the knife into the flesh behind me, when my arm is caught in the grasp of another hand. The grip is tighter than the sickeningly gentle hold on my neck, and its claws dig deep into the tendons of my wrist, making me scream out in pain, my eyes screwing shut as my hand involuntarily releases the knife.

There is a wet, breathy, crackling chuckle behind me, and the grip on my neck releases, and I open my tear-filled eyes, only to be thrown into the door across from Ellie's apartment. 

It is on me swiftly after that. It grabs my wrist again and pins it against the door, like it’s body alone wasn’t doing that enough. 

Its stare is predatory and piercing, nothing like Ellie’s once was. It is feral, and it's burning into me. Wide, consuming and unblinking as it stares down at me, I am drowning in it. Pupils like a pinpoint amongst a pale blue, scleras dark and bloodshot. 

It leans down for an awful moment, a pit forms in my stomach and I want to vomit as it licks the blood dripping down my forearm from its claws.

I look over its shoulder at Beth, who Kassie is hiding behind and gripping for dear life.

“Please.” It is my voice that pleads, but I have never heard myself so breathless nor shrill.

“Pl…ease.” The demon's voice mocks me, eyes still burning into mine. It's voice hoarse and deep and repulsive, but the thing that makes me want to upchuck more than anything, is that I can still hear Ellie's voice underneath it. Sweet, funny, no-bullshit Ellie Bixler, consumed by the Devil. 

Beth is looking at me now, fear in her wide eyes, as she aims the gun down sight for a moment, aiming directly at the demon. 

Pull the trigger.

PULL THE GODDAMN TRIGGER.

This is my apex of disaster. This is all that my mind has been made to handle. I have hit the limit of my unluckiness and hit it so damn hard I might as well have heard a comedically timed ‘bang’ and seen stars dancing around my head. 

Beth is unmoving, and my breath catches in my throat as I choke out a strangled sob when I see the woman mouth ‘I’m sorry’ before the shotgun it aimed at the door to apartment 82, and it is blasted open.

The demon before me jolts upright, but doesn't take its smothering gaze off of me, even when Beth grabs Kassie and runs through the door. 

My fate is sealed as the door slams behind her, and all that is heard is the clanking of the security chain lock, as Beth well and truly escapes.

Then there is a deafening silence…

…A pattering of footsteps…

…Heavy, excited, wheezy, panting.

An excited panting that is coming from the creature before me.

This is where my faith in God has led me. Like my father, and his father, and the father before him. All of my life, and all of their lives, have led to this very moment. My death will be the fated coup de grâce of our cursed bloodline.

I am crucified to my place, paralyzed from the neck down as it looks upon me. I am fated to be consumed by this monster. This is my destiny.

[sunriseseance]

Hi, I’m so sorry this ask is long and probably messy but I saw you talking about Allison and Klaus and I’ve been thinking about them a lot so here’s something:

I’ve seen a lot of people hating on Allison at the end of season 3 for making a deal with Reginald and “getting Luther and Klaus killed” when she clearly didn’t know that was gonna happen and there’s no way she would agree to do that.

Like they specifically have a problem with her making a deal with Reggie but, what do they think Klaus was doing? Do they think he was too stupid or too naive to make a deal? Is it not a deal if they don’t shake hands? Because I think Klaus was playing his own game and they just fell for the “I’m hanging out with dad because he’s nice now” act.

Reginald tried to use both of them to get the others on board with his plan but that didn’t work because, despite everything, they still respected their siblings decisions. Allison could have rumored everyone and be done, but instead she committed the crime of… actually talking to them and maybe putting on a fake smile? Klaus could’ve been very manipulative and insistent, enough that Lila told him to back off.

In the end, Luther got killed because they weren’t willing to go that far and Reginald had to find another way.

Yep yep yep. I think you are 100% correct. Allison clearly did not know what she was agreeing to, and she risked everything she could to undo the harm.

People have been falling for Klaus's shtick since the first week after season 1 came out. He says he is just a carefree silly who doesn't know better and can't do anything and the fandom says "yep!" or "I can't believe the writers would do this to him" instead of looking at the incongruencies as deliberate choices for them to examine. This is regrettably not new.

I think it is worth SERIOUSLY questioning why people are so charitable with Klaus and assume the absolute worst possible of Allison. Because you have hit the nail on the head. They are extremely similar characters, who have almost 100% the exact same flaws, and yet one is the fandom darling and the other's tag is about 80% people talking about how much they hate her.

[cryptidafter]

if Oom was my sister, we'd have to fight, idc lol

[cosmicheartz]

I rlly should talk abt Solange more here

My beautiful princess with so many fucking problems

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

why does everything have to be a hecking issue with my sister

[david-watts]

it's that time of the night where I want to have a nice fancy burger. maybe it's just like. oogh need carbs need meat need the happy chemicals from food that doesn't make me want to off myself or that it's been like ten hours since I last ate

[mythvoiced]

-. bro... i'm... bro this draft thing is actually working BRO- hehe~

[iturmom]

i started a sourdough starter and i've been having so much fun with it!! pics under the cut ha i've never made bread on my own so it all looks a mess. it feels so cool to make all my food home made cause yesterday i made my own salsa and i also cooked some other stuff too and the sourdough cookies which are giving gourmet bitch so i just felt so good. and full!! anyway the bread is okay. it's definitely bread, so it's good! it doesn't taste at all like my grandma's sourdough tho, but i'm not surprised cause her starter smells completely different than mine! uh the plain one is hard and it didn't raise quite as much but i think i accidentally used a lil too much flour. the garlic italian seasoning one is the perfect texture tho!!

i included the picture of the salsa bc look at the size of that lime it was the same size as one of the oranges i have never seen one that big!!

[ajaxgb]

Okay no I need to talk about the book version of Howl's Moving Castle. I love the movie but the book has such a different vibe and you, yes you, should read it.

Movie Howl is a soulful and quiet. Book Howl is a drama queen and Causing Problems and has a long string of jilted exes and couldn't shut up if you paid him.

Sophie and Howl drive each other up the wall at the beginning and it's really funny. Sophie and Howl are (despite themselves) very much in love by the end and they still drive each other up the wall and it's even funnier.

In the movie, Howl has been ordered by the king to participate in The War, and Howl is avoiding it because he is a brave conscientious objector. In the book, Howl has been ordered by the king to rescue his lost brother from the Witch of the Wastes, and Howl is avoiding it by any means necessary because he is a cowardly weasel who wants to stay as far from the Witch as possible.

In the movie, the Witch cursed Sophie because she was jealous about Howl speaking to Sophie for five minutes. In the book, the Witch cursed Sophie because Sophie had been doing surprisingly powerful magic for years without knowing it and it was actually starting to cut into the Witch's plans. (Sophie does not discover any of this until nearly the end of the book, but the reader can start to pick it up much earlier and the way Sophie's magic works is pretty darn cool.)

In the movie, there's a rumor that Howl eats the hearts of maidens, but this is implied to be nothing but nasty fearmongering. In the book, there's a rumor that Howl eats the hearts of maidens because Howl started the rumor so people would stop asking him to do wizard junk all the time.

The book lightly parodies a couple of tropes from Western fairy tales. In particular Sophie has internalized that, as the eldest of three sisters, her "destiny" is to fail so that her younger sisters will look cooler when they succeed, which is why she's so resigned to the hat shop at the beginning. (Sidebar: Sophie's sisters come up much more in the book and they're great.) There's also a really funny bit where Sophie attempts to operate a pair of seven-league boots.

In the movie, the fourth and final location that the magic door connects to is some sort of black void / mindscape / time portal dealy. In the book the fourth location is Wales, in the UK, on Earth, so that Howl can visit his family, because from Howl's perspective this is an isekai story.

[dilfhubs]

when fratboy!satoru takes your virginity you kind of expect him to be an ass about it. he's cocky as it is, and has a habit of gassing himself up too much when it comes to his... skills in the bedroom. if you're not listening to him talk about how he's the strongest, you're listening to him talk about how he's the biggest.

being the only virgin of your friend group was starting to grate on you and... a small part of you might've wanted to find out if there's any bite to satoru's bark. it's not like the two of you were dating or anything, but you felt comfortable enough to walk up to him one day during lunch and ask, in front of his best friend:

"will you take my virginity?"

maybe you expected him to blush. or freeze up. or at least trip over his words. but instead, the stupid white-haired prick looked up at you with the most relaxed expression possible and shrugged.

"okay."

and that's how you ended up here, sitting criss-cross applesauce on his messy dorm-room bed with his tongue halfway down your throat. a few empty cans of beer and abandoned cheat sheets lay strewn over his floor, and you hate yourself for letting this be the backdrop of your entry into the sex-having life.

but you can’t hate yourself for long because as he runs a hand up your thigh and under your skirt, you start to feel more excited than you thought you’d feel. he pushes you back, slots his knee between your thighs and bites at your bottom lip before trailing down to your throat.

still, it’s satoru, so when he pushes your panties to the side and feels just how wet you are for him, he laughs. “you get this wet when you touch yourself or is all of this just for me?”

“shut up,” you groan as he nips at the skin of your throat and gently runs his finger through your folds and up to your clit. you’re surprised he knows where your clit is, even.

and he’s not wrong—you’ve never been wet like this before. you can feel just how damp the fabric of your panties are you as satoru pulls them down your thighs and hikes your skirt up to get a clearer look at your soaked cunt.

“pretty,” he licks his lips. “wannna taste her, that okay baby?”

his eyes search yours for consent and you’re stunned for a moment as he waits for ‘enthusiastic consent’. you didn’t expect this sort of check-in from a frat boy. your nod seems enthusiastic enough to him, but just for clarity—“use your words.”

“yes. please, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects you. “want to hear that name when you cum on my tongue. cant believe no ones tasted her before.”

the use of referring to your pussy as ‘her’ is odd but quickly overlooked when he delves into your pussy like he’s dehydrated. tongue flat against your heat just to flex and circle around your clit. he sucks and bites a little and pulls you to your first orgasm in nasty speeds.

you cum on his tongue whilst his eyes bore into yours from between your thighs. white hair pulled out of his face by your hand as you tug the strands in hopes that he’ll stop licking at your overstimulated clit. it takes until you’re shaking for him to finally pull back and free his angry cock from his pants.

you think you gasp when you see it. he said he was big but you didn’t think he was a truthful man in the slightest. his cock is so heavy it doesn’t even stand at full mast—it fights gravity. satoru sees the look on your face and instead of sporting a shit-eating grin like you expect, he climbs over you and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“let’s stop here?” he asks. “we could watch a movie. oooh what about die hard?”

you giggle, your nerves melting a little at his words. “i’m okay, i want this. i am not graduating as a virgin.”

satoru snorts and, after rolling a condom on, gently pries your legs apart enough for him to slot his wait in between them. he guides your ankles to link behind his back and slowly runs the tip of his cock through your slick folds. “tell me if you need me to stop,” he says. “just relax. i’ve got you, baby.”

you actually manage to relax a little, focus on the feeling of being stretched as satoru slowly pushes into you until his tip is completely hidden in your cunt. it’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. “keep going.”

one of his long fingers dips down to rub soft circles over your clit to relax you a little more as he pushes deeper. you’ve never felt so full, so sore yet desperate for more… you wonder if it’s always going to feel like this, or if it’s just because satoru is the one breaking you open to find pleasure in your insides.

he lets out a pretty moan as he bottoms out inside of you, the weight of his heavy balls resting against your ass as he stills and catches your lips in a wet kiss. his tongue slips into your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes against your tongue as he slowly draws out of you and then, with a grunt that you taste, snaps his hips forwards into you.

that hurts, but there’s an odd stitch of pleasure in the way he’s broken you open. “sorry,” he speaks against your lips. “it’s better that i just got it out of the way, it can start feeling real good soon. gonna make you cum on my cock, baby. you want that?”

you nod, eyes staring into his as your foreheads meet. satoru nods back, licking his lips and smiling. “yeah? you wanna be stuffed full, huh? always knew you were filthy. but i’m the only one that gets to see it.”

his arrogance pulls at your lips. “until i fuck the next guy.”

snap. his cock splits you open at that, and though you wince and screw your face us, you’re letting out moans made for porn too. his finger on your clit starts working a little faster as he draws back again just to drive into you even harder.

“no,” he dips his head down to bite at your neck. “not until you fuck the next guy. i mean you can try, baby, but it’s not happening.”

“ngh, what do you mean?”

another thrust into you sends you further up the bed. you’re sure you look a mess but satoru looks down at you with such wide blown eyes that you could be convinced you’re from the heavens. “not giving you up that easy,” he groans. “you know, i fucked someone last week just because they had your name. got to moan it without being slapped. again.”

your hand flies up to his chest, almost in an attempt to slow his now mean pace. “wait you—ngh god—you like me?”

“i’m far fucking past like,” he moans, hips starting to stutter. any discomfort has faded into glorious pleasure. your stomach starts to tighten again and you know you’re close enough that he’s going to try and time your orgasms. “you’re so perfect. so much better than i imagined.”

your eyes roll back a little at the thought of satoru fucking his fist late at night to the thought of you. how nonchalant he was when you asked him to take your virginity, you wonder if he went home last night and stroked himself to the sheer anticipation of being inside of you.

“satoru i’m gonna—”

he cuts you off with a deep kiss. it’s sex and want and lust, but it’s also soft in a way you can’t describe—maybe even a little anxious after his confession. it might just be his pending orgasm, but you swear his lips tremble between yours.

his cock throbs as he drills it into you, hits your most sensitive spot with every single thrust. it’s like he already has you mapped out, because you’re both cumming in tandem with each other before long.

a part of you aches to feel his cum spill into you instead of the condom he wears, to be claimed and filled by his seed over and over. would he fuck it back into you? clean you off with his talented tongue? would he plug you with his cock until he’s ready to overfill you with a second load?

he moans into your mouth and pulls back a little to revel in your fucked out expression. your legs still wrap around his waist, boxing him in and keeping him close. you worry that in typical frat boy fashion he’ll make an excuse and run off to recount the fuck with his friends. but satoru pecks at your lips, then your chin, then down your neck again.

“what are you doing?” you ask, vision slightly blurred from the intensity of your orgasm.

“gonna make you cum again,” he smiles against your skin. “didn’t you hear?”

“hear what?”

he pulls back to look at you, a soft smile pulling at his pretty lips. “that if you cum at least five times when you lose your virginity, you’ll fall in loooove.”

[jackass-jones]

I love me some homoerotic torture 🥰

[dante-mightdie]

I desperately want butcher!simon to take me against the dingy couch in the break room, no sounds but the squeaking of the springs, my muffled moans from his hand covering my mouth, and his deep grunts as he pounds into me from behind.

just a quick little fuck in between customers, and he has to leave mid-fuck to go hand off a package of pre-ordered meat, and scares the ever loving fuck out of the guy who came in to pick it up

okay i’m gonna change this request slightly because I saw a video and it inspired something based on this ask 🌚

(ending updated)

c/w: nsfw content below, implications of non-con (none takes place, delivery driver assumes reader is being attacked by simon but this is not the case at all), reader is fully consenting, reader and simon are married, threats, degradation

the delivery driver had been waiting for a good ten minutes now, wondering where the pretty counter girl was who always gave him the usual package. not even that unsettling brute was there to help him so he did what he thought was the correct thing to do

operating under the assumption that someone may be hurt or in need of assistance, he walked around the counter and into the back of the butcher shop. alongside the somewhat eerie humming of the freezer coolers, all that could be heard was a repeat squeaking sound coming from the back office

but since there were no calls for help or cries of agony, the driver opened the office door as quietly as possible. the cause of the squeaking becomes evident when his eyes land on the couch in the corner of the room, where he finds the pretty counter girl and her frightening beast of a boss

there you lay, pinned against the old sofa by the crushing weight of the butcher. legs spread what seems like impossibly wide to accommodate the brutal snapping of his hips. the driver’s eyes widened at the sight before him, the rough hand clamped over your mouth and the tears slipping down your cheeks leads him to believe he’s walked in on a viscous attack

he hasn’t been spotted yet, leaving him plenty of time to do the heroic thing and rescue you from the awful man who bunched up your skirt around your hips and ravaged you like you were nothing more than one the pieces of meat hanging in the freezer

but before he can, simon slips his hand from your mouth and the driver expects his hearing to become overwhelmed with pleas to stop. however, he’s shocked to hear almost pornographic moans slip from your throat instead. your hands that originally seemed pinned down under simon’s weight are suddenly pawing wherever they can reach

your head turns to catch simon’s lips in a sloppy kiss. tongues clashing, saliva mixing with moans as he whispers nasty things against you,

“fuckin’ slag, grabbin’ m’cock whilst I’m workin’…” he grunts, slamming his hips into you harder. your hands settle on his ass, grabbing handfuls of the meaty flesh as leverage to push his cock deeper into your sobbing cunt

“couldn’t wait, could’ya? didn’t wanna wait for me to take ya to bed like a proper husband should… don’t worry, lovie. gonna give ya what you need…” he continues, looking down to watch where his mean cock stuffs itself inside your pussy. all you can do is respond in drunken babbles of ‘more’, ‘harder’, and begging him to make you cum

the driver soons realises his mistake, ducking out of the door and adjusting his suddenly swelling cock in his trousers before he’s caught by your terrifying husband

~

you come out to serve him about twenty minutes later, still looking as prim and proper as you always do. now the driver can’t help but wonder how many times you’d spoken to him after being split open by your hulking husbands cock. to be honest, he still can’t over the husband bit

before you can open your mouth to speak to him, simon appears behind you, pressed right up against your back but his glare is locked onto the man on the other side of the counter,

“go. I’ve got this one…” he mumbles in your ear before sending you off with a pat to your bottom

the driver can’t help but feel like he’s shit out of luck here. the transaction is awkward, uncomfortable and he really wishes he was dealing with you instead. at least you actually smile at him

he takes the package, ignoring the way simon purposefully tightens his grip when he tries to take it from him, making him struggle. the driver gives him an awkward smile before turning to leave the shop

“oi.” simon calls out to the driver once he’s at the door. he turns around to face the butcher who gives him a look that would make any grown man shit themselves

“if I catch ya trynna look at my bird again, you’ll find yourself behind this counter for different reasons.” he snarls, glowering at the poor man who can only nod his head before darting out the door with no intentions of picking up a delivery from your shop ever again