#are you satisfied with an average life? bitch i might be but i must clean the kitchen and the bathroom and unpack all those boxes first

[widevibratobitch]

ok its time to put on some marina and stop being a little bitch

[johnkrrasinski]

paralyzed;

full masterlist

Pairings: Dark!Steve Rogers x female!reader

Word count: 2,032

Warning: SMUT!!!! non-con, degradation, humilation, oral sex (male & female receiving), murder, mention of blood, kidnapping. (MUST BE 18+)

Summary: Steve Rogers broke into your house but not for your money. 

a/n: i’m back on my dark!steve rogers bullshit. 

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

"You should be grateful." He stared down at your writhing form, with a knife in his hands that he had just wiped clean from the blood of her wimpy boyfriend. "I could've killed you too if I wanted to."

The tears of terror flowed from your eyes as you miserably attempted to free yourself out of the robes that were bounding you but to no avail. You wanted to scream for help as loud as you possibly could but all that could come out of your tapped lips were pathetic whimpers.

You wanted to run on your wobbly legs as fast as you could even if you knew you were going to stumble to the ground and scrape your knees and it would only make it so easy for him to catch you but at least you had that fleeting sense of freedom, an ephemeral glint of hope that you could actually save yourself from this psycho.

But it was hopeless. He was too strong. You stood no chance trying to outrun him, all it would lead you to was only in a worse scenario.

But hey, at least you are not dead yet.

Steve Rogers had been watching her and her pantywaist of a boyfriend for months now. Every day, he would sit in his RV for hours and he would park it across their house. He watched him leave to work every morning and she would peck him a kiss on the lips before he entered his car and drove away. He never understood what a girl as hot as her was doing with an average, tedious guy like him. She could do so much more. She should be with a man like him that could satisfy her in bed.

It started when she called for a plumber and the first time he saw her, he was instantly captivated by her beauty. "Fucking hell, she was gorgeous," he thought. She was only wearing a white tank top and booty shorts with a cardigan over her shoulders when he arrived. Her cleavage that was peeking through her shirt and her creamy thighs got him and jerking off at the thought of fucking her into the mattress that night. but he remembered the silver ring around her finger and the pictures of her wedding day in the living room, and he didn't like it. There was nothing that he hated more than what he couldn't have.

And so, a nefarious plan was forming in his head. he waited patiently for weeks, camouflaged himself in a baseball hat and hid in his RV. He observed her from afar, he learned her routines and broke into her house once when she left to the grocery store to memorize every corner and every room. He did it so neatly. He was ready, at another Friday night when it was nearing 12 am, after her husband came home and slumbering next to her, he snuck in through the back door with a dark mask covering his face and he tiptoed into the master bedroom.

He was as silent as a ninja that it was way too swift and a way to easy. He stood over the edge of their bed, he watched their peaceful states and he admired how divine she still looked even when she was deep asleep and the lights were out.

He walked to her husband's side of the bed and put his glove covered hand over his mouth and slit his throat. his eyes bulged as soon as he realized what was happening but he couldn't speak or scream, he could only thrash around until steve cut off his windpipe.

And in a matter of seconds, the schmuck was laying lifeless with his eyes wide open, the splash of his blood tainted his white sheets. He dragged the body off the bed to the floor and the thud woke her up.

It took her a few seconds to realize the gory calamity that was happening before her and before she could scream and run, he held her down on the bed and covered her nose with chloroform dipped handkerchief until she went unconscious.

That's how she woke up an hour later, bound and bare. her head was dizzy from what felt like hours of staying still in the same position now and the fear just kept rising and rising with every movement and noise he made. at least she was sure that he wasn't going to murder her just yet.

You had so many questions swirling in your brain, you began searching for the people you might have had done wrong or any suspicious behaviour that you might've had neglected... Not a single one had given you a valid answer.

"You must be wondering who am I and what do I want, huh?" he scoffed. "Don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you or for your money, I'm here for you."

You could feel the bed dipped with the weight of his arms behind you. He loved the view of your ass up in the air, face pressed to the blood tainted sheet and your limbs knotted with ropes. the things he was going to do to you...

"Remember when you called me to fix your sink a few months ago? Boy, you looked miserable as hell. knew it since the first moment I saw you that this guy doesn't have the guts to fuck your brains out. well... Didn't would be more appropriate." he smirked. "I met a lot of housewives and most of them practically begged for me to make them cum but, none of them was as sexy as you."

Gou could hear the clanking sounds of his belt being unfastened and him pulling down his pants and underwear just enough to spring his cock free. He pulled you down harshly to the edge of the bed, your skin burned against the friction.

You tried to push him away with your feet but he overpowered you by keeping you in place. "Don't fucking move, bitch. Or we are gonna do this the hard way, you want that?" You didn't fight back or resist by keeping quiet... not that you could do much anyway. "good."

He bent down his knees and dipped his head into your core, he licked a stripe over your entrance to your clit and lapped on your juices. He devoured you like a famished man and the squelching noises were deeply humiliating.

His beard unpleasantly tickled you and you knew he was gonna leave some beard burn later but that was your least concern right now. "Mmm, so fucking sweet, just like I imagined." He groaned at your taste, sending vibration to your core.

You moaned when two of his fingers intruded you and his thumb was circling your clit. Your body betrayed you by producing the wetness that you resisted. He curled his digits and brushed the spot that made you lose your mind. You sighed when he pumped in and out of you, scissoring your walls. “Look at you dripping all over my fingers. Can’t help it, can you? You need to be fucked hard by a real man so bad.”

The tears in your eyes had blurred your vision. His filthy words made you squirm. “Don’t worry, little slut. I’ll give you what your wimpy husband couldn’t.” He was amused by your reaction as he kept rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewled through your muffled mouth.

You felt your orgasm approaching, an unwanted eruption. But you were so close to the edge and when he moved in and out of your walls faster, you were pushed over the edge, making a mess all over your captor’s fingers. “That’s it. Go ahead, bitch. Show me what a dirty little slut you are.”

Your legs trembled and you were coming down from your high when Steve turned you around and now you were face to face with your captor. You wanted to curse this debauched man for ruining your life but all you could do was plead with your eyes to stop and let you go.

He stroked his cock and grazed it along your slit and milked it with your wetness before violating your body by pushing it to your entrance. “So fucking tight.” Steve began moving in and out of you, stretching you wide open with his cock. He began by pulling out until only the tip was in and impaled you deeply, jolting your entire body.

He repeated this motion and accelerated his pace. He kept his eyes on the way your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He untied the robe around your ankles and lifted them up onto his shoulders. You could feel him deeper than before and it hurt. “Take it bitch, take my cock like the fucking whore you are.”

Your visions were getting hazy by second. You were locked in your own body. All you could do was lay there and take it until he was done. He sped up, trying to chase his own release and the coil in your abdomen tightened. No, please no, not a second one. You spasmed and you exploded, this one was bigger than the last. Steve only chuckled at the sight while still ramming in and out of you vigorously.

“Fucking whore. Acting like you don’t like it but you’re so desperate to cum, huh? I’m gonna fucking wreck you.” Your walls clenched around him and Steve’s cock throbbed. He threw his head back and groaned and pulled out of you to dump his load all over your body, your breasts and your belly were covered in his thick, white cum.

You felt numb, you could only lay in an uncomfortable position with the robes digging into your skin with tears flowing from your eyes. You didn’t know if you could ever recover from this molestation if you were lucky enough for Steve to let you live… You’d be left with the pieces. At this point, you didn’t know if him ending your life would be a better or worse option. At least, you wouldn’t have to bury your husband or tell the police, your friends and family about what happened.

Just when you thought he was done, he turned you around so your head was hanging on the edge of your bed. “You didn’t think I’m done with you, yet, did you?” He stood tall above you, his face was like a demon creeping up in the dark, ready to pounce on you. “Please, just stop, please. I can’t- I can’t take it anymore.” You stammered through your ragged breaths. “Open your mouth.”

“Please, I’ll give you whatever you want, just, please, let me go.”

“Open your fucking mouth, bitch. Or I’ll do it for you.” He threatened.

You cried as you parted your lips slowly, but Steve was impatient. He propelled the tip into your mouth and he hit the back of your throat. You whined at the pain but the reverberation only aroused him even more. He gripped your breasts and used them as handles and fucked your face. “Gonna use you like the cockslut you are.”

He shut his eyes and grunted, profanities falling from his mouth. Tears were falling from the corner of your eyes and your gag reflexed. You could taste yourself around him. He pinched your nipples and you shrieked. “Suck my cock, slut.” He taunted. You swallowed around his shaft. It didn’t take long for him to drive his hips faster and he was ready to burst at any second.

He convulsed and drained his fluids down your throat. He stayed there for a few more seconds until he had no more drop to give and withdrew. You felt void, used and paralyzed. Your body wasn’t yours anymore and no matter how many showers you were going to take, there was no ridding his traces all over your skin.

“Let’s not waste any more time, yeah? We’re going to your new house. I’m gonna keep you as my personal sex slave. You’re gonna have a new life as my fucktoy and you’re gonna learn how to serve me. Get on your feet.”

[eldrai]

What It's Like (Morgan & Hotch)

Read on ao3 here

Summary: Everything was supposed to be over.

Everything was over.

Right until state troopers had cuffed him, read him his rights and left him in a cell to be interrogated by a snarky son-of-a-bitch detective. Right until the team just had to get involved. Right until Buford insisted it was his help which had made Derek into himself now. Right until Hotch and Gideon stood there and heard and knew.

OR: Buford is arrested; Hotch and Morgan have a conversation.

Warnings: implied/referenced childhood sexual abuse + domestic abuse, internalized victim-blaming (not actively blaming himself for abuse, but 'I should be over it' type thinking)

Words: 2.6k

Written as platonic, could be pre-slash if you want

It shouldn’t affect him.

He shouldn’t even be here. Derek had laid it to rest the last time he’d spoken to Buford, and though it took him a couple of years to work through the overwhelmingly intense emotions he’d never let himself feel, he had reached a state he’s content with. When it crosses his mind every now and then – much more frequently when they have a similar case – the memories aren’t so sharp and stay in their box most of the time. He’s accepted he’ll never live without it but as far as things go, he’s living with it as well as he can.

Everything was supposed to be over.

Everything was over.

Right until state troopers had cuffed him, read him his rights and left him in a cell to be interrogated by a snarky son-of-a-bitch detective. Right until the team just had to get involved. Right until Buford insisted it was his help which had made Derek into himself now. Right until Hotch and Gideon stood there and heard and knew.

Derek paces outside the rec centre, awash in flickering red and blue from the car they’d stuffed Buford into. It shouldn’t affect him but here he is, a tight knot of dread in his chest and a bitter anger burning hot in his face. His clenched jaw aches and it takes a conscious effort to stop. He’s a teenager again in the worst way – furious at the world, at Buford, at himself for caring about it.

And Buford is under arrest, his personable father figure persona falling through at last, but the smallest, most selfish part of him asks if it’s worth it. For him to be dragged out here and accused of murder and stripped of dignity and secrets.

(It is. Derek would do it again in a heartbeat if it stopped more boys getting hurt, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hate every last second.)

He’ll have to tell Mom and his sisters, but Mom—it’s going to destroy her. She will blame herself for letting it happen, for not noticing, hate herself for every late shift and early start and no amount of arguing will ever truly make her understand it’s not her fault. Derek just hopes she doesn’t find out before he can tell her himself, soften the blow a little; his mind conjures up the same cop who’d arrested him, exhausted and apathetic in the eyes, spitting it out with no regard to the damage it can do.

Better than winding up in jail for a murder he didn’t commit, Derek reasons. The victory rings hollow when the prize is stripping back his skin and muscle and laying his insides bare for everyone to see, his blood as ink spelling out the ugly story. Breaking his family’s hearts.

The worst part is he’s not supposed to be angry. All the team ever did was their jobs and if Hotch had listened to him, had backed off, Derek wouldn’t be here now to be pissed at him. But that does little to soothe the sting. His secret on display just like that.

He paces and he breathes and he swallows down the anger but it’s too much to store away for later, his next trip to one of his properties and a sledgehammer in hand. Too raw. Too real.

Because he thought he was over it.

(It’s not fair. Why was it him? Why was it the boy before? Why was it the boy after? What unfortunate string of experiences led to Carl Buford deciding he’s got the right to manipulate them and befriend them and abuse them? None of it is fair and nothing will change that.

Why isn’t he over it?)

Behind him, the footsteps aren’t the stomping gait of police standard boots. Derek doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to see how pity looks on Hotch. It’s one thing to tolerate it from well-intentioned acquaintances but another entirely from people he cares about.

He leans against the low fence running the perimeter of the parking lot. It is scabbed over with rough rust. He lets his vision soften, blur around the edges, content with the occasional car coming past.

“Morgan.”

“What gave it away?” Derek asks. “I bet it was real satisfying to figure out what was wrong with me. So what was it?”

“I’m sorry—”

Sorry doesn’t help. Derek’s sorry too that this ever happened but saying it doesn’t make a difference. He turns, and is momentarily relieved when Hotch just looks at him the same as ever, because it’s easier to handle pity if it doesn’t really show. “Don’t. Just don’t. I’m serious, though: what was it?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Hotch says. Infuriatingly calm. An irritating mix of gratitude and anger just fuels the fire. He wants to feel one way or the other about it, not both.

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek protests. Uniforms glance in their direction. “You had no right to – no right!”

No, he had no right but it’s only because he ignored that they’re having this argument. It’s rational and irrational to be mad and he can’t settle on which is the right thing to feel.

“I know,” Hotch admits.

That strikes a nerve.

Because no, he doesn’t. None of them do. They can’t understand the raw humiliation from the type of abuse alone, let alone having his life picked apart and examined for cracks. And yet they did it all the same, without so much as the decency to include him.

“Do you?” Derek says, his voice cold steel. “Do you really? Have you got any idea what it’s like to go through that? To have his hands on you? And then just when you think it’s over, someone comes along and brings it up again! Don’t tell me you know that!”

Blood buzzes in his ears and a spark of pain in his palms come from his fingernails pressing deep into his skin. Derek breathes, feels the tension ease a fraction, the headache and stomachache and dizziness starting to melt away. He’s not good, but he’s not close-to-a-panic-attack bad.

They stand there for a time, just breathing and occasionally making brief eye contact, and Derek is beginning to think he’s completely screwed until Hotch joins him, hands on the railing as the low rumble of distant traffic ebbs and flows.

“You were right that I don’t know what sexual abuse is like,” Hotch says. It’s how he says it unflinchingly that sets him on edge; he’s used to euphemisms and avoidance and nobody ever wants to come right out and acknowledge what it really was. At the same time, it hits like a punch to the gut. “I should have worded it better. That’s on me. What I was trying to say is that nothing you did gave it away.”

His anger has mellowed out, not as sharp as earlier but there just the same, a heaviness in his stomach and an irritability he can’t shake and doesn’t much care to try.

“So what did?”

“I know how it felt to keep secrets like that,” Hotch says. He speaks slowly. Deliberately. “I know what it’s like to have spent half the time wishing someone would notice and the other half being terrified that they’d figure it out.”

Derek swallows but says nothing. He can recognise an olive branch when he sees one.

“I know what it’s like to have to listen to everyone praise him and know even if you told someone, they’d never believe it.”

That hangs in the air until he’s pretty sure Hotch isn’t going to say anything else. “It’s always the ‘upstanding members of the community’ and you’d think someone might realise.”

“That was why I suspected Buford,” Hotch says. “Aside from the initial accusation, the image he presented of himself was too clean.”

“He needed – hell, still needs – people to think he was good,” he says. “That what you meant?”

“Good people – genuinely good people – don’t work so hard to convince everyone that they are,” Hotch says. “They aren’t perfect. They have disagreements and make mistakes. They’ve got faults because they are real people, but we never heard a bad word against Buford.”

(For some reason he’s thinking of Garcia: her bright smile and the light in her eyes and driving away the darkness that threatens to drown them. Genuinely good people indeed.)

“Me neither,” Derek says, laughs without humour. Without the burning anger he’s cold and a little empty. Mellowed-out. “I used to think people did suspect something, you know? Because someone must have. All of us, the same ages, all boys…”

“People see what they want to,” Hotch says, more than a touch cynical. “They wanted Buford to have no ill intent, so they didn’t see it. They created justifications for almost anything.”

“How did you get from ‘something’s up with this guy' to the real thing?” Derek asks.

“Process of elimination. Nothing showed up on your records and nothing indicated something removed. If he killed those boys in a fit of rage, he’d have shown a history of violence and there would be evidence of previous domestic abuse. He went to lengths to maintain a reputation, and that gave him access to children and teenagers. He favoured a specific demographic but his status kept people from questioning it.”

It’s laid out bare and clinical. Just the same as an average profile: nothing personal to him or to Buford. Derek appreciates it, a good middle ground between avoiding the issue and being painfully, painfully open. He’d just rather not have to have this conversation at all. “The team’s gotta have some idea,” he says.

Because Gideon and Hotch did, and they’re all profilers as well. The more they think about it, the more likely they are to come to the correct conclusion, and Derek is equally as apprehensive about facing their reactions. A sick guilt sets in when he thinks too much about it: the response he’s afraid of is concern, pity, kindness – a luxury many aren’t afforded.

(Does he even deserve it if he doesn’t want it?)

“They knew Gideon and I were leaving but not what we thought,” Hotch says. “If they guess, it’s their own.”

Derek looks over his shoulder. Buford’s silhouette sits in the back of a car, its chin held high, commanding a respect it had never deserved. “Yeah, well, if they haven’t figured it out by now, they’re going to once they book him in.”

“They don’t have to know more than what they hear.”

“Good to know I can choose now,” Derek mutters. “It doesn’t matter. Either they know or they don’t.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Just don’t. Please.”

“No, not that it happened,” Hotch says. A beat later: “That wasn’t what – I wish you weren’t in that position, but I’m sorry that I had to bring it up.”

“I’d be in jail,” Derek says. More than any emotion, he is plain tired. What he’d give to be at home with Clooney and his own bed. “I don’t think I’m allowed to be mad.”

“You are,” Hotch says firmly. Perhaps more than a mediocre attempt at a joke necessitates. “It was an awful situation. You’re allowed to feel however you feel about it.”

It’s not that he needs someone to tell him that, but hearing it is – he’ll admit it’s nice, to know that someone else agrees and it’s not just his own head. Derek shrugs. “I moved on. It shouldn’t be – it was fine.”

Fine before Buford dragged him into this mess—god knows how many people are going to hear his name in connection to him tonight. And how many after that? They’ll think of him and see what a sick old man did to him. Not the work he puts in. Not who he fought – fights – to be. Not a profiler and a brother and a son.

Not Derek Morgan.

Just a victim or a survivor or whichever label they thrust upon him for their own comfort, easier to digest, easier to square him away in a neat box and tell themselves it won’t affect them because it’s only ever those children. Neighbours and friends and acquaintances but never their kids.

“It doesn’t mean you haven’t,” Hotch says. “I’d be more surprised if it didn’t affect you at all.”

“It doesn’t ‘affect’ me,” Derek says. Maybe he’s spoken too soon about the pity thing. “Look, just leave it.”

“Moving on doesn’t necessarily mean feeling nothing,” Hotch says. “If you wanted to tell someone, if or when you wanted, and how much to share – that was your choice and it shouldn’t have been taken.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for that, by the way,” he says, more bitterly than he’d intended. His thoughts return to his family. “The team are gonna know, who else?”

“Other than the officers making the arrest, nobody yet.”

Derek nods. He can work with that, has to. At the very least he’ll be the first one to tell his mom and sisters – silver linings, he supposes, no matter how thin – and it’s certainly better news to give than they’re taking him to trial for a murder he didn’t commit. This isn’t the type of thing he can just drop on them and walk away. “I’m gonna take a couple days to, uh, let things settle down around here.”

It’s not a question.

“It won’t come out of your personal time off.”

He lets go of the fence and brushes flecks of rust from his palms. Behind them the area is quieting down again, and in an hour or two there won’t be any sign of what happened beyond a handful of collective, awful memories. Well, Derek’s just glad there aren’t going to be any more kids knowing the place as somewhere bad—that it’ll never be more than a sports hall and cramped changing rooms and a stuffy old storage closet. That when they think of it, the memories are nostalgic, not thrown together into a nightmare steeped in fear.

Derek makes a move to go. It’s a short walk back to his mom’s and it’ll do him good to clear his head. Give him time to find not the right words – for there can’t be – but the most comforting.

“Morgan.”

“Yeah?”

“You know if you need to talk—”

“I know,” he says. “And no offense, but you have to say that, right? ‘Cause I don’t think either of us really want that.”

Hotch tilts his head. “I’m not saying it because I’m obligated to.”

“Yeah, I know,” Derek says. “And I’ll keep it in mind.”

He doesn’t intend to mention it. Just like how they aren’t going to mention what Hotch had told him. That’s never how they handle it. But the sentiment is there, and the team are reliable like a second family: they’d be there if he wanted to and until then, they’re not going to press it.

He’s not okay – he’ll admit that to himself if nobody else – but he’ll get there. Knowing their luck, they’ll have been thrown headfirst into a case so chaotic by next week that it’s all they can think of. Such is the job. It's crazy but he loves it.

“Thanks,” Derek says. “For not giving up.”

Hotch gives him a solemn nod.

“And sorry for the paperwork they’re gonna give you for me getting arrested,” he jokes. “Ever had to do that before?”

“Fortunately not.”

“Well,” Derek says, “there’s an early Christmas present. You’re welcome.”

That elicits something that’s almost a smile. “Take care.”

“I will. See you back home,” he says, and he walks away from Buford and the memories and this long, miserable day. Back to his mom's place with nicer reminders of childhood, the height marks pencilled on the kitchen door frame and the shower with a leaking faucet and home-cooked meals.

Back to his family.

[sending-the-message]

Case #5- The Dance Club of the Damned Part 10 by JacobMielke

(This is Part 10 of Case #5- The Dance Club of the Damned. Part 9 can be read here. )

“This is a stupid idea,” Moxxy complained, for the fifth time since we started out. “They want him dead. If he’s alive he won’t be there.”

The three of us were on our way to Red Delights in Hannah’s car. Moxxy and I had previously decided against going to the club for exactly the reason she kept repeating: Maximilien and his monsters wanted Jacob dead. There’s no way he could be there. But in the absence of other leads, Hannah insisted on us going there, if for no other reason than to confirm whether or not they killed Jacob.

“Moxxy, you’ve voiced your objections already. They have been noted and processed and no further input is necessary on your part. I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop beating that horse in as polite a manner as I’m going to. Now I’m going to be a bitch about it. If you don’t shut your stupid cunt mouth, I swear to the Horned God I’ll curse you so you’ll shit tapeworms every day for the rest of your life. Also, you have a stupid name.”

Moxxy lunged forward and I pulled her back, partly because we needed to figure out a way to work civilly together but mostly because I didn’t want to die in a fiery car crash. If we weren’t on the highway though, I might have let her go. I was itching to see Hannah’s teeth smashed in myself.

“Hey! Can we all just save it for Max? He’s the bad guy, remember?”

Hannah chuckled from the front seat and my patience twitched. I closed my eyes and remembered how satisfying it was to break her nose earlier that day. Of course, she healed the damn thing already but even so, it was still worth it.

Moxxy crossed her arms and stared out the window, livid. “What the hell did Jacob ever see in you?”

“Oh, don’t put your boy up on some self-righteous pedestal like that. He’s more like me than he is you. Emily, you’re a psychic. You know what I’m talking about.”

I hated to admit it, but there was some truth to that. Jacob had always had a darkness in his aura that most people didn’t. He rarely showed it, but every once in awhile something would anger him enough and the look on his face would frighten me. It wasn’t like other people’s rage; he didn’t snarl or scream or tense up. No, his muscles would slacken and his expression would be neutral. But his eyes, they shone with the desire to do awful things. And ever since he started Mielke Investigations, that darkness had only gotten stronger.

But that didn’t mean he was anything like Hannah. Jacob was a loyal friend with a kind heart. So what if he had personal demons to struggle with? Who doesn’t?

“And besides,” Hannah continued, “you’re the last person who should be criticising his taste in women. He told me all about your little tryst with Max. Fun, isn’t it? Sleeping with monsters?”

Moxxy’s face burned red. “That was for information! I was honeypotting him!”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. But I bet he made your honey go drip drip, didn’t he?”

“Will you both just shut up?” I was sick to death of hearing them snipe at each other. “You keep this up and Max won’t have to kill us.”

After driving for another ten minutes, we came upon Red Delights. Moxxy parked the car four blocks away to avoid detection and we approached on foot. The club was closed this early in the day but Hannah assured us that wouldn’t be a problem. If they wouldn’t let us in, she’d make us a way in. As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. One of Max’s white-haired goons was waiting for us outside the club. Moxxy grabbed my arm.

“Hey, I recognize her. She’s the bartender from the night Jacob and I went to the VIP lounge.”

“And she’s the bitch who attacked me,” Hannah growled. We approached her and Hannah’s tone became mocking. “You again? Weird, I remember you had way less face the last time I saw you.”

I looked close at the bartender’s face and saw a mass of scarring under her left eye, extending down to her jawbone. It wasn’t easy to see with her complexion because the scar tissue was the same shade of white as the rest of her skin.

The bartender glared at Hannah. “You put up a pretty good fight. I almost wasn’t able to grow back the flesh you burned off. Max would have had to recycle me. Next time won’t be so easy, now that I know what to expect.”

“Honey, you haven’t seen nothing yet. Let’s go inside and finish this right now.”

“Tempting, but no. Not yet. Max wants to talk to you first.” She looked at Moxxy and I. “All of you.”

She opened the door to the club and bade us in. Around a dozen or so people like her were waiting inside, watching us with stone expressions as we climbed the stairs to Martin’s lounge. A bouncer at the top of the stairs let us in and there was Martin himself. I’d only seen him from a distance the night Donnie and I broke into his safe and now that I was up close and personal, I could read his aura. It was darker than the average human’s, the kind of aura I would expect from a serial killer. And underneath it there was something else, something I’d never experienced before. It made me think of green flames. I looked at some of the white-haired people and saw that all of them had this alien energy.

“Miss Moxxy, how lovely to see you again. Miss Emily, this is our first meeting but I enjoyed watching you the night you and your friend stole my property.” Max smiled and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t anything attractive in that smile and his stance. I hated myself a little for noticing it. “And you must be the witch. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Wish I could say the same of you, pal. You know why we’re here?”

Max shrugged. “The Elder tells me to expect guests, so I expect guests.”

I stepped forward and raised my chin. He was over a foot taller than me, but I wasn’t going to let him mistake my shortness for weakness. “We haven’t heard from Jacob in three days. I want him back. If you know where he is, and you tell us, I swear we’ll back off. It’ll be like we never met you at all.”

“A generous offer, to be sure, but a pointless one. I don’t know where Mr. Jacob is.”

“Bullshit,” Moxxy scoffed. “I know you’ve been keeping tabs on us. Your people followed Jacob to my apartment and they tracked down Hannah too and she’s not even as involved as the rest of the group. You either know where Jacob is or you have a good idea.”

Max threw his hands up in mock surrender. “You can believe what you want, of course, but it doesn’t change the truth. I don’t know where he is. After his visit, we turned him loose.”

I felt cold sinking into my stomach. “What visit?”

“Oh, I had my kids bring him by the other day. Don’t worry, we didn’t kill him! The Elder wanted to see him personally, and afterwards… well, I think Mr. Jacob was a changed man. We let him go, as per The Elder’s will. We haven’t been watching him, why would we? He serves now and he’s free to serve however he pleases.”

“You brainwashed him?”

“The Elder showed him what he needed to see. I didn’t do anything to him, unless you count saving his life. He had a nasty wound on his arm when he came in. If I hadn’t intervened, he would have succumbed to blood loss or infection. And before you hurl further accusations at me, neither I nor any of my children caused the wound. Mr. Jacob keeps dangerous company.”

It dawned on me what he was implying and I turned to stare at Hannah. She met my gaze with iron resolve. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Jacob was fine when I last saw him.”

It wasn’t worth pursuing at the moment. We still needed Hannah. I turned back to Max. “Fine, we believe you. We’re going to go find him, and then we’re out of your life forever.”

“Is that what you think?” Max’s smile turned hungry. “You think I’m going to let you walk out of here? After all the trouble you’ve caused me? Oh, no. The Elder merely told us to expect you. What we do with that information is entirely up to me and I say we clean house. My business has been chaos since you and Mr. Jacob started investigating my club. I long for a return to simpler times.”

The white-haired people in the club began to move. Some of them took up positions behind us, others to the side. Two of them flanked Max on either side. We were being surrounded. The bartender had her attention fixed on Hannah.

“Miss Moxxy,” Max continued. “You will be the last to die. I will have you in my bed again before the end.”

“Like Hell you will.”

Moxxy pulled on her brass knuckles and Hannah’s eyes began to glow orange. They were gearing up for a fight, one we couldn’t win without an ace in the hole. Luckily, I had just the thing. The white-haired people started to move forward and I pulled my ace from my pocket and prepared to pull the pin. Everyone froze and Max’s eyes widened.

“How very resourceful of you, Miss Emily. I’m impressed. Where on Earth does one get a hand grenade these days?”

“Donnie gave it to me before he lost his mind. I’m sure your kids here could survive if it went off right now but what about you, Max? You got any freaky regenerative powers? I’m willing to test it if you are.”

Max waved a hand and his minions backed off. He gestured for the door and smiled. “You die here and now or elsewhere and later. It makes no difference in the end. Go on, you can leave.”

We formed a circle, with Hannah and Moxxy covering me from behind, and backed out of the room. No one tried to stop us from leaving and when we reached the stairs (which were a bitch to descend in our defensive positions) the white-haired people waiting for us outside the lounge actually retreated until the club was empty. I was forced to put the grenade away when we were outside but none of us dropped our guard until we crossed the several blocks to Hannah’s car.

“Fuck!” Moxxy exclaimed. “That was out last lead! Where the hell are we going to look for Jacob next? He could be anywhere. He could have left the state by now.”

Hannah was thoughtful as she drove. “That guy who attacked me at my place, he’s ex-military, right? “

“Yeah.”

“Is he good at tracking people?”

“Oh, yes.”

She smiled. “Well, let’s hope he’s still alive because I think I’ve got a plan, girls.”

(Case #5 will continue in an update. Mielke Investigations is ongoing. )