#but then who would clean the sex sheet-*gunshots*

[blossoms-phan]

my ultimate wish would be for some r/hotel workers subreddit to all of a sudden have the hundredth post about a weird guest they had to deal with or door they had to knock on except this time they’re like they literally had the room decorated with Halloween decorations and some guy was just sitting in a chair facing a camera while the one answering the door had a bad clearly faked American accent and closed it on me before I could attempt to make small talk

[crackedoutwalnut]

Will you consider writing Diana Prince x Fem!Reader who has anxiety, and she frets endlessly over Diana when she’s away on missions? Diana constantly assures her she’s fine and even jokes it off to seem like missions are no big deal, let alone a threat, to her. But, then, there finally comes an instance where the news or something announces no one/or very few of JL survived some unbelievably dangerous, world saving mission. Reader, of course, believes it and her anxiety takes over from thinking Diana is gone. Basically, I’m asking for angst that ends in a whole lot of comforting fluff! Sorry this if this is long and too much detail!

A/N: Heyyyyy,,,, sorry this took so long. Writer's block is a b*tch to deal with ;/. Hope you still enjoy though!

Word Count: 2k

--

When you first started dating Diana, she quickly grew fond of calling you her "little worrier." You were always flitting and hovering around her before and after a mission. Even after she insisted she felt completely fine, you would drag her into bed and make her rest after a battle. Amazonian or no, your girlfriend still had her limits. You were both yet to see a said limit; however, you were not keen on finding out what it looked like.

Currently, you were pacing a hole in the living room of your shared apartment. Your hands were clenched into fists at your side as you frantically looked between your girlfriend and the window.

"What could Bruce possibly want you for that requires you to be gone for a week?" You asked, running a hand through your hair.

Diana gave you a sympathetic, if a touch amused, look before making her way over to you. She cut your frantic path short by wrapping her arms around your waist. Her nose burrowed into your hair as she squeezed you closer. "My love, I'm not made of porcelain. If I was concerned about my safety, I would make sure to bring extra backup. I promise you this mission will be no different than the rest of them."

You groaned and hid your face in the crook of her neck. "But what if it isn't?" You melded your body impossibly closer to her own as countless gruesome scenarios rattled around your head.

You felt two large calloused hands cup the sides of your face as Diana tilted your face up. Begrudgingly, you complied and met her soft gaze. "My little worrier, I promise I will not take any unnecessary risks. I will be back home before you know it. Okay?"

You sighed and fell into her once more. Your cheek rested against her collarbone, and she traced circles up and down your spine. "Just come back to me in one piece, okay? I like your scars but not enough to add to the collection."

Diana grinned and planted a soft kiss on the tip of your nose. "I promise, my little worrier." The two of you clung to one another for a moment longer before the demigoddess finally pulled away. "I have to leave now, but I will be back before you know it. I promise, my darling."

You huffed and pressed a kiss to her jaw, "You better. After having sex with an Amazonian for two years, it would be nearly impossible to replace you with anyone else."

Diana chuckled and lifted you into your arms. You yelped in surprise and wrapped your legs around her waist as she pulled you into her. Your lips met in a slow, melting kiss. "I will see you soon, darling." With one last lingering look, she left.

--

You were certain they had added new days to the week. It had been three days since Diana had left for her mission with the Justice League, and you felt as if you were about to explode. The confidentiality of the threats that the League faces meant you were left entirely in the dark. No status updates, no calls, not even a damned text was allowed. Time had a funny way of making the complete severing of communication even more painful.

The four days remaining felt like an entire century as you spent most of your time flipping between news stations just in case one of them had something- anything - of use. Sighing, you scrubbed your hands over your face and shut off the TV. It was around three in the morning, and even though you had work in four hours, sleep evaded you. Rest was not an easy thing to come by when Diana was away. The combination of a cold bed and the unknown danger she faced was enough to keep your eyes stapled open.

Still, that didn't mean you couldn't give it a shot. After taking well above the recommended dose of Melatonin, you opted to wear one of Diana's hoodies to bed. The sweatshirt fell down to your lower thigh and wrapped you entirely in the familiar scent of her perfume. A soft smile settled on your face as you buried your face in the collar of her hoodie.

Ironically, Diana had bought the hoodie more for your benefit than anything else. After you complained that all of her clothing was too fancy to steal, the demigoddess went out and bought one. After it started to smell like her, you snatched it from her closet as often as possible. The comfort provided by the well-worn cotton was what finally managed to lull you to sleep nearly an hour later.

--

Hours later, your fitful sleep was abruptly cut off by the feeling of your phone violently vibrating beside you. Groaning, you cracked your eyes open and peered over at the alarm clock. Who the hell was calling at 5:30 in the morning? Cursing, you fumbled for your phone and peered up at the caller ID. Your heart dropped when you saw who it was: Diana.

Your girlfriend only risked calling you while on a mission for one reason; something horrible had happened. Quickly, you slammed your thumb against the accept call button and lifted it to your ear.

"Diana? What's wrong? Did something happen?" You sputtered, sitting up.

"Y/n I don't have much time. I just wanted to let you know that this job might take a bit longer than I originally thought," your girlfriend sounded uncharacteristically rushed. In the background, you heard the sounds of panicked shouting and something gut-wrenchingly similar to gunshots. "Everything will be fine; just stay safe for me. Okay?"

"Diana, what's going on? Is everyone alright? Are you alright?" Your fist clenched the sheets as you kicked the comforter off.

"I don't have time to explain. Just stay safe. I love you." You opened your mouth to protest. However, the call ended before you had a chance. Cursing, you threw your phone to the side and rushed to the living room. Scrambling around in the dark, you finally grasped the TV remote and flicked it on. On the news was a concerned-looking reporter standing behind a battle-torn field. Bodies, both alien and human, were strewn across the ground lying in charred craters with billowing smoke.

"Just hours earlier, a rogue alien fleet attacked a small village just on the coast of western Italy. The Justice League confronted them in a gory battle. Unfortunately, two members, the Flash and Batman, were gravely injured during the fight." You gasped as a video of a bloodied Barry Allen in his now tattered suit was rushed away on a stretcher. Your chest clenched painfully as you paced in front of the television screen. "The location of the rest of the Justice League is unknown at this time."

You blindly slammed your finger against the power button on the remote and chucked it against the couch. Diana was okay. She had to be. How else would she call you if she wasn't? These thoughts did little to soothe your fears as your legs gave out from under you. Your knees collided with the solid wood floorboards as you tried desperately to keep your sobs at bay.

For the first time in your relationship, you had no clue where Diana Prince was. Was she still in Italy? Were the others with her? Had she been kidnapped? Was she okay? The thought had you heaving out wheezy breaths. You had to calm down; you refused to have a panic attack at 5 in the morning. Squeezing your eyes shut, you roughly dragged yourself onto the couch. A clenched fist was pried open as you rested it over your stomach. Breathe. In. Out. Repeat.

After the oxygen returned to your lungs and your vision was no longer blurred with tears, you shakily stood from the couch. Diana would be okay. She had to be. If Diana was okay, you were okay.

--

Nothing was okay. It has been a month since your girlfriend's ominous phone call, and there was neither hint nor mention of her anywhere. It was hell. The whole world mourned the death of the Justice League while you clung desperately to a glimmer of hope that grew dimmer every day. As the idea of Wonder Woman being alive started to diminish, so did you. You had lost quite a bit of weight over the month. Your clothing was smelled of weeks worth of unwashed grime.

Since your work allowed you to work from home while you got your life back together, there was no point in leaving your apartment. For the first time in your life, you allowed yourself to be completely consumed by grief. What else was there to do when the love of your life was either never coming back or lying face up in a ditch somewhere? The process of living was more of a day-to-day chore that you forcibly dragged yourself alongside. Not quite alive, but not nearly dead enough for it to be a relief. You were simply there.

This was still the case when your friends decided to drag you to the mall. After not hearing from you for nearly three weeks straight, they had decided that it was about time to get you out of the apartment. You hardly gave a shit either way. Currently, you were scrubbing dry shampoo into your long-abused scalp. You rubbed your nearly used up deodorant on and decided on which almost clean outfit to wear.

After settling on one of Diana's old hoodies, you threw on some sweatpants. The clothing you stole from your girlfriend had long stopped smelling like her perfume so, you reapplied it yourself. Your phone buzzed with a message from your friend's group chat, letting you know they were outside. With a resigned sigh, you forced yourself out the door.

Nearly three hours later, you finally pried yourself away from your friends. You refused to let them give you a ride home as you opted to take the bus instead. The mall had been agonizing. Every high-end clothing store was like a painful reminder of who you had lost. She seemed to be everywhere these days in billboards, mall food courts, and in crowds. Her memory seemed to follow you like a phantom limb. After nearly falling asleep on the bus, you stumbled up the stairs and into your apartment.

You were nearly halfway to the couch when you heard an odd noise coming from your bedroom. It sounded like... shuffling? Furrowing your brows in confusion, you grabbed the pepper spray Diana had insisted you buy from your bag. Carefully, you crept down the hall. Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as you slowly opened the door.

Time stood still. There, sitting on the bed so casually you could have believed she had been there all along, was Diana Prince. The pepper spray in your hand hit the carpet with a soft thud as you gaped at your girlfriend. She looked up at the sound and nearly leaped to her feet at the sight of you. "Y/n, you're here!" She cleared the space between you in two long strides. Her hands were cupping your cheeks with a familiar sense of love. "When I got home, I saw that you were not here, and I feared that something had happened," Diana explained as she cocooned you in her arms.

At the familiar sensation of her strong arms wrapped around your abdomen, you finally broke. You crumbled into her chest as sobs wracked your body. Your hands grasped at the back of her shirt as your tried desperately to get closer to her. Diana tutted quietly and cradled the back of your head. "You- you were dead," you heaved hysterically. "Ever-Everyone thought you were dea-dead."

Your girlfriend carefully guided the two of you onto the bed. She lounged on her back, allowing you to lie entirely on top of her. Frantic hands clung to her. If you didn't hold on tight enough, she would crumble to sand and dust, like a castle on a beach. Diana ran her hands up and down your back, quietly shushing you whenever you gasped or cried. "Shhh, you're alright, everyone's okay, my love. I'm here now." You felt a gentle kiss being placed onto the crown of your head.

A long beat of silence stretched between you two as your cries died down. "Where were you."

"I will explain everything later. For now, all you need to know is that I'm here. I'm here, and I'm never leaving you again."

[herstarburststories]

Home in a Motel Pool

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: Dean and you have some fun in the motel's pool.

A/N: This one took a little longer than I thought, but here it's! Wet Dean in motel pool for us. So canon compliant of me, I know I know. This piece is my submission for @deanwanddamons 's 1st Blogiversary and 2K follower celebration with the prompt in bold. Congrats again, honey! And it's also my part for @anaelsbrunette 's YAS’S POC READER CHALLENGE with the song Home by Depeche Mode. Thanks for the extra time and the marvelous challenge!

Warnings: sex in the pool, p in v, dirty talk

Hunting was brutal. Even when the hunters won, it was a victory with no triumph-- there would be someone dead, always a corpse and loved one weeping as a reminder that you and the Winchesters couldn’t save everyone. You’d come around the town, tell the folks what they wanted to hear to get some information, kill the thing, and luckily save a person or two. It was a page from the emptiest stage, a show for a crowd of three: you, Sam, and Dean. Their own critics and praisers, doctors and patients, sinners and saints.

And if your hands were melted and molded into killing machines, you better pray for your heart to be made of anything but gold. That job didn't leave space or time for tenderness. In order to hunt the prey, you must become ferocious. Attack anything on sight, sing to the loneliest sound that’s the gunshot in the dark, pretend that you’ll make amends only to end up befriending the glorious end of the line that often came too soon.

Thing is, it wasn’t just about that. It would be easier if it was all about perfect soldiers and ultimate killers. A black and white world stained with crimson red would be the ideal, but there were always more colors.

Certainly, it wasn’t the most illustrious job one could get. If anything, it was unfair and underpaid and the seed of violence. Every hunter happened to do things they never could speak about, and all the blood got so normalized to the point red is just the color that pointed you were doing it right. like a good grade or a father’s head pat. Where was the seat on the table for any gentless to sit down in the chaos? In the thankful hugs from the mothers of the rescued children, in the pranks the boys came up with against each other for no other reason but childish nostalgia, in the nights where the three of you stopped and sat on Baby’s hood to watch the stars in silence, in the way Dean’s tough hands touched your cheek so lovingly, in the smell of the Impala’s wheels burning against the streets. Summarizing, when saving people wasn’t reasoning enough, kindness appeared glistening in the middle of the pandemonium, as a paragon of something good in cruelty.

Just like this moment.

‘’My body aches in places I didn’t even know that could hurt.’’ You groaned as you got out of the classic black car, hand on the back of your neck to apply some pressure. Even being thrown against a wall by some demon hurt less than sleeping in the backseat-- sweet mundane problems.

Sam scoffed before adding insult to injury, ‘’At least you were sleeping and didn’t have to hear the same cassette three times.’’

‘’Quit whining, you two. I was the one driving through two states.’’ Dean said in a huff, swirling the keys as the three of you walked towards Bonita Motel’s entrance. He placed an arm around your waist, his own way of showing affection in quietude. Your hand slipped inside his leather jacket’s pocket. ‘’Sides’, Baby’s backseat is comfortable and Zeppelin is awesome.’’

The youngest Winchester refrained his response to an eye roll and a mumble among the lines not when played three times in a row. You, though, turned your head to the side and offered your stubborn boyfriend a cynical smile.

‘’I prefer a bed.’’

He aimed at you with his signature lopsided grin, the one he knew that you loved, while you passed through the main door of the establishment. ‘’That’s not what you said last week.’’

‘’Guys, limits.’’ Sam pleaded, shaking his head at Dean’s comment before turning around. He made a chatter that quickly got old with the woman behind the counter, gaining two keys. The long haired hunter tossed one at his brother, who quickly grabbed it with his free hand.

‘’This is a good motel…’’ You commented as the three walked upstairs, the gleaming blue sight caughting your brown eyes. Your whole body shone as if it was really a beach and not only a cheap motel’s pool. Dean and Sam had never gone to the beach, but you grew up with salt aired weekends, a collection of swimsuits, and a loud family on the sand. You missed the sensation of being held by the ocean so dearly. It wouldn’t be the same, nothing was after you jumped in Dean’s Impala in New York; hustling for some other life, a better one like your parents when they came to the United States. Yet, a pool could be diverting and cozy. Pulling away from your man’s hold, you approached the small chlorine miracle. 

‘’There’s a pool!’’ You pointed out, as excited as a kid in a carnival. ‘’We should take a swim.’’

‘’You guys go. I have some research to do.’’ Sam nodded at the pool with his head, denying the request with a sleight of hand as he opened the lock of the room 209. ‘’Have fun, kids.’’

The green eyed man clicked his tongue when his brother disappeared with the craike of a door. He wasn’t exactly against the idea of jumping in the pool - apart from the germes, but his paranoia wouldn’t mind that much, not after trying endless motel’s bathtubs. The drive here had just been too long. Besides, if that crap motel had a well-cleaned pool, it probably had vibrating beds. He could use a massage. ‘’I think I’ll get crash in bed.’’

You arched an eyebrow. ‘’Didn’t you say that Baby’s backseat was comfortable to sleep?’’

‘’How taller than you I am, sweetheart?’’ He smirked as you walked back to him like you always did, your own north star in shape of a magnetic force of a man,

‘’Shush.’’ You slapped his chest playfully, wrapping your arms around Dean’s neck. ‘’Come on. Most motels we go to barely have a door, much less a pool. I miss going swimming. It’s a sunny day…’’ The childish joy in your tone metamorphosed into a newfound malice. ‘’You’ll get to see me in a bikini.’’

The Winchester wiggled his messy brows at your statement, suddenly reinvigorated as he placed his arms around your waist to bring you closer. Forget the body ache and all that, that was a way better reason to be sore in the bones later. ‘’You made some good points.’’

‘’I always do.’’ You kept the adamant tone, even when you could feel his breath on your cheek, those green eyes so livid when looking at you. God, you had to put a period here before things escalated and you two ended up getting to right in the middle of the hall. You attempt to make a joke: ‘’Darling it’s better, down where it’s wetter.’’

He knew it was a prompt from The Little Mermaid-- you two had watched two days ago in Tupelo, in a vintage television after killing a Ghoul, while Sam got some junk food. Yet, the kind of smile that brought to his face held anything but purity. A simple conversation became double-edged with Dean Winchester. You two often ended up breathless, either from fighting or from doing more entertaining dances. You should’ve seen that one coming.

‘’I know another wet spot.’’ He’d say, unholy significance trapped in each word as his right hand started to motion over your skin, guiding his greedy finger under your skirt. Your mouth was set in a grim line, a surprisingly determinate attempt to hold back a moan. You and Dean could do it in the pool, unite the good infant memories with the tent-like emotions of adulthood to make a grand deal.

‘’You’ll get all of me wet.’’ You kissed the corner of his lips, smoothly pulling away with a wink. So much self control. ‘’Hurry up, cowboy.’’

You grabbed your bag and rushed to room 208 to change your clothes, leaving an astonished, mildly turned on Winchester behind. Getting in the bathroom, which didn't stink for once, you swiftly changed into the bikini. A jade green one, directly from Brazil’s brand Cia Maritma. If you squint your eyelids hard enough, you could still put a name to each face that was with you when you wore it for the first time in the calmer days. All the long gone friends and the daily sunbath in your caramel skin.

Decided to leave the past well enough alone, you just smiled in melancholy and turned around, facing your reflex in the mirror. You looked hot. Dean surely would agree about that, especially with the way the top brought up your breast.

Arriving in the room to your boyfriend ready for the swim, you couldn’t help checking him out. You were attracted to the way the righteous man’s body was built since the first glance, addicted since the first touch. His shoulder, the freckles on his nose, and the way he wasn’t all defined, yet had the muscles right in the certain spots. You took off your hairpin, hair falling on your shoulder into a brown sea, like the waves crashing against the ocean rocks. The smell of your sweat and orange monopolizing the edges of everywhere, mainly Dean’s senses. He relished on how soft your skin was compared to his, how your accent tingled his insides, and the way you swing your hips while walking. Your boobs almost jumping at his face because of the tiny bikini only aroused him more.

The place had to get some credit. For a dive motel, it was more than they’d picture. Manageable bathrooms and safe locks, the pool glimmering blue with a small tree by the right side. It was gorgeous.

A dazzling breeze whispered through your bodies, causing you to shiver slightly and Dean to get sweet smelling sheets clinging to his knees and feet. Fucking tree. You could taste the friction swallowing the atmosphere, a report of what was near.

Before you could say anything, Dean grumbled as he pokes a leaf away. ‘’It’s gonna rain.’’

‘’It will.’’ You agreed, holding his hand to pull him closer, well-aware that your body would scare away any linger of adorable grumpiness. ‘’But who cares about raining when you’re in a pool?’’

It's the kind of question that doesn't need an answer, it briefly exists to make Dean distracted in wonder just now, a pause between seconds as you jump in the pool first. The water splashing around with a brutal sound. Your body seems to recall an old memory, how you made a lark of anything with your siblings in the sea,  how you used to feel like the beaches were a peculiar way of God to show the living how his touch would feel like. Every fiber of your body missed this.

Dean went in too, emerging to the marvelous sound of your laugh. He glanced at you, now less of a hunter and more of a man. The drops on your face could easily be confused with tears, yet the way you grinned and threw water at him couldn’t leave space for any other world but happiness. The Winchester often noticed your longing for cultural things that you no longer had in the palm of your hand. It was stupid, he even felt somehow resposible for taking you away of everything you ever knew only to coaxe you through the road not taken— full of bumps and blood and undecked halls. Then you’d smile, you’d wrap your arms around him like you were doing in that exact moment, and he would see that the drops all over your face are flickering with your chortle.

What other choice would Dean have, what other option could he ever make himself pick, if not to place his hands on your hips? So it goes. He put his rough hand on your, each tender touch seeming to make the bruises there clear up.

The hunter was leaning in to kiss you as a wave of water met his face.

‘’Ops!’’

He narrowed his eyes, spilling out the water. ‘’You are gonna pay for this.’’

‘’I’d like to see you try, Kansas boy.’’

Yeah, you once were raised in the water, such an important part of your identity which you didn't wish to lose, yet slowly slipped beyond your reaches. But you had Dean, you had adventure, and you had the motel’s shitty pool. If you could find contentment in that, you should know that who you were wasn’t lost. You were still the five years old who played in the plastic pool, the seventeen girl who grabbed your cellphone’s lantern and went looking for what was making a noise at 3am, the twenty years old who jumped in a car with two hunters and a craving for finding her true home. You were all of them at once. 

Heaven sent the only true friend you could call yours and you’re under his lips. Dean’s crashing his mouth with yours, hungry like an animal after your playful war. You two are soaked, and so is your pussy. He pressed your against the border of the pool, your back to the wall of it. The water rushes in and you couldn’t care less. When did a bikini start to look like too much clothing?

Breaking the kiss, the Winchester glanced at you. The green of all the wild gardens localized in his orbs, dappled with stars and desire. Waiting for his touches, enjoying when he took his time with you was always worthwhile. Today, though, you needed him fast and dirty and raw.

There was nothing you'd rather than spread your legs, so you did it. Dean’s smart fingers quickly ripping your panties and brushing against your heat. He let out an annoyed huff, missing the satisfaction of your wetness around his digitals, how he knew you were a mess for him and him only. The pool’s water didn’t let it much evident, he’d have to fuck you even harder, make sure you were still needy for his cock.

You whined, clinging to his touch with a swing of hips. His hand covering your pussy as Dean applied some pressure, savoring the way your body winced and your eyes shut close, a beautiful moan leaving your lips. He couldn’t wait to eat you out later after he made you come in this stupid pool. Hedonism made his blood thicker-- like he was a calm sea before you, and now his waters were violent and hungry for destruction. 

He pulled his hand away. ‘’Dean…’’

‘’Don’t worry, sweetheart.’’ His throbbing cock entered you, voice even deeper as he spoke. ‘’Gonna give you what you want.’’

You placed your legs around his waist and he held your thighs underwater, the sky spilling out its own water above. It didn’t stop two. Your hand on his shoulders, nails sinking in seemed to be a combustible for Dean to go harder inside of your. His hips attacking yours as his mouth kissed your neck with bites.

‘’Dean, please.’’ You pleaded, warm walls squeezing his long dick. ‘’More.’’

‘’All my cock is for you, honey. You get all of it, fucking you, scratching you open.’’ The eldest Winchester said, his voice so low and sensual. You could come only from his talking. ‘’That’s what you want, huh? You want me to fuck that pretty cunt, mark you up inside this shitty pool.’’ His digital reached your clint and you growled. Dean kept his dick inside you, unable to pull away from the heavenly sensation of being inside you. ‘’Wanna know something? I can’t wait to come inside that tight pussy right here.’’

He increased the rhythm, pounding you even faster and rougher as you tried to keep up, the lack of synchrony causing his cock to reach and pull inimaginable pleasures inside you, all turning more brutal and necessary. The pool had its own waves, your and Dean’s movements causing a chaos ocean chaos in it.

The heat and the sickliest, you were drowning in pleasure with each thrust to a desperate beat that his heart echoed. All your pretty noises tangled with his breathless howls. The rain’s drops becoming one water with the pool as you and him became one with your intertwined bodies, only to grow apart again and come back in need for more.

Your and your lover’s figures distorted on the reflex of the pool water, washing away any piece left of purity as you moved in a hurry when you finally reached your orgasm. Your cunt tightening around his hardness was too much to bear, making Dean come after you.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathless faces with closed eyelids darting together. The heat calmed down by the water. Dean dared to look at you, but not to pull away. His cock remained inside your tight cunt and he caressed your cheek gently. That woman pounded from within and is pinning him down to earth, like you are his own gravity, the glimpse of relief, the lover’s photographe that gives the soldier’s battle a meaning.

‘’There’s a saying in my country.’’ You said suddenly, opening your brown eyes as he lifted his head to greet yours with his forest ones.

Dean captured your small nose, your desirable lips, your big eyes, your gorgeous tan skin, the signals he had map of on his lips. His thumb still stroked your face as his cock took its time to weaken inside your pussy. ‘’Yeah? What’s it?’’

‘’Quem está na chuva é pra se molhar.’’ He arched his eyebrows, a silent request for an english version. The Winchester knew around ten words in your mothertongue. Half pet names, half cussing. You pecked his plump lips. ‘’There's no literal translation, some things just lose their core if you try to put them to another language. It would be like if you are in the rain you want to get wet. It would be another way to say if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.’’

‘’I gotta say, you look pretty hot when you say those things.’’ You smirked. You rolled your eyes playfully, fingernails tenderly fondling the back of Dean’s neck under his haircut. ‘’Do you miss it?’’

‘’My country?’’

‘’Yeah. Not just your country but your language, your friends, your life there.’’ He shrugged, secretly scared of the answer. ‘’It’s not like we go to the same places you used to go to. I see how many bikinis you carry around.’’

Which was the main reason he booked that motel. You didn’t need to know that. The childish joy you had with the surprise was enough for his credit.

‘’No. Well, I still speak my language when I’m mad at you.’’ Dean chuckled. Whenever you two got in a heated argument, your inner latina would come out and jump at him in both languages at once. It was supposed to be serious, but mostly got him all hot and bothered. Your accent was just too sexy, especially when you were angry. ‘’But no, not really. I miss situations and people, but not how it was. It was a good life, but it wasn’t the one I was supposed to have.’’ You pulled him to you by his neck. ‘’I thank you, you know? For bringing me here. For showing me home, Even for the tears and the fear. I finally I’ve found where I belong.’’

Tranquility engulfed the atmosphere momentarily as comfortable as a silent sleeper, the rain no longer coming, giving stage to a sunny sky. You and Dean, twisted together like that was all serenity you could relish on. You both quiet in the afterglow, his cock no longer hard but neither wanted to pull away. He laid his head on your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck. He certainly would bring you to a beach as soon as he could, maybe pop the pretty question on his knees there. For now, thought, he could enjoy thar simple moment.

‘’After my house was burned to the ground, I didn’t think I’d have another one. I was always rolling around the country, never really stayed in a place for too long. I didn’t want to call some random walls my home and have it destroyed in my face again.’’ Dean said, his thumbs caressing your thighs underwater. Since his first breath near you, he knew he was a goner. Even better, he knew he wasn’t a goner, a nomad, or a lonely wolf anymore. Dean Winchester once swore he would never come back home after what happened in there, and then you appeared. The hot latina who kept up with his stupidity and didn’t think twice before calling him out on his bullshit, and was always there for him and actually loved him-- not besides the job, but with all the things being a hunter included, all the ugly acts he had to go through. You believed he was good and worthy. His house burned, but you gave him a home. For the first time in so long, Dean felt warm and happy and loved. ‘’But you gave me a home. Without the apple pie life and all that. You, me, and Sammy-- fighting the good fight, just the three of us. This is my home.’’

To be a hunter was to be gauge of the deadliest trap ever laid, always carrying the heaviest cross ever made like a soldier’s duty that wouldn’t end with a couple years of trocious war. This treacherous slope was forevermore. A hunter life, all the fraunds and the paid phone calls and the running away with laughs empty of joy, the song from the wrong side of town. But fuck, all the saving and the excitment and the hustled love made a dance for the melody and suddenly it was worth it. All the tender parts, the new restaurants every week, the jokes in the car, the hidden chortles in the dark places. Sam. Dean. Dean and all this am out of love and loyalty he gave to you.

Everything was worth it to be in his arms.

He brought you back home.

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[lassieposting]

otp questions for skugwife plz 🥺

1. Who said I love you first?

He did, about three seconds after laying eyes on her for the first time. He was Not Subtle. In his defence, he was in a field hospital at the time, covered in his own blood, and was high off his ass on pain relief, so.

2. Who laughs and kisses their partner on the cheek while their partner isn’t happy about something trivial to try and make them feel better?

Wifey. She's kind of handicapped here because Skug does his best to shield her from the worst parts of himself and the grim truth about war. He doesn't outright lie to her, but he'll censor what he tells her, leaving out the death and the blood and the gore, because he's grown up terrified of becoming his father and he's desperate to be the man she thinks he is, to be someone who's worthy of her love. He doesn't want her to ever look at him and see a killer. If she has to think of him at war, he wants her to think of her gallant hero who always saves the day. So a lot of the time, when he gets into a black mood, she doesn't actually know what's really distressing him. She knows he has nightmares, but he always claims he doesn't remember what they're about. She knows that sometimes he'll nick himself with a knife while he's helping her with dinner, and when she turns around he's just standing there watching his hand bleed like he's suddenly somewhere very far away, but she doesn't know why he gets like that. She knows he has days where she'll say his name four or five times before he even seems to hear her, and an unexpected gunshot from one of the neighbouring smallholdings will have him trembling and running to check on her. But she tries, when he's quiet and distant and sad. She'll hold him and stroke his hair or sing to him or take him out walking in the sunshine, and eventually he'll take her hand and kiss her knuckles and apologise for being an arse, and she never really knows how to tell him that she doesn't mind him having those days at all, she just wishes she knew how to make him stop hurting.

3. Who cuddles up to the other after a long day at work, and this soon escalates to a playful pillow fight?

Skug. They're a cuddly, affectionate couple anyway, but his favourite thing in the world is laying his head in her lap and having his hair stroked. The man melts. They'll cuddle up in the evenings and he'll keel over for her as soon as she pats her leg like come on then and they'll just. Catch each other up on what they've missed since the last time he was home, while she pets him. She'll tell him the latest drama in her friend circle and how her father's been dodging the advances of an elderly patient, and he'll give her a censored, family-friendly version of what he got up to at the front - so, all the funny stories, but with all the gore and death and hard choices edited out. If he says something sufficiently ridiculous, she'll swat him in the face with a cushion. Sometimes he'll fall asleep there and she'll keep playing with his curls until she thinks he's well and truly out of it, and then pick up her needlework to do over his head while he sleeps.

4. What is something that they gave one another that has a lot of meaning?

When they're courting, she makes him a scarf and sends it with the courier with one of her letters, because she didn't like to think of him being cold on night watches. It's red and has zero magical properties whatsoever, it's no Bespoke creation, but he wears it on every mission.

She has a locket with his portrait in it. He's ADHD as fuck and hates sitting still for hours, but she playfully tells him one time that he's "been away so long I almost forgot what you looked like," and he takes it seriously and makes sure that never happens again.

5. How would one another describe their partner?

Very similarly. They both think the other one is their better half and that they don't deserve them. She loves him because he's brave and clever and funny and not afraid to stand up for what he believes in. He loves her because she's good and kind and loving and makes him want to be a better man. They're that couple that are so caught up in each other's virtues that they completely miss each other's flaws.

6. Who wraps their arms around their partner as they look them in the eyes and compliments them with a goofy smile?

Skug, every time they go somewhere they'll be surrounded by His Kind Of People.

Wifey is a salt of the earth working/lower-middle-class sort of girl. She has a job. She's grown up doing all the cooking and cleaning for her father, and she continues to do a lot of it even after she gets married and Skug hires servants because she can't stand to be idle. She has a very limited education; she didn't spend her childhood being fussed over by governesses or taught to simper and dance and paint. So she feels very out of place at fancy Sanctuary parties, surrounded by Skug's superior officers and their sophisticated upper-class wives. She's worried about embarrassing him, she's worried about making him look bad, she's worried about being laughed at or insulted behind her back for being too common or too forthright or too lacking in pretty manners.

He'll pull her to one side before they're announced and remind her that she outshines every other woman in the room, that most of these people are boorish and ignorant anyway so who cares what they think, and that she's got nothing to worry about: she's far more charming than he is and the laws of probability suggest that if anyone is gonna put their foot in it and embarrass the other one, it'll be him.

7. Who loves saying ‘my wife’ or ‘my husband’ or ‘my spouse’?

Wifey, especially when they're newlyweds. She has absolutely no idea how she managed to land him. He's hers now, forever. She has to keep saying it to convince herself it's true. Skug is a bit baffled, but having someone so happy to lay claim to him gives him major heart eyes. He's not used to having someone be proud of him and want to show him off like he's something worth bragging about.

8. Who always talks about how amazing their partner is when their partner isn’t there and they just light up with genuine love and happiness?

God, both of them.

In Prussia, a few months after they get married, Morwenna Crow takes one for the team and spends three solid weeks indulging Skug while he talks about his wife just, constantly.

On Wifey's side, she has a gaggle of girlfriends who appear at the door of her lovely new home to take tea at the first opportunity after her honeymoon wanting all the salacious details. And? She has so much to tell them. Like a lot of young women at the time, the most she was given in the way of sex education was a vague lecture from an older married friend about Marital Duties that didn't really serve a purpose beyond making her really, really nervous about her wedding night.

(She tells Skug about this lecture while she's sprawled all over him somewhere between round two and round three on said wedding night. She's confused. She was told it would be distasteful and unpleasant and painful. Why would her friends lie to her? He laughs, and strokes her hair, and tells her her friends' husbands are clearly doing something wrong.)

So. She returns from her honeymoon with a lot of new information to share with her poor, deprived friends. She's not the only married woman in the group, but she's the only one who married for love, so the unmarried girls are looking at what they want for themselves, and the ones who married for wealth or status are lowkey living vicariously through her.

These gatherings are deeply unnerving for poor Skug. He'll pop into the parlour to kiss Wifey goodbye before he goes out riding with Ghastly, and like eight smirking women politely sipping tea will chorus good morning, Skulduggery like they know something he doesn't know, and something about the way they look at him makes him feel like they're starving and he's a juicy steak. And then he'll close the door behind him when he leaves the room and hear them all immediately explode into giggles. What the fuck do they talk about in there??? At least once he's asked Wifey if she's plotting to sacrifice him, or something.

9. Who loves it when their partner kisses them good morning?

Skug. When you've spent the last 6+ months snatching at sleep on a hard bed with itchy blankets in between night watches and enemy attacks and commando raids of your own, it becomes a real treat to get a full nights sleep and wake up in fresh sheets in your own bed with your wife pressed up against your back, kissing your neck and touching you under the blanket. He knows he's safe when he wakes up with her, and he misses feeling her burrow into his arms when they're apart.

10. Who shows the other how to balance a spoon on their nose?

Skug.

11. Who loves to pull pranks on the other? What type of pranks do they pull and do they pull their pranks off?

Wifey's favourite is to tell Skug she invited her father to stay for a week and watch him frantically try to arrange his face into any other expression than "horrified". This is doubly funny if he just came home and he's raring to get her into bed - "Oh, darling, we can't, Papa will be here shortly, and he's due to stay until Thursday next, you'll simply have to wait," - but she never lets him believe it for long. She's not, like, cruel.

12. What is something small that they would randomly pick up for one another?

Spending money is Skug's love language. He's always buying her "just a little something"s. Hair ribbons, jewellery, new dresses, books, paints...anything he sees and thinks she'd enjoy.

She bakes for him, when he's home. She doesn't think the army feeds him properly, and she knows he eats like a horse. Coming back from Ghastly's to the smell of homemade bread is one of his favourite things about being married.

13. Who is the one who can’t stop laughing when trying to tell a joke?

Wifey. She'll be doubled over wheezing, red in the face, and Skug will still have no idea what the joke is. She didn't get that far. She's the kind of person where, many hours later, he'll ask, "So what was that joke you wanted to tell me?" and it'll just. Set her off again.

14. Who would plan the other a surprise birthday party?

Skug. He's often away for Wifey's birthday, but he'll always try to wheedle some leave out of Corrival so he can come home and spend it with her. It doesn't always work - a lot of the time they simply can't spare him - but he does his best.

15. Who picks the other person up when hugging their partner?

Skug is a 6'4 beanpole of a man who likes small, petite women. Wifey is like 5'3 tops and he picks her up all the time. She weighs, like, nothing to him and she's really into how strong he is, so getting swept off her feet all the time doesn't bother her.

What does bother her is when his lanky ass forgets to bring things down from the top shelf before going away for a few months. She can't reach up there.

[tjwritesfanfics]

Miss Jackson || myg & jjk

Summary: Yoongi and Jungkook knew what you did for fun. They just wish they weren’t the ones stuck cleaning up after you.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader x Jeon Jungkook

Genre: Horror,Fluff

Warnings: Blood, mention of sleeping around, but Jungkook and Yoongi are cool with it, strangely cute for some reason????

Word count: 935

BTS Masterlist | Main Masterlist

-TJ/ TacoAdmin 🌮

AN: Dang it was a lot harder to come with this idea than I thought and I still don’t think I did it right. Props to you @queenceline22 man you stumped me 😅😂

“Unit 228 come in.”

Yoongi picks up his intercom and presses the button, knowing whatever his chief was about to say was not going to be good. “Unit 228, Officer Min here.”

Yoongi let go of the talk button and glanced over at Jungkook in the passenger seat. The young boy was already on his phone, his fingers flying a mile a minute - supposedly texting you.

A few seconds later his chief’s voice came back through. “You and Officer Jeon are the closest to our 911 call. Cherry hotel, room 123. There were gunshots heard.”

Jungkook groans from his side of the car. Of course there was. Whoever you brought this time must have tried to fight back, which was honestly the stupidest thing anyone could do.

“We are on our way, over and out.” Yoongi put the intercom back in its place, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. “Did she answer?”

“No not yet, but we both know it’s her.”

Yoongi and Jungkook held a secret from the rest of the police department, something that they could never let out - they were both dating a known serial killer. It all started when they got their first call 2 years ago.

Another guy had been killed in a hotel room, naked and brutally murdered, and - like tonight - Yoongi and his partner Jungkook were the closest to the scene of the crime. What they didn’t expect when they opened the hotel door was a beautiful woman, covered in blood, and holding the murder weapon.

“Hello boys.”

You were calm that it should have been unsettling to them, but it wasn’t. It was exciting to them and they wanted more, which was why they had helped you escape the first night and every night after that. 

Finally when they “caught” you for the fifth time, they got your number. It was strange and DEFINITELY not morally right, but they couldn’t help the pull in attraction to you. Not long after that, the three of you started dating. In secret of course.

Yoongi pulled the cop car into the parking lot of the hotel, grimacing at the low quality of a place it was. There were barely any lights and the ones that were on flickered. Yoongi could smell the odor of the place without even opening the door and at first he wondered why you chose nasty places like this to have sex with and kill your victims, but then he realized that they were already on the bad side of town so no one would really question it. They probably thought you were some prostitute that the guy ordered and that alone made Yoongi’s blood boil.

While yes you did sleep around with multiple men, both Yoongi and Jungkook knew it was them who held your heart. You just couldn’t control your itch to kill and they were more than willing to help you out with that if it meant they got to keep you.

Jungkook and Yoongi got out of the car and made their way to room 123, making sure to be quiet so the other patrons of this sleazy motel wouldn't wake up.

“Y/n said the door was unlocked.” Jungkook tucks his phone into his back pocket and Yoongi nods.

Once they reached the door, it opened with ease, which they expected, and you were sitting on the bed in nothing but the dead man’s shirt. You smile at your lovers and get up to meet them at the door, kissing Yoongi and then Jungkook.

“So glad you two could join me.”

“Why did you use a gun?” Jungkook asks as he closes the door behind you.

You roll your eyes and walk over to the body laying on the bed, unfazed by the amount of blood all over the sheet. “He shot the gun, not me. I just used my knife and bare hands.” You put up both your hands, wiggling your fingers.

Yoongi quickly looks you over for any shot wound. If this man had hurt you he would bring him back just to kill him all over again. “Did he get you?”

“Oh Yoongles.” You coo and kiss his lips. “You’re worried about little ol me?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, pecking your lips. “Of course.”

You hum. “Well no he didn’t. Bastard never even got the chance.”

“Couldn’t you have at least done it a little neater this time?” Jungkook groans, nudging the body with his foot. “Do you know how hard this’ll be to clean up?”

You cross your arms over your chest, lip poking out in a pout. Jungkook smiles at your cuteness. Even a stone cold killer could be the cutest thing on the planet.

“I’m sorry! You know I like to watch them slowly bleed out.”

“I know princess,” Jungkook wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close and kissing your head, “Come on let's get you out of here. I made dinner back at home and it’s getting cold.”

You gasp happily. “Is it spaghetti?!”

Jungkook nods. “You’re favorite.”

You squeal and hug your boyfriend tightly. These two were just too good to you.

“Out the back.” Yoongi motioned to the door while handing you your jeans. “Go quickly and we will see you at home.”

“I love you both.” You quickly put on your pants, blowing them kisses before leaving out the back.

“Come on, Hyung.” Jungkook bent down to grab one leg of the unknown corps, Yoongi following and they both start dragging the body outside to dispose of before coming back to clean up the mess you had made.

[superfanficnatural]

The Choice Part 6

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Christian Grey x Reader 

Summary: Deciding to get over your crush on Dean, you find Christian, a mysterious billionaire that manages to split your heart into two. Finding out hidden truths, your decision becomes a hard one, who will you choose?

A/N: Don’t really have anything to say lol. As always, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Fluff, Slight Angst, Smut, NSFW 18+, Slight Rimming, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Dom/Sub Dynamics, others that I can’t think of.

Word Count: 1,733

Italics are thoughts

Masterpost

The sight in front of you was something you never thought would have happened, he tells me he wants only me, then goes out and kisses some random slut at a bar?!

The door slamming behind you drew the attention of a few onlookers, Dean included. The second his eyes met yours, he pushed away the girl and stood up with a guilty and broken expression. 

Before anything else could happen, you grabbed Christians hand and walked out of the bar with him.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked, tugging your hand to bring you into his embrace, a warm and soft look on his features as he looked down at you.

“The reason I didn’t want to be exclusive was because of him, I didn’t know if I could make it with him or you so I tried to keep my options open, I’m sorry,” a tear fell from your eyes.

“Hey no, it’s fine. That’s a completely logical thing to do,” he softly spoke, wiping away the tear with his thumb.

How is it that he’s so damn perfect?

You reached up and gave him a heated yet short kiss, the two of you pulling away and panting, “Let’s get out of here.”

You pulled him along with you to the motel across the street, paying for a room up front with cash and basically dragging him to the room. Closing the door behind you, you missed the look of a crushed man looking over at the two of you entering the motel.

You pushed him up against the door and attacked his lips as you tried to unbuckle his belt.

“Hey, are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, still as soft as ever.

You paused your advances, “Absolutely.”

He smiled darkly and that’s when you knew: he was in charge now.

“Strip, I want you ass up on the bed,” he spoke in a professional voice.

You walked backwards, reaching the edge of the bed and slowly stripping off your clothes, giving him a show. You were silently reveling in the fact that you could see his pants tighten as you went along. He smirked once you were down to just your panties, unbuckling his belt and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

“Keep going.”

You peeled off your underwear, crawling up the bed on your back.

“I said ass up didn’t I? You don’t want me to repeat myself, little girl,” he growled, the feral look in his eyes threatening to have your juices ride down your thighs. 

You continued to obey, “Yes, sir.” Turning your body around, you dug your face into the pillow and hoisted your ass up into the air.

“That’s a good girl,” you could register, a low growl erupting from his throat.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you responded, your anticipation as to what would happen next, tantamount. 

The next thing you heard was a clink of a belt before you felt the sharp sting against your ass. 

Arching your back in pleasure, “Shit!”

“You missed me spanking this nice ass, didn’t you?”

You nodded your head into the pillow and felt another sharp slap, “I want to hear it.”

“Yes, sir! I missed it so much!”

He chuckled low and dark, “Such a good girl, already have you wrapped around my finger.”

You felt the belt against you once, twice, a third time. Each time had you crying out, your juices slowly leaking onto the bed sheet below you.

“You love this, I can practically smell how much you do.”

You heard the belt fall against the floor before you felt the bed dip, Christian getting on behind you. Two bruising hands fell onto your sides as he pulled you back towards him, feeling his throbbing member against the side of your ass. The next thing you knew, his cock was buried deep inside of you, a guttural moan falling from his lips while a scream tore out of yours.

“Fuck I missed this cunt, so nice and tight,” he grunted, slamming his hips forward after pulling back so just the tip was inside.

He began relentlessly pounding into you, leaving no room for you to even breathe, “Looks like I’ve got you wrapped around my cock as well.”

You felt a finger teasing at your rim and you audibly gasped, your body rocking back towards it without your consent.

“You like it in your ass too? I knew you were perfect for me,” he growled, possessively grabbing your hips harder and thrusting deeper. “Though, we’re going to try that later.”

He was reaching areas inside of you that you never thought possible, your body writhing underneath him in ecstasy. The strength of his fingers on your hips and the force of his thrusts were driving you insane. The knowing of the fact that you were going to have bruises after this was something that pleasured you even more, being claimed by this man. 

“That feel good? I wanna hear it,” he growled.

“Yes, so good, sir!” your voice was muffled from how deep you were pushed inside of the pillow.

He wasn’t even touching your clit, yet you felt your orgasm begin to rise, your legs slightly quivering and your breathing picking up. As if he was reading your mind, he reached his hand under your legs and began to play with your bundle of nerves, tapping on it and drawing figure eights over it. Your walls clenched around him from your impending orgasm and you felt his hips begin to stutter.

“Oh fuck, Christian!” you screamed out, the power behind your orgasm rendering you breathless, forgetting the title you were supposed to call him. 

He slapped your cunt with such force that your overstimulated pussy once again spasmed and you had your second orgasm within seconds.

The feeling of your tight walls wrapped around him made his hips begin to stutter, Christian letting out a deep groan as he released his seed inside of you. He didn’t stop, continuing to fuck him cum back into your hole.

“This pussy is mine, and mine only,” he growled, reaching down to nip at your neck while continuously rutting into you.

After a few more thrusts, he pulled out and went to grab a towel from the bathroom, returning shortly after to clean you up.

“Was that what you needed?” he asked, a soft look overtaking his features as he laid down next to you.

You felt extremely satiated and like you were on the clouds, though there was still the nagging feeling of seeing Dean with that other girl.

“I feel a lot better, though not completely. Thank you, Christian,” you shyly responded, lowering your gaze.

He picked up your face by raising your chin with his thumb and index finger, “You’re welcome, Y/N,” he reached over and planted a sweet kiss on your lips.

“Today was probably one of the best days in my life if I’m being completely honest,” you breathed.

“I enjoyed it a lot too, especially since it was spent with you,” he charmed, a smirk coming across his face.

You chuckled, but it was short lived, “I’m assuming you have to be back by tonight? With work tomorrow?”

He solemnly nodded, “Yeah.”

You couldn’t lie and say that you weren’t disappointed that he couldn’t stay the night, but you understood that he was a busy man; instead taking the win that you could spend as much time with him as you could. 

The two of you got up and got dressed, leaving the room and returning the key to the front desk.

“Let me take you home,” he insisted, fear striking your heart.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to, I live really close to here anyways,” you tried to shake him off.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, I am,” you smiled, grateful for his kind gesture.

“So, I guess this is goodbye,” you said, arriving at the limousine.

“For now,” he finished, taking you into his embrace.

The two of you pulled away and Christian stole one last lingering kiss from you before sending you a wink and getting into the car, pulling away from the lot and driving away. You felt light, like your body was weighless. You also had an incredibly stupid smile, your body buzzing with euphoria. 

Taking out your phone, you dialed Sam, “Hey, Sam. I’m at the bar near the bunker, do you mind coming to get me?” you asked once he answered.

“Dean actually came in about fifteen minutes ago, he seemed really broken up-”

“I don’t wanna hear about Dean, ok? Can you pick me up or not?” you cut him off, your anger from the scene you witnessed returning.

After Sam agreed to come pick you up, you hung up and waited by the corner of the bar, seeing a couple stumble out with their arms wrapped around one another. You didn’t make much of it until you saw a man with a mask run up to them across the street and steal the woman's handbag.

Without hesitation, you took off after the man, chasing him around the corner. Luckily he wasn’t even that fast, for you caught up to him relatively quickly, tackling him to the ground. You took off his mask and laid a few punches on his face, his nose mostly broken and bloodied.

“Don’t ever try something like this ever again,” you growled, punching him one last time.

You got off of him and turned around, seeing the couple from before behind the two of you. Handing her the bag, she gratefully smiled at you and the two of them took off. 

The next thing you heard was the ring of a gunshot.

Looking down at your abdomen, you saw your shirt become bloodstained. Turning around with your hands hugging the bullet hole, you saw the man from before on his feet, aiming a gun at you. You coughed and blood spilled out, a smirk coming across the man's face. Without a moment's notice, he took off into the night, leaving you to fall to your knees on the pavement, blood rushing out of your stomach. After a feeling of cold washed over you, you fell to the ground, the faint shouting of your name in the distance the last thing you heard before darkness overtook you.

Next Part

The Choice Tag List: @fuckthis-and-fuckthat​ @spnfamily-j2​ @greenarrowhead​ @vicmc624​ @pie-with-hunters​ @m-winchester-67​

Forevers Tag List: @magssteenkamp​ @shadowsinger11​ @donnaintx​ @flamencodiva​

Dean/Jensen Forever Tags: @akshi8278​

Female Reader Tags: @punof-agun​ @emoryhemsworth​

[crimsondustofficial]

A Diamond Heart

Oh god.

Who knew that he'd stoop to this level?

Well, considering that he was a former client of Valentino, and he completely bailed on him for not paying up. News certainly travels fast around Pentagram City. But the way that they found the poor guy. . .Poor bastard bled out from the various injuries delivered to him by the TV Demon Vox, while that son of a bitch Valentino stood off to the side, smoking a cigarette and let the pink smoke evaporate into the air before that god awful grin stretched onto his face, his gold tooth shining in the dim streetlight. Letting others do his dirty work and not getting any blood on him. . .

Fucking pathetic if you ask me.

From the bustling sounds of car horns beeping from annoyed workers who were just getting home and cursing up a storm at whoever's taking too long because of their exciting phone conversation, to a few gunshots sprinkled in there every once and awhile, and to finish off with the icing on this sinful cake, the disgusting and awful smell of death, gunpowder and cigarette smoke that lingered in the air of the city, this was the afterlife of the many Demons all over Hell. Sure, some were having very peaceful afterlives. Just doing what they usually do, maybe repeat something they did when they were still alive. And. . . others who haven't changed from their human shells before they broke and rotted away, leaving nothing but the soul left. Sin tendencies picking up after being on hold for God knows how long.

Of course, there was some rehabilitation.  What with the Princess of Hell going out of her way to try and cleanse the ugliness of the city's residents, her little passion project hasn't really helped her one bit because it was in a bit of a slump.Adding a little bit more smoke into the air, a soft exhale could be heard from the entrance of an alleyway. "What a Fucking mess. . .Ugh." A long pair of legs, that were certainly some eye candy for a lot of weird fellas, covered all the way up to the upper thigh with only a little bit of skin exposed before being covered by a hidden but short black mini skirt. Those thigh high, very dark yet fashionable high heeled legs crossed over meticulously while the owner of those legs rested their body against the brick wall of the alley they were standing in. Inhaling and letting out another soft exhale, a puff of rose magenta smoke escaped its way out of a mouth with small, sharp teeth and one beautiful, gold tooth sticking out. A tight pink and white striped suit clung to the body perfectly while the four arms that were out and showing, one fuchsia pink gloved arm holding a cigarette between the fingers while the other rested on the side in a sassy manner. The other two gloved arms were crossed in a bit of an angry note. Stale wind blew by through the Demon infested city, small tufts of white hair with some small, pink details danced with the air. Heavy eye shadow and eyeliner covered eyes, one white and one black, narrowed in what appeared to be frustration or complete anger, the bright pink irises shone brightly. What many residents of Pentagram City who went to the swanky studio in a part of the city would know who this person is. Or who've seen them around the block a few times, usually either smoking, joining in on the turf wars with another Demon, or going through a punishment from their Boss, there they were. Angel Dust. A good money maker and very well known adult star had unfortunately been sent out here by this corner by that motherfucker of a Boss, Valentino. Ugh, just that name made Angel wanna throw up. History with Valentino. . . it wasn't pleasant. Thankfully, his time was up and pushing his body off of the wall, the sound of high heels clicked and clacked against the concrete sidewalk before finally stopping in front of a large building. 'Hazbin Hotel' was what the sign basically screamed out for any newcomers to see. For a few weeks now, Angel Dust had been staying at this hotel in order to be cleansed of his sins with the help of the Princess of Hell herself and her girlfriend who at times looked like she wanted to rip him in half for what stupid act he pulls. Walking up to the second floor where his room was, Angel Dust then paused when he spotted a room with the door adjacent. Poking his head a little bit, his alluring pink irises took in every detail of the room. The theme had a sort of night black and blood red feeling. The night black paint covered the walls while the blood red covered the furniture surrounding the room. But lying on the small couch in the room was a little girl. She wasn't like the other Demons living in Hell. In fact, she was probably the only real Human to really be down in the city of Demons. Ruby Diamond was her name. She had the age and body of a small six year old girl, with honey blonde hair cut short and sprawled out behind her head. Her bright sky blue eyes were shut at the moment as her small chest rose and fell. Her small body rested with her head fell to the side, one arm resting on her slowly falling and rising stomach as the other arm was dangling off the side of the adjacent couch. However, the adult film star spider caught a glimpse of something very small and. . .pink. A small adorable face appeared from behind the couch as a small pig whose body was a mix of black and dark pink spots painted in various areas. The small pig headed over to Angel, only to give a happy little noise as Angel picked up the animal and hugged the pig close. "Did you miss your Daddy, Nuggs?" Angel asked in a sweet tone, looking down at his darling pig who was currently enjoying the warmth and softness of Angel's fluff. Gently taking his eyes off of his baby, the spider star's eyes locked onto the sleeping little girl on the couch. Fashionable high heels clicked and clacked quietly against the carpeted floor of the room, a dark silhouette cast over Ruby, who moaned quietly as her body jolted a second. Then, sweet dreams lulled her back into a deep slumber. Two free arms settled Nuggs down back onto the couch, giving his small head a light pat. Slowly and carefully, Ruby was swept up into Angel's arms, a content sigh of satisfaction of feeling the softness of his fluff and the warmth wrapping around her small body escaped her closed lips while her mouth stretched into a small, yet noticeable smile. Her usual hot pink and clean white dress had been folded up and off to the side by Vaggie earlier and her new outfit was a comfortable and clean baby blue nightgown that reached down to her knees. From where Angel was standing, Ruby had the position and appearance of a baby, trapped in a good dream. Quietly, high heels started up their clicking and clacking against the carpeted floor over to the black and red matching queen size bed. The cool, blood red bed sheets hugged Ruby's small body comfortably as a pair of hot pink gloved hands made sure that Ruby wasn't left feeling a chilly breeze blowing in through some sort of crack in the room or from the window if they were open, which they weren't. And the room didn't look super old enough to even have a hole. The other gloved hand brushed a few small strands of honey blonde hair out of Ruby's sleeping face. The sight was honestly something to cherish and hold in his heart for the rest of his afterlife. Lightly brushing his fingers against her soft cheek, Angel had the sheer determination of protecting that smile. That face. That. . . girl. The ugliness of what someone like Valentino could do to such a little treasure like Ruby pierced right through Angel's heart. "Sweet dreams, Precious." He whispered to her deaf ears before motioning to Nuggs to head out. Softly jumping off of the couch, Nuggs walked alongside his owner, who took one last glance over at the peacefully sleeping child. Making sure that the door didn't make any noise, Angel left the room, encasing it in total darkness and with no trace that he was ever there. "Such a sweet little girl, isn't she?" Perking his head up and looking over his shoulder, pink irises captured the permanently grinning face of Alastor. How long had that Radio Demon been standing in the hallway? It's not like Angel really cared, just as long as that grinning bastard wasn't gonna start popping up behind him. Unless he'd like to eat a whole bunch of bullets. "Just the way that she can wake up each day without a care in the world and a bright smile on her face. . . I just get scared." Angel replied, crossing over two of his arms, his eyes turned back to Ruby's door while Fat Nugget rested comfortably in the second pair of arms. "You're afraid that something might happen to her?" Alastor questioned, his head tilted to the side in a bit of confusion, his brow quirked just a tad. A quiet sigh escaped Angel's lips, his eyes half lidded but narrowed. "Valentino has broken a lot of people. Including me. I don't want her to end up in his web of abuse and manipulation if she ever meets him." Angel paused after a while before replying with certainty dripping from his voice. "She has a diamond heart, Angel. Very strong yet beautiful. As long as she feels safe here and is able to see you come back everyday, then that's all she can ask for." Alastor replied almost immediately, There was a soft pause in the hallway as Alastor's words were on repeat in Angel's mind. "Now then, I must take my leave. My radio broadcast won't start on its own. Until next time." Alastor bid Angel goodbye before taking his leave, disappearing after his body continued down the stairs to the main area, leaving Angel and Fat Nugget in the hallway. Heels clicked and clacked over to another door, a gentle push given to open it and the light from the hallway to shed some light into the room. Pink was splashed all over the room, from the walls to the furniture, even to the curtains. A brown box that had various sex toys thrown in haphazardly with the words ' sex toys' scratched out with black sharpie marker and 'work stuff' written over it. A small pink bean bag was the ultimate throne and bed for Fat Nugget. Settling his darling pet down into his bed, Angel rubbed Fat Nugget's head, however his face had a clear frown stuck onto it. Turning his head over to the tall mirror covered makeup dressing table, his heart wrenched. Gently slamming his hands onto the table, Angel's eyes darted in different directions before screwing closed tightly, his hands clenched into shaky fists. A cold sweat trickled down his forehead as an awful memory of Valentino taking advantage of him once more burned back into Angel's mind. Letting out a shaky breath and looking at himself in the mirror, Angel still had that frown and those narrowed eyes present on his face. "A diamond heart..."

[whitewallwhispers]

Little Lies

Narcos - Javier Peña - Series

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine

A young writer moves to Colombia to perform research on the drug war for her latest novel. She’s willing to do anything for information, which leads her down a rabbit hole that begins to blur the line between pretending to be someone and becoming something she might not be ready for.

Despite the best efforts of D.E.A. Peña, she finds herself out of her depth and everything is falling apart.

Warnings: Mentions of burns, gunshot wounds, blood, stitches, and scars. Mentions of oral sex (male receiving). Strong language (pretty much every expletive under the sun). Unprotected sex (wrap it up, folks)

My hope is that you can imagine this character as any race with any style of hair (as someone with short hair I get annoyed when every fic mentions long locks and ponytails).

Author’s Note: Here I am, back on my bullshit, telling you once more that these dirty-ass thoughts are about Javier Peña and Javier Peña alone. God BLESS Pedro’s acting abilities because I wanna fuck the socks off of nearly ever character he plays but IRL I just wanna give him a nice soft pat on the head. (No offense, bud)

Tag List (Open!): @fanfiction-trashpile | @sophster1881 | @theringostarfanclub | @thinemineours | @fatbottomedcurls | The OG: @courtneybgourtney​

Finally, she was bidding what she hoped would be her last client of the night goodbye. As soon as he was out of her room she all but sprinted to the upstairs bathroom to brush her teeth.

Another blowjob and massage - the only work she could really handle yet. It let her keep her robe on so that the clients wouldn’t see her grisly burns or bandages, and it didn’t put too much strain on the rest of her body. Just giving handjobs and blowjobs all day would be easy - if she wasn’t getting assigned every client who came asking for one.

Don’t complain, she reprimanded herself. It was kind of Giovanni to give her so much work. She was making good money, far better than she had been on her own, and she hadn’t even had to have sex yet. It’d been two weeks since Gio had agreed to let her live and work in the house. She was one of only three girls who lived there full-time. But even though the work so far wasn’t demanding, her body was still not at its best, and a full day left her completely exhausted.

With a sigh she pulled back the top sheet on her bed used for clients to make room for her to lay down on the clean, usable blankets beneath. She couldn’t truly go to bed. Only when Giovanni came to tell her she was done for the night would she be allowed to take off her makeup and get into her pajamas. So she stayed in her hand-me-down stockings and discount lingerie and fake silk robe, laying on top of her covers, ready for a cat nap.

Her eyes were shut. Her wounds weren’t hurting. By all means, she should’ve passed out immediately.

But something kept her awake.

Something seeping quietly through the structure of the house, something unsettling. 

There were the faint pounds of headboards against walls, the other girls crying out - she was used to that.

But now there was something else.

A voice, cutting through it all, a voice that sent shivers up her spine.

It couldn’t be Manuel. She’d killed him. She’d stabbed him, over and over, until he’d died. So why did it bring up bloodstained memories? What made every hair on her body stand on end? What made her feel like something bad was about to happen?

Ignore it. She’d been on edge ever since that night. She couldn’t trust her own instincts anymore. Everywhere she felt danger, and as of yet it hadn’t actually appeared. She tried to tune it out, tried to go to sleep, but it was useless. She waited five more minutes before giving up. Annoyed, she launched herself out of bed. After pulling the top sheet back in place she checked her hair and makeup in the mirror - a little mussed, but not bad. 

Then she was on her way downstairs and through the door that separated the public part of the house from the private spaces - the kitchen, Giovanni’s bedroom and office, and the bathroom that the girls used to shower before, between, or after sessions. Sofia and Jimena (though since they were working she was supposed to call them Estella and Jade) were there as well, grabbing a snack.

“Eve! How’s your night going?” Sofia asked, holding out a bag of chips as an offering. She shook her head.

“Not bad. Are there any clean glasses around?”

Jimena nodded and reached into the cupboard behind her to grab one.

“How about you two?”

“Pretty much the same,” Sofia said with a shrug. “Better than Lupe’s.” She and Jimena burst into a fit of giggles then. 

“What am I missing?” she asked as she poured herself a bit of red wine from one of the many bottles of booze that littered the counter.

“Her cousin came in earlier, he didn’t recognize her name and asked for her,” Jimena gossiped, “and of course Gio had no idea who he was so he approved it. Lupe opened the door for him and then immediately shut it in his face.”

“No!” she gasped, joining in their laughter.

“Estella, what time is it?” Giovanni stepped through the door from the main house, tapping his watch.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Sofia jumped up immediately, tossing her chips onto the counter.

“Wash your hands first,” Giovanni sighed. “Jade, go help Aspasia in the sitting room. She’s currently stuck with two fighting over her, get one of them to pick you.”

“Right,” Jimena nodded and followed Sofia from the room.

“Eve, you’re probably done for now, but stay awake just in case. We’re completely booked tonight, and if I have no one to spare, you’ll have to do a lot more than just hand work. Just keep your robe on as long as possible and turn the lights off so they can’t see your bandages”

She nodded, and with that Giovanni turned to go to his office, pulling out a stack of cash from inside his well-cut cream jacket that he began to count quietly under his breath. With a sigh she finished the rest of the wine in her glass and placed it in the sink. Then her eyes fell on the half empty bottle on the counter.

Well, if I can’t go to sleep…

She might as well find something else to do. She scooped it up and took a swig straight from the bottle as she pushed through the door back to the main part of the house. Giovanni hadn’t been exaggerating - the establishment was full to bursting, and very loud. The music was covering up most of the noise, but that just meant it was cranked all the way up. She could feel the railing of the stairs rattle as she shuffled up the steps, trying to go easy on her hip.

Sofia and the man who’d booked her squeezed by in the small hallway, bumping into her on their way to Sofia’s room.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t see him first.

Her fingers had just wrapped around her own door handle when a voice made her jump.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

She whipped her head around and was shocked to see Javier coming out of Isabella’s room, still buttoning his shirt, his hair sweaty and mussed.

Shit. Since when did he start coming to this brothel? When she’d interviewed the girls some of them knew about him from other places they’d worked, but he’d never come to this establishment.

Until now.

Of course.

She couldn’t even think of what to do for several seconds. She just stood there, blinking, watching the way his chest rose and fell, still out of breath from where he’d been and what he’d been doing moments ago.

Seeing him like this hurt.

Seeing him right after he got done fucking someone else hurt. 

Far more than she’d ever thought it could. 

Far more than the bullets embedded in her body.

Then she moved without even thinking about it. Instinctually, her body just wanted her to get away from him and start trying to numb the shattering ache in her chest. So she looked away and walked into her room without saying anything. But before she could turn to lock it, Javier was pushing the door open, slamming it shut behind him and enveloping them in soft shadows, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside.

“Don’t walk away from me. I’ve been so fucking worried about you. When you didn’t call I asked at the hospital but they said you’d already been discharged. I went to your apartment but your landlady said you’d left without explanation.” He began moving towards her, so she stepped back, retreating from him until the back of her legs hit her mattress. She hurriedly put the wine on her nightstand before responding.

“I’m sorry, Javi,” she stammered.

“What are you doing here?” He kept coming, unbearably close, giving her no space to think or breathe or collect herself. She could smell Isabella’s perfume on him and it made her feel sick.

“Trying to earn enough to go home.”

“Please tell me you’re not working here.”

She said nothing. Instead she sat down and gripped the edge of her mattress, looking at the floor. 

“No. You can’t be doing this yet.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” She owed him everything, but that didn’t mean he got to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. Now she was angry, and it gave her enough resolve to look at him. He’d never seemed more intimidating than he did now, looming over her, his face and eyes visibly furious even in the darkness. “I don’t have a choice. Other members of the cartel knew where I lived, they came and took everything.”

“No, that was me and Steve,” Javier sighed. “That’s why I wanted you to call me when you got discharged. All of your stuff is waiting for you at a safehouse.”

That didn’t help. If anything, it made her feel worse. 

“Javi, stop.”

“Stop what?” He sounded exasperated. 

“I can’t do this anymore, I can’t let you do this.”

“Do what?” 

“I owe you too much. And I’ll never be able to pay you back for it, ever. You can’t keep doing these things for me. You need to cut me off. For fuck’s sake, you saved my life. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“Why is it always like this with you? If I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t. I don’t want anything from you. I see you as someone in a bad situation, a situation I can help. I mean - my entire life for the past fucking decade has been about trying to do something good and always falling short. Do you know what that’s like? Do you know how awful that is, to constantly fail? To see good people, people I consider friends, die in the name of a cause we can’t seem to set right? Just let me have one thing I can do that actually makes a fucking difference.”

“I’m not worth it.”

She wasn’t. She was just someone who bit off more than she could chew. She was naive. She put herself in a situation way out of her depth and made all the wrong choices. They were her mistakes. She had to deal with the consequences. It wasn’t fair to let someone else bail her out. Not even her parents, and certainly not Javier. 

“You don’t get to make that judgement for me.” He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if she’d given him a headache. Then he went to the nightstand and turned on the lamp before taking a draw from the bottle of wine. “Show me.”

“Show you what?” 

“Your wounds. How are they healing?”

Now there was something she really didn’t want to do. They were ugly, made her ugly, and she couldn’t bear the thought of looking so disgusting in front of him, not when he’d just been with someone else, especially someone as beautiful as Isabella.

“They’re fine,” she mumbled. 

“Show me.”

She didn’t want to, but his expression frightened her. He looked upset and angry and sad and guilty all at once, and while she couldn’t fathom why he’d be feeling anything more than annoyance with her, she didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. 

So she stood and began to fumble with the ribbon holding her robe together. Her hands were shaking.

Why the fuck are my hands shaking?

Javier stepped over to her then, his fingers taking over in untying it. Then he gently ran his hands up along the edges of the cloth, carefully slipping under the collar and pushing the fabric down. It fell off her shoulders to the floor with a quiet noise that sounded like a whisper.

She suddenly felt silly standing there in front of him in her cheap black lace. The edges of her burns peeked out beneath the gauze that she’d secured to her shoulder and hip, and all she wanted to do was grab her robe and put it back on, kick him out of her room, and down the rest of the wine in one fell swoop.

That was, until he took her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so she was looking him in the eyes.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Javier murmured.

She could see the faint imprint of lipstick on his neck and the sheen of sweat that remained on his chest and it made her heart wince again. He took his hands from her face and turned his attention back to her wounds, peeling the gauze back carefully. His brows furrowed as he took in the messy sight before him. 

The burns had turned a grisly yellow, crackling lines of black and red rimming the edges. A short line of four stitches cut through the center of each burn, the edges raised and puckered. 

“Jesus,” he gasped quietly. “How long did it take to get the bullets out?”

She shook her head. “They didn’t. Said they were too close to veins and arteries, that moving them would just make things worse.”

“So they’re still inside you?”

“Mmhmm,” she nodded. His fingers traced across her shoulder and hip, staying far enough away from the wounds to not hurt, but enough to send goosebumps all across her body. Javier’s eyes studied her intensely. It made her pulse quicken. 

“Did they say whether or not we fucked it up with the cauterization? You didn’t get an infection, right?”

“They said I probably would’ve bled out otherwise. And no, they put me on antibiotics right away.”

Javier nodded and placed the gauze back over her wounds, gently securing the medical tape to her skin.

“Javi, I literally owe you my life,” she began, but he was already shaking his head.

“You don’t owe me anything. Don’t insult me by suggesting I wouldn’t do whatever I could to save you in that situation.” 

She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Of how close his face had gotten to hers. After finishing with her shoulder his fingertips hovered above her bandage for a moment before trailing down her arms, then to her waist, grazing along the top of her garter belt.

Neither of them said anything. Together they watched Javier’s hands, bodies drawn so close they were almost resting their foreheads against each other. His fingers made their way down to the tops of her thighs and back again, occasionally gripping her flesh as he began to run his palms up and down her body. 

Her left hand wound itself up across his shoulders and into his hair, her breath hitching in her throat. Javier dipped his head to rest against hers.

“I don’t know why I can’t help myself,” he whispered, pulling her closer to him. She whimpered slightly as her hip grazed his thigh. “I shouldn’t be doing this. Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His palms ran over her breasts then, his breathing growing heavier as he circled his thumbs around her nipples through the thin fabric of her sheer bralette. The faintest of moans escaped her. It’d been so long since she’d enjoyed being touched, since her body wanted to get closer to someone, since she was drawn to touch someone in return. 

Her hands moved of their own accord, fingers latching onto his belt and working to undo it.

“We shouldn’t, not here,” he groaned, but he didn’t try to stop her either. “Not now.”

But she had already unzipped his jeans, reaching in to pull out his half-hard cock.

She tried her best to forget that he had just been inside Isabella as she began to stroke it, her thumb circling his tip each time her hand moved up it.

And then he was pushing her back up against the mattress and laying her down, his lips crashing against hers as he reached around her panties and plunged two fingers into her without hesitation. She gasped at his unexpected escalation, her tongue running along his bottom lip before kissing him in earnest.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” he whispered, pulling away to pepper her cheek and neck with kisses as he pumped his fingers in and out of her faster. “I thought I might not ever see you again.” He nipped at her throat. “I thought the worst might’ve happened.”

She continued to stroke him until his member was fully stiff and hot in her hand. He pulled his fingers out of her and took over, guiding his tip to rub against her from core to clit and back again. Then he sunk into her, moaning into the crook of her neck as his hands came to grip her ribs, fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust inside her. One hand hooked itself under her right knee and pushed her leg towards her chest to give him clearance to enter her all the way.

While her right shoulder prevented her from reaching up with both, she took his face in her left hand and ran her thumb over his jaw and cheek.

“I want you, Javi,” she moaned. “But I also want to stay away.” He took her hand from his face and interlaced their fingers before pushing her wrist into the mattress so hard it made her gasp. “But I don’t think I can anymore.”

“Good. Don’t you dare ever disappear on me again.”

He kissed her as slowly as he moved in and out of her, gentle and simmering with desperation and need.

It was different, this time.

Everything felt different.

[goddessofthundathighs]

DISTRACTION

Just a little filth based off of this post because I feel like I’ve been neglecting my lovelies.

_____________________________________________

“Bro, what the fuck?” Erik yelled angrily into the headset. He’d just returned from a two-month long mission in Colombia and all he wanted to do was relax with a nice game of Battlefield 4. He checked the time on his kimoyo beads. He knew the Princess would be home soon so he removed the headset from one of his ears to listen out for her.

It had been four months since the couple had last had sex, given both of their busy schedules, and Hennessy was more than a little needy. When she came home from work, she noticed his boots and duffle bag laid next to the front door.

“The fuckum?” She paused looking around. “I know this nigga didn't...” she complained as she put away her things and made her way to the game room.

Her husband’s dark brown eyes squinted as he concentrated on the screen, his fingers tapping the controller vigorously. The voices of middle-aged men shouting in his ear made him grumble for what had seemed like the millionth time. Though she was grateful that he still kept in touch with his battles from his time in JSOC, she hated how they sometimes kept him away from her for trivial things. As he reached the end of a heated battle, he heard the light footsteps of his wife come to the door.

“Well hello to you too,” her tiny voice rang out over the loud explosions and gunshots on the TV. He could practically hear her folding her arms.

“Oh hey babe,” He called as he glanced over his shoulder briefly before returning his gaze back to the TV. Who knew that one simple phrase could make her blood boil the way it did.

“How long have you been back?”

“Couple hours,” he responded, clearly still distracted by the video game.

“And you didn’t think to —,” her voice trailed off as her anger rose. Typically he made sure to stop by her office when he returned from a mission, but today was different. Today he chose to engage in an online video game battle instead of making an effort to spend time with her.

“Sorry babe,” he grunted as he restarted the game.

“Nah, you good,” she replied as she headed for the stairs. Bratty Hennessy was in full effect and by the time she was done, Battlefield 4 would be the last thing on Erik’s mind.

—————————

Fifteen minutes passed before she reappeared in the doorway of the game room.

“How long are you gonna be down here?”

“I don’t know Princess, why wassup?” He asked as he finished one of the game’s missions.

“Oh I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in two months, haven’t touched you in four. Get where I’m going with this?”

“Yeah, I get it baby. Gimme like 10 minutes and I’m all yours, I promise.”

“10 MINUTES?! NIGGA?!” she screamed exasperatedly.

“Okay, okay, 6 minutes,” he responded as he went back to angrily tapping the buttons on the controller.

“Fine,” she pouted as she walked over to the stereo system.

The sounds of Booty by Blac Youngsta filled the game room as the Princess distracted herself. Erik’s head began to nod to the beat as she bounced around the room.

Girl, I wanna see you twerk

I'll throw a lil' money if you twerk

I don't really think you can twerk

(Toot toot) twerk

If you broke, go to work

Make that big booty twerk

Make that big booty twerk

(Toot toot)

Can I touch that booty?

That booty, that big old booty?

Shake that booty, can I lay on the booty?

Mike Tyson on the booty

Copyright that booty (toot toot)

“Babe, C'mon now.. Move…”

He was so focused on the game that he hadn’t noticed his curvaceous wife’s attire. She’d traded her tan flounce jumpsuit for a navy two-piece lingerie set with a matching see through robe. As the song continued on and her best friend’s verse came on, the tiny princess decided to kick it up a notch.

Yeah, smack it up, flip it, rub it down, BBD

Yeah, I know you heard the news about that BBC

Yeah, greatest in that box, RIP Ali

Mmm, she say she love my kids, taste my legacy

Ooh, she go stupid, I'm no Cupid, I don't cuff her, I can't lose it

What she say I'm sleepin' on her, I just said she just caught me snoozin'...

As Trey continued to rap, Hennessy purposely placed her body in Erik’s line of vision and began throwing her ass like she had entered a twerk contest.

“Hennessy I said —,” his sentence was cut off as his eyes lifted to fully take in her presence. “Gahdamn,” he groaned as he reached out to move the fabric of the robe, giving him an unobstructed view. He stared like a predator watching prey as her plump ass gyrated in his face. The groans of his battles brought him back from the trance she’d successfully put him in. Pausing the game and throwing his controller to the side, he watched her hips move with ease to the beat. Before he knew it, her ass was on his lap, grinding and popping to the music as the bass thumped throughout the room. Groaning lowly, he moved the mic from his headset down to his mouth and spoke to the men who had been complaining in his ear the entire duration of the song.

“Aye niggas, I'll be back. I don't know when though.” The men's voices were cut off as he turned the PlayStation off and tossed the headset on the table. He bit his bottom lip as his calloused hands began kneading the tender flesh of her ass before giving it two harsh smacks. She moaned softly, but continued her ministrations, turning to face him now.

“You just couldn’t wait, huh? Needy ass,” he teased as he pulled her down to straddle his lap. His lips curved into his signature smirk, revealing the gold fronts that she loved.

“Nah, you wanted to play the game, remember? Keep that same energy fam,” she said as she slowly tried to slide out of his lap. His arms locked around her like a constrictor, effectively stopping her escape.

“Nah, the only game I’m tryna play is how many times Daddy can make Hennessy cum,” he growled, lifting from the couch.

————————

Hennessy’s legs shook as he feasted from her, his tongue darting back and forth with impeccable speed. Her hands moved from the sheets of the bed to his unruly dreads, tugging on them as he sucked on her clit.

As his tongue lapped over one of her more sensitive areas, she yanked his hair and moaned. As if her body wasn’t already seconds from overstimulation, a growl erupted from the beast between her thighs.

“F-fuck don’t growl at me…” She whimpered as she stared down at him. As his lips turned into a sly smirk, he chuckled softly.

“Mmm. Why not Princess?”

“Y-You know why,” she whined as his long tongue wrapped around the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. He growled again, causing her to gush into his mouth as the vibration traveled up her body.

“Daddy I’m cumming,” she whined as she rocked her hips against his face. He stared up from his place between her legs, dark eyes fixed on hers as he continued to lick slow patterns on the swollen bulb.

“Let it go Princess,” he growled as he attached his lips to her clit and sucked. Her orgasm hit her hard and fast, but his tongue never stopped it’s quest. He continued feasting until orgasm number two had her clawing at his back. He licked his lips as he watched her body shake, determined to have her sated and asleep by the time he finished.

He climbed up her body slowly, kissing and biting at her skin along the way. A firm tug to his dreads had him eye to eye with the curvaceous cutie, her brown eyes piercing his.

“As much as I like the slow, sensual treatment, I’m way too horny for you to be taking your sweet grandpa time. It’s been four months, I need you to break me.”

“Say less ma,” he replied thrusting forward until he was completely buried inside of her. Her legs locked around his waist as he began delivering the powerful strokes that always left her sore and hoarse the next day.

“That’s right,” she moaned. “Act like it’s been four months since you’ve had this pussy, nigga.” He chuckled softly, leaning down to press open-mouth kisses along her cheek and jawline.

“Fuck I missed your fine ass. I missed the way your lips feel against mine, I missed the way your face scrunches up when I hit that spot, and I especially missed the way that pretty pussy clings to my dick like a life vest.” Her inner walls fluttered at his words. She had always loved how nasty he could be during sex. He sat up on his knees and pushed her legs up so that her knees were almost beside her ears.

“Grab them ankles,” he ordered as he lined himself up with her dripping core. She barely had time to comply before his hips snapped forward with electrifying force. This was one of her favorite positions because each stroke had him tapping her g-spot with deadly precision.

“Daddy,” she moaned out, feeling the familiar tingle in her lower belly.

“Wassup?” he smirked, gold fronts gleaming in the purple light of the bedroom. “You close, Mama?” She wanted to answer, but her words were caught in her throat as he continued to fuck into her. He thrust forward a few more times before pulling himself out and smacking it on her clit.

“Answer me, Monaé!” he growled, shoving himself back into her. She bit her lip and nodded, still unable to verbally express her pleasure.

“Cum for me, Princess. I feel the way she gripping me. Show Daddy he can still make that kitten purr.” At his command her released washed over her, coating both of their lower halves with her essence.

“Fuck,” he groaned as he released himself into her. He lazily kissed her lips, swallowing each moan that came in the aftershock of her orgasm. He pulled out slowly and headed for the bathroom as sleep threatened to overtake the tiny vixen.

—————

Once he cleaned both of them off, Erik pulled the Henny close so that her head was tucked under his chin. He kissed her forehead as he slowly began running his fingers through her curly hair.

“Sorry about your game,” she said, yawning into his neck.

“You’re fine Princess. You’ve always been my favorite distraction.”

———————————————

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[teamatsumu]

Petals & Bullets - Epilogue

Series Summary: For as long as Y/N can remember, she has been sold in the black market as a sex slave. This time, the purchase is intercepted by a group of men in black. Their leader, a man with a silver gleaming arm, is the boss of the most feared mafia in NYC. Sucked into the world of drugs, guns and money, Y/N finds out more about her past than she bargained for. As her past and her family’s mistakes catch up on her, she finds herself falling for the man next to her with piercing blue eyes and a taste for violence.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 520

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Implied smut.

A/N: It’ over oh my god let me cry. This has been a ride and i’m especially grateful to all those who left feedback and hyped this up. You know who you are :)

You had decided that you hated everything to do with hospitals.

Whether it was the white sheets, or the lingering smell of medicines and anaesthetic, you could only take it for so long. But four months in this wretched mini hospital in the mansion, and you were about to blow a fuse.

Bucky had insisted you say on bed rest until your weight bearing bones, your femurs to be exact, both of which had broken, could heal properly to hold your weight up. Your protests had done nothing, and so you were stuck there for so long that you nearly cried in relief when the doctor proclaimed that your legs were almost entirely healed.

“It would be good for you to strain them a bit now.” He said. “You'll have to keep coming every day for physiotherapy. But walking around, some exercise. It'll be good for them.”

Bucky smiled at you and held your hand as you walked to the door. Your skin tingled where it met his. You had missed him so much.

Bucky had been very busy since the night he killed Russo. The bombs and gunshots that night had raised a lot of eyebrows. It had taken a long time to get the police off their track and Bucky had spent many days and nights making sure the authorities never got wind of who was involved. All that time spent working meant less time spent with you. He'd drop by twice or thrice a day for short intervals, but that was it. You understood, of course, but it didn't stop you from craving his touch whenever he wasn't there.

Bucky was it for you. He was your all now. And you weren't afraid to admit that.

He led you down the winding halls back to a very familiar place. Now you stood in the doorway of your bedroom, looking around at the space you hadn't been in for so long. Someone had very thoroughly cleaned it up. Changed the sheets, even the carpets and curtains were new.

You felt arms wrap around you from behind and you willingly leaned into them, feeling lips ghost over your neck before they planted a soft kiss on your skin.

“Do you like it?” Bucky’s voice was low and muffled by your neck. “Had them give it a totally new look for when you got back.”

You nodded and turned your head slightly, your noses bumping. “I love it. Kinda wish they'd left the sheets, though.”

You let your hand travel up and tangle into Bucky’s hair, pulling at it. His body tensed against your back.

“Too many great memories on those sheets.” Your voice had dropped to a whisper.

Bucky’s breath tickled you as he chuckled, lips connecting with your neck again, this time nipping harder at the skin. He shuffled  both of you forward, the door clicking shut behind you. His hands were already pulling at your clothes.

“Don't worry about that, doll. I'm gonna make a lot more memories on these sheets.”

It felt familiar, Bucky’s weight on top of yours, his hands firm on your body, his breathy moans in your ear and the soft sheets against your back. It felt so familiar, but not that at the same time.

It was like a new beginning ready to happen, and you stood at the very edge, arms open and ready to embrace it, a smile on your face.

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[fredheads]

i’m only good at being bad, bad

read on ao3

a/n: believe it or not i'm not trying to "justify" gladys' actions or make her "likeable" or help people understand her i just like reading women ranting about how much they hate their husbands sometimes and i thought other people might! gladys loves being bad, bitches!

inspired by @fredsythe

Gladys Jones was a woman without morals, and she liked it that way.

Morals did little for her but slow her down. Once you got smart enough, you didn’t need anyone else’s judgement on right and wrong, and God knew she’d had enough of other people’s judgement for a lifetime. Gladys wrote her own rules and lived by her own code. Hers. No one else had a say: not this town, not the law, not her dipshit of a husband. Not anymore.

Fred Andrews had morals, that was true. He was one of the good ones - one of the very, very few good ones. She’d known him since they were kids and she still marvelled at his stubborn commitment to good. She was glad she’d made him Jellybean’s godfather. On the off chance that anything happened to wipe her out early, Jellybean would grow up nice and sweet and normal. That was a big If, though. Gladys had no intention of dipping out early.

Gladys owned this fucking town.

The gold rays of the early-evening sun hit her skin as she coasts along the outskirts of Riverdale in Reggie Mantle’s borrowed car. It was a nice piece of machinery - purred under her thighs like a happy kitten. The new car smell was still on it. She flips her shades down, shakes her hair out in the breeze from the open window. Her arm dangles out the driver’s side as she holds the wheel with one hand, warm from the sun.

She’d sworn once that she’d never come back. She’d sworn it again after she’d walked out on her drunk of a husband, packed the family car, and laughed all the way to Ohio. She’d hated the whole stinking town since she was in middle school, and yet, here she was. Chances are everyone here had a similar story: dreams of leaving that fell through. Riverdale was a place you were born dying to get away from.

Gladys had said fuck that. Gladys had made this shithole work for her. It was about time she’d got what it owed her.

While everyone else scurried around the streets of her hometown like rats in a maze, Gladys had been laying her traps. A thread here, a thread there, child’s play, really, but she was careful. No mistakes. One day soon, she’d blow the fuse.

The fact that she was taking the whole town down with her was a kind of poetic justice. After all the time she’d suffered at its hands she’d be the one to suck it dry. Honestly, the stupid place was begging for it. Riverdale had sat there like a ripe peach after the Clifford Blossom fiasco, caving in from the inside. Waiting for someone smart enough to come along and turn water into gold.

Waiting for her.

If all went according to plan, the leeching of Riverdale would set her and her daughter up for life. Jughead too, if he wanted it - she’d leave him something regardless and let him take it or leave it. She loved the kid to bits, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he’d turned out to be. But she had a feeling about him, and her feelings were rarely wrong. He was too deep in his father’s pretty stories. Too righteous, too moralistic to let her get away with her due. Gladys didn’t have time to grovel at a teenager’s feet. When he was older, maybe he’d understand. For now, it was her and J.B. It was better that way.

The house on Elm Street was a nice idea, but it would never last. She knew that now. Gladys had done her time playing Suburban Dreamhouse. FP hadn’t known a good thing when he had it, so now, here they were. He had it coming, as they say in showbiz. He only had himself to blame.

Her lowlife husband was never born to be a criminal. A drunk, maybe, a lazy pickpocket, but not a criminal. FP hated the place too, but didn’t have the foresight to think outside of the city limits, had lowly little small-town aspirations - a house on the nice side of town, a 9-5 job. Since they were kids, he’d pinned all his misery on the south end of town, the fact that he was born on the wrong side of the tracks. FP wanted to cross the tracks and settle down and that was it.

She’d thought it was cute, once. She’d thought a lot of things about her husband were cute. She’d been soft on him, and that was her downfall, she supposes. The moment he’d walked into the Whyte Wyrm in his letterman jacket, sticking out like a billboard, and she’d given the idiot a cursory once-over and thought to herself, almost incidentally: he’s cute.

And then he wasn’t cute. And then he was very, very far from cute, and then he was so repulsive she hated the sight of him. Sometimes, lately, a nagging affection came back like a disease, the most fleeting of fondness for his messy morning hair or his earnest attempt at wooing her again - but she shut those thoughts down as soon as they arrived. Gladys was made of sterner stuff now, and she had FP to thank for her thick skin. She was done with his drinking, lying, cheating ass, and she was done for good.

Even in these rare moments of tenderness, there was no guilt. None. FP would take the fall for all of it, and be too stupid to realize what was happening until she was long gone. That made her happy. FP had coasted through their life together for too long, thinking he could do whatever the hell he wanted and get away without punishment. It was high time for some karmic payback.

Gladys Jones could play God.

Fred Andrews had morals, but he was no sheep: he decided right from wrong and he upheld it. Gladys was just as staunchly wedded to being a bad guy: she was deep in her badness and she loved it. FP was weaker stuff - he waffled from one to the other and still expected to be praised. Still expected to come out on top.

But FP had never been a winner. Gladys was the winner. At least she had been up until she married him.

She runs through the plan again, all her moving pieces. Diligence, that was what she taught her daughter. Be diligent, but have fun with it. Be whatever the hell you wanted to be, but be smart about it.

FP was stupid. Had always been stupid, and after a while, he’d dragged her down into his stupidity with him. Gladys Cohen had been in charge of her own future. Gladys Jones was a stupid woman with the same deadbeat husband waiting at home for her that every other stupid woman had. Innocent women who had made one miscalculation and ended up married to shit. Her mother had been in that position once. Hell, so had his. There were a lot more good women than there were good men in the world.

He’d trapped her into a life she’d never wanted, and then he’d whined that it was her fault. After she’d done nothing but bend to his every whim the entire time they were married, always cleaning up his messes and wiping his hands clean.

FP had wanted a house, so she’d played housewife. Then they’d lost the house, because FP had lost his job, and she’d packed and stored and sold everything they owned that didn’t fit in a crappy little double-wide a stone’s throw from where they’d grown up on the shit side of town. And still, he whined. Still, everything was unfair to him, everything was someone else’s fault. Fred’s. His father’s. Her’s.

She’d thought maybe it would be the kick he needed. Landing on his ass in the trailer park he’d grown up in would force him to look long and hard in the mirror, maybe pull his act together enough to fix things with Fred. Or else they’d lean on one another, maybe rob a liquor store or two outside of town, fuck in the getaway car, like in the old days. But instead, he’d slumped into booze, spending days in a slack-jawed stupor in front of the TV. Forgetting about Jughead’s science fair. Forgetting to pick up Jellybean from a sleepover. Forgetting everything, in fact, except that night’s football scores.

Then causing scene after scene in public. Passing out on the front lawn. Starting fights and breaking dishes. Crying whiskey breath against her neck at night, asking over and over for forgiveness. Refusing to go to the A.A meetings. Scaring their children half to death. Whining when she asked for the simplest of courtesies like she was some nagging housewife that had to learn her place. Coming home later and later until he stopped bothering to come home at all.

And the whole time the sex was horrific. And she looked like the fool.

Well, Gladys Jones held grudges.

Then she’d learned from Archie in Toledo that FP and Fred were on speaking terms again. That her husband had a job again, was going to meetings, was working on himself. It had sounded too good to be true. Sure enough, she’d come home and found out he was fucking a cult-deranged Alice Cooper on their marriage sheets.

So. He had it coming.

A shotgun to the head would be too good for him. No. She had to watch him unwind. She’d designed this game, and she’d designed it to hurt. Hurt him the way he’d hurt her with his insolence, his brain-numbing stupidity. Time and time again she’d almost caved, convinced herself that she could forgive him, but this was the final nail in the coffin. This one was punishable by death.

If it was Fred, it would have been different. She, FP, and Fred had always had an arrangement that worked. But Alice, in addition to being a slap in the face, was Gladys’ own sloppy seconds. God, it made her fingers itch. And yet she had no doubt that they both disparaged her, had decided that she was to blame. Probably talked shit about her, curled up in her mother’s bedsheets, on a trashy trailer-park mattress. Both of them not knowing how good they’d almost had it.

She parks the car across two spots and gets out, the engine still humming. Her high-heeled boots snap like gunshots on the concrete steps as she lets herself into the diner.

“Slice of cherry pie, Pop.” He leaves a strawberry milkshake on the counter as he moves to get her pie, bound for a table near the window, and she eyes it as she slaps a few bills on the counter. It’s the same rush she got in high school after pinching money out of the tip jar at the Wyrm - it wasn’t her money to worry about. She could order whatever the hell she wanted.

Her eye lands on an occupied booth across the diner as she nibbles on the cherry she’d pinched off the milkshake. With a decisive toss of her head, she saunters up to the dark-haired students.

She dangles the keys at Reggie Mantle. “Brought your car back.” He reaches for the keys and she pulls them away. “I still need a ride home.”

He just nods. A little scared of her, but mostly respectful - and that was how she wanted it. She wasn’t interested in terrorizing kids, just teaching them who was boss. Teaching them what was possible. Pop drops off her pie and she stabs it with the fork.

Self-respect, that was what FP was lacking. Alice Cooper had even less, by the sound of it. She’d have put him through this anyway, but it just gave her that little extra push to make him suffer. Once it all went south, FP’s stupid ass would have a decision to make. He could go cry to Alice and land on his ass. Or he could go seek comfort from anyone else and end up the same way. No favours for FP Jones. Not ever again. Oh, it was going to be fun. She was having fun already.

Gladys spears a mouthful of her pie and grins. It was good. Best pie in town.

Or maybe everything tasted good when your husband was about to get what was coming to him.

[dogwitchcity]

What I Didn’t Know About Love::

Android lust an ans spirals and death … you cant dance where I dance … you cant dance and not not be me and .. spyre fire pyre and … hait .. hell … jesxus christ suicide and death dance forestalls none .. evil … tortured thought thoughts not not something similar from … shit with the dog mentality mentalities and tao nature god gonna gone need taken and .. black no old known soul sulliness and … none non-incorrelate know not the line between good evil and evil exists .. life … lifeless live living preforance as  .. hot sex is good sex and pizza from the gutter dumpster .. food from a pedifiles hand .. a cross bearing bed of dignity and clean laundry sheet smells dryer mother clean is what is is .. and I die … death dance ceath die and ward … do you know what dignity is child the daughter born in the north asked her child … tears in her eyes as ruddy red faced and swollen puffy mouthed as .. as ans answers and … zygotes hait xygotes haet … autmns with witch alone and ..  breath hon … you … you don’t have to onloy please us only ankha oncall does that right … he placed easy eyes on favorite flesh and … I hate you screaming … she is the way she is … of course hon of course … why soho honey bun… why wide eyed hatred of … marry poppins lines of blood ..  astral signets and trust me kiddo … dust brothers and kid kindness … ive always known you you would be … do don’t this time … do do tell me this this time … james brown as justin timberlake and ….. the gunshots in the air fire north and the daughters not there … ten seconds to time lift …. 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Bitten and burt an dians denise Richards who whom whose … dad … turn the tv down … don’t sit so close .. youll shoot youre eyes eye owl coven paisley family dreams out the door .. window won doe eyes and jim Morrison looks levvy down … hate hate pyre spiral and hate … like the blues whales sorrow hated hatred of … each child the English music teacher far to stereo typically acceptable to be anything other than … putrid putrid race … and fallen angels couldn’t put that witted womans soul back together again …. Screams and scrying eggs of bacons deft as reasons ..it tasts like baconaise but its … honey honey don’t know .. don’t hon .. sont honey child … sugar lips … swan childs swan children … yu look don’t you look so don’t look at me that way … as though family could accept … as though … consciously there often are no ifs ands or buts .. and you can trust them all … each of the understATEMENTS MANS THOUGHT …. Yes hon .. yes hon that’s true as you need it be … i9 am /.. 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[deathtouch]

💛 femfeb day 14 | my femfeb masterpost 🧡 xposted → ao3 | dw | pf.io 💖 D.Va/Moira | 3672 | Explicit 🧡 Alternate Universe, Mafia Au, Sugar Mommy, Valentine's Day, Sex Toys, Vibrators, Oral Sex, Gunshot Wounds, Blood, Surgery, Morning After 💛 Mob doctor Moira and her sugarbaby Hana spend Valentine's Day together. Surely nothing will interrupt them.

“I got you something, darling,” Moira said over the rim of her champagne glass. Something other than reservations at the nicest restaurant in the city on Valentine’s Day. That was an impressive gift in-and-of itself considering how exclusive this place was, but Moira had more than just dinner planned for tonight. Hana sat up, brightening a little. “You did?” They were sitting so close that even in the romantic mood lighting of the restaurant Moira could see the flecks of glitter in Hana’s lip gloss, and the soft barely-there freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks. She was always done up so beautifully, make-up perfect in every way. From the fine points of her eyeliner to the dusting of iridescent powder high on her cheekbones. She never covered up her freckles, though. Those she wore proudly for everyone to see. Her freckles, and the red and purple bruises that stretched the length of her neck. Marks from Moira’s lips and teeth, some old and healing and others fresh and new. Smirking, Moira set her champagne glass aside. She reached a long-fingered hand beneath the folds of her vest to find the jewelry box hidden in her breast pocket. She pulled it out and slid it across the table. Hana was already attentive, and she only grew more excited as her gift was presented to her. She didn’t hesitate to reach out and pluck the cardboard lid right off box. She gasped when she saw the bracelet inside. It was white gold with small, heart shaped charms dangling from the chain. White and pink diamonds were embedded on each charm. It glinted brilliantly in the candle light of the table. “Oh, Moira!” She breathed, eyes sparkling. “It’s so cute! Put it on me, please!” Hana thrust her bare wrist forward, waiting for it to be adorned. Moira happily clasped the bracelet into place. When she was done, she watched as Hana held her hand up in front of her, admiring the look of gold and diamonds on her skin. “I’m never going to take it off!” She insisted. She might not. Moira had given her a pink sapphire tennis necklace for Christmas, and it hadn’t left her neck in the two months since. It offset the live bites on her skin magnificently. Now enraptured with her new present and the way it looked, Hana pushed her menu aside in order to inspect the charms with more interest. “Will you order for me, mommy?” She asked sweetly. “Of course, my love,” Moira agreed. “Anything for you.” .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Hana kicked her shoes off at the door, a glittering pair of heels that Moira had gifted her a while back. Not for any particular holiday or celebration, just because Hana deserved nice things and looked great in a pair of pumps. She and went hurrying over to the floor to ceiling balcony window, ready to catch the last rays of golden light before the sun set entirely. She held her hand aloft and snapped pictures on her phone of the bracelet glittering in the sunlight. Moira watched from the foyer where she neatly hung up her jacket and scarf on the back of the door. Then she picked up Hana’s coat where she’d shed it and left it sitting on the floor to hang that up too. It seemed like just yesterday when Hana had come over for the first time. She had stared wide eyes at the massive penthouse, eyeing the marble countertops in the kitchen and massive smart TV in the living room with awe. Now this place was a second home to her, and she treated it as such. “The bedroom's this way, darling,” Moira told her, coming to stand in the hallway. “I’m coming!” Hana called out to her. No, not yet you’re not. But you will be, she thought. “I just want to show everyone the new gift you got me!” Everyone being the hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers she had. Inexplicably, Instagram was where she was least popular online. Her twitter, YouTube, and twitch accounts had many more followers. Why anyone would want to willingly sit around and watch someone else play video games, Moira had no idea. Hana mostly played games at her own apartment, but the spare bedroom was all decked out for her here. A gaming computer and all the relevant accessories, a dozen different consoles, a bookshelf full of games, everything she might need to live stream. Sometimes Hana decided she wanted to set up a gaming console in the living room to play StarCraft and Halo on the massive TV mounted on the wall. Moira didn’t mind that, and sometimes she even sat with Hana while she played, but always while doing something else. Reading, researching, working on something. The whole “Let’s Play” concept was incomprehensible to her. She was happy that Hana had a delightful hobby that apparently made her money, but she wasn’t going to pretend to understand it. “Come get in a picture with me,” Hana insisted. Moira knew better than to say ‘no’. She’d lost that battle enough times before. She crossed the living room, padding across the plush carpet, to join Hana by the balcony door. Moira wrapped her arms around her from behind and bent down low to press a kiss to her bare neck. The picture she took mostly consisted of Hana’s smiling face basking in the sunset light and the gingery crown of Moira’s hair. Hana hummed happily, mumbling about how cute they were together. The all-important process of choosing sticker emojis, the perfect filter, and an appropriate caption began. Moira had since learned that this could be a lengthy process. She made herself busy kissing new bruises into Hana’s neck and shoulder, suckling sweetly, nosing up behind her ear and into her soft brown hair. Hana ignored her completely… up until teeth sank into her skin, not breaking it but certainly sharp and hard enough to add a little pain to all this pleasure. Hana gasped and leaned into it. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed. Her hands fell to her sides and then her phone slipped straight from her fingers, thumping down to the carpet where it lay abandoned on the floor. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. “Please, please, please-!” Hana’s sweet voice was a frantic whisper, high in pitch and raspy with desperation. “Please! Please let me come,” she begged. Moira smirked from her vantage point between Hana’s spread legs. She was teasing her with the final Valentine’s Day gift Moira had bought, a bright pink vibrator. Its incessant buzzing filled the room, second only to Hana’s heavy panting. Her whole body was a stiff knot, muscles tense all over. Her hands were fists in the sheets, her toes were curled in tight. Her poor thighs were trembling, shaking with the effort of staying taut for so long. Moira teased the head of the toy against Hana’s sensitive clit, rubbing it in circles, coaxing out more whimpering pleas for release. Hana’s breath caught, hitched in her chest. Her shoulder blades dug into the mattress and she rose off the bed inch by inch. She was close. So close. Just a few more seconds and she would be coming, but instead Moira pulled the toy away, stripping Hana of the pleasure she’d been enjoying. She collapsed back on the mattress with a loud sob. There were real tears in her eyes this time. She looked at Moira as if she’d been betrayed, bottom lip trembling as the frustration filled the gaps were excitement and pleasure had been before. “Please,” She begged, voice breaking. “Please, mommy, I can’t take anymore.” Something about that sentence thrilled Moira to the core, a bolt went right through her strait to her groin. It had been long enough, almost an hour that they’d been going at this. She supposed she could finally give in and give Hana what she wanted. Moira tossed the vibrator aside and dove in. It bounced once before rolling right off the bed and onto the floor where it buzzed away on the carpet. Moira buried her face between Hana’s thighs and used her tongue instead. Toys were all well and good but there was nothing quite like the feel of another human being, alive and real. Hana was so close already that all it took were a few circles of Moira’s tongue to send her spilling over the edge. She shook as she came, crying out loudly. It was like music to Moira’s ears. She hummed happily as she kept licking, cleaning up all the slick juices that her tongue found. When Hana was too sensitive for any more, Moira pulled away. She was loathe to leave the bed but someone had to turn off the vibrator. Once that was finished, the toy no longer turned on and buzzing, she climbed back onto the mattress. Hana was still catching her breath, sweat drying on her skin, hair a mess from all the squirming against the pillows she had been doing. Moira happily caged her in her arms, cuddling her close. Hana turned to face her, pressing her cheek to Moira’s bare chest. “Thanks for all the Valentine’s Day gifts, mommy.” She said, sounding as exhausted as she looked. “Anything for you, my dear,” Moira murmured, kissing the top of Hana’s head. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Moira sat straight up in bed, ripped from her dreamless sleep. She stared out at her dark bedroom. She could feel Hana still asleep beside her, breath even and deep. She glanced at the clock, squinting at the LED lights that told her it was nearly three AM. What in the hell had woken her up? A sudden pounding at the door made her jump, three loud bangs. Goddamnit. Moira threw the duvet off and rushed out of bed, determined to get the door before whoever was behind it knocked again. She had a pretty good idea of who it was. No one else would dare wake her up at this hour. Not unless it was life or death… She closed her bedroom door as quietly as possible and hurried down the hall, switching the light on as she went. She rushed to the front door, threw back the chain, and yanked open the door before the entire floor was woken up by the loud knocking. Jesse McCree was standing there in front of her, bleeding profusely down his front. Gabriel Reyes was standing behind him, barely managing to keep him up on his feet. “What the hell do you th-” “Jesse’s been shot.” Gabriel interrupted. “Why in God’s name did you bring him here?” Moira snapped, stumbling out of the way as Gabe shoved Jesse past her. She winced as she saw they were headed for the kitchen. “No, the living room.” She had no interest in cooking food where Jesse McCree had bled out on her counter or in scouring viscera from the grout between her tiles. Just as Moira went to close her apartment door a shadow came sneaking through. Genji. “You,” Moira pointed at him. “The third door down the hall, grab the med kit under the sink. Bring it out here.” Genji flashed a dangerous glance her direction and it seemed for a second there he was going to dispute her giving him orders… and then he disappeared down the hallway, quick and quiet. In the living room, Gabriel was levering Jesse down on to the couch. Well, that was ruined. Her carpet was done for too, dark red stains trailing from here to the door. Jesse was groaning pathetically, writhing, cursing under his breath. “You have to shut him up,” Moira warned. She had neighbors for Christ’s sake. Hell, she had a guess in the bedroom! She couldn’t believe this. This was the absolute worst possible place they could have brought him. What the hell was he thinking? Moira would have met them anywhere in the city! “Quiet down, McCree,” Gabriel said darkly. Like that was going to help. Moira gasped in exasperated frustration and knelt down beside the couch, settling back on her heels. Jesse’s shirt was already a lost cause, drenched with blood and shredded in places. She tore it open, revealing the wound underneath. A gut shot, what a nightmare. By the looks of the damage he’d been shot in the back and this was the exit wound. It didn’t seem like his spine, liver, or bladder were injured but his intestines were a mess. Genji returned with the med kit. It was less of a first aid kit and more of home surgery kit. Not the finest of tools but enough to get the job done. She took it from him and hurried to crack it open, pulling out a pair of latex gloves first. “Go to the kitchen,” She told Genji. “Bring me dish towels and water.” He disappeared again. “I’m fuckin dying,” Jesse moaned, the first sensible words he’d managed between all his pained groaning. “I can’t have him screaming,” Moira said, flashing Gabriel a look. Wordlessly, Gabriel sighed went to undo his belt. It was thick black nylon, tactical in nature. He folded it half and then in half again before feeding it into Jesse’s mouth. Jesse whimpered but accepted the bit readily. Genji returned with bottles of water and towels. Moira took them from him and thrust a packet of powdered sulfa at him in exchange before returning to the med kit for more supplies. He stared at it dumbly. “What happened?” Moira asked, taking out a vial of morphine and a hypodermic needle. “Akande stiffed us,” Gabriel told her grimly. He plucked the packet from Genji’s hands and tore it open, sprinkling it into Jesse’s open wound. Moira raised an eyebrow. “By how much?” “...forty thousand.” She whistled low and went to jab the needle into the crook of Jesse’s arm. She pushed the plunger, flushing pain killers into his veins. “I told you not to go into business with Talon. Hold him down.” Gabriel grabbed at Jesse’s shoulders, pinning him to the cushions. Genji held on to his ankles. Jesse started breathing heavily in anticipation of what was to come. Gabriel was clearly incensed, talking through clenched teeth. “I let them move weight on our turf,” for a nominal fee, of course, “and this is how they thank us? Not paying up? Drawing guns? If Akande wants a war, he’s got it.” Oh good, that should keep Moira plenty busy. She rose up onto her knees and set to work. The drugs hadn’t fully kicked in yet, but she didn’t have time to waste. She mopped up some of the blood with a towel and that set Jesse off moaning again, twisting, writhing in pain. As soon as she dug in with surgical tools to start tying off bleeding blood vessels he screamed. His muscles jerked, seized, and convulsed with pain before he promptly passed out. Ah, well. That was probably for the best. “Moira?” All three conscious people in the living room looked to the hall where Hana had come wandering out of the bedroom. She was groggy from sleep, wearing only a pair of pink panties and one of Moira’s dress shirts half unbuttoned. The wide collar hung off one of her shoulders and the sleeves were much too long for her. “What’s going on?” She asked sleepily. “Nothing, darling,” Moira said despite the blood and the screams and the strange men in her home. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there in just a moment.” Hana looked at them, looked at all of their faces individually, and then turned to walk back the way she came. Moira cursed under her breath and set back to work patching up Jesse’s insides. “Is she going to be a problem?” Gabriel asked darkly. “Good lord, Gabriel. No.” Moira snapped at him. Hana was a good girl. She knew when to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t need to be handled or taken care of or anything like that. God help Gabriel Reyes if he should try to harm a hair on her head. Moira would do anything for Hana. Anything. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. “I’ll call the Junkers to clean up the mess,” Gabriel said, gesturing vaguely to the living room. Moira made a face. The very last thing she wanted was that rat and his big friend to know where she lived, but they were a necessity of the job. It was good to have professionals to deal with this kind of thing. A blood-stained couch and carpet were suspicious at best. It was best to let the Junkers deal with them the way they dealt with things. “Fine.” She nodded. Gabriel produced one of many bankrolls he had on his person and handed it over. Moira didn’t need to count it. It was ten thousand, her standard fee for any type of surgery. If he was this furious about being stiffed, there was no way he would dare stiff her in return. She tucked the money away into her pocket. “Who, pray tell, is going to pay for new furniture.” Moira asked pointedly. Gabriel sighed heavily and pulled out another roll of cash. He counted out another thousand dollars for her in hundreds. “...and the carpet?” It would need to be replaced. He gave her a look but added another ten bills to the stack before passing it over. “Don’t bring him here next time he gets shot, it’ll be cheaper for you.” She shrugged and put the money in her pocket with the rest. Genji came to join them in the doorway, dragging a heavily medicated Jesse McCree along with him. Moira had done the best she could. Cleaned out as much of the wound as possible, stitched his intestines back together, supplied him with Ancef to keep infection at bay, and gave them all very clear and concise instructions on what to do if he took a turn for the worse in the next few days. “We’ll call you if we need you,” Gabriel said as he went to shoulder Jesse’s other arm and help lift some of his dead weight. Moira narrowly resisted telling him ‘please don’t’. Instead she nodded and smiled. “Of course.” With that they left, taking their chaos and strife along with them. Moira sighed deeply and stood in the foyer for a long moment. She stared at the blood in her living room. She prayed Hana wouldn’t wake up or emerge from the bedroom until the Junkers came through and cleared everything out. She went to clean up some of the mess. She left the blood-soaked towels and latex gloves on the couch for the Junkers to take with them. She gathered her tools and carried them off to the guest bathroom to sanitize and clean them. In the bathroom she found blood caked up her arms. There were stains on her shirt in several places. Somehow it had even ended up on her neck. She stuck her hands under the faucet and scrubbed her arms clean, watching as the water ran from red to pink to clear. She looked up, caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror, and stared hard. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Hana shuffled into the hallway, rubbing her eyes. She paused to look over her shoulder at the blank space where the couch had been, and the exposed floorboards where the carpet had been ripped out. After a moment she shrugged and continued into the kitchen. “Morning, mommy,” She said sweetly. “Good morning, darling,” Moira greeted her. “Come, sit down, I’ll cook you breakfast.” Yawning, she went to sit at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She had her phone in hand and went about catching up on all the comments, likes, messages, posts, and tweets that had been posted while she was sleeping. She was happy to sit quietly and read while Moira went to work making French toast. “Hey, did that guy live?” Hana asked after a while. Moira, who had been cutting strawberries, went still. “..What?” “That guy, last night, did he live?” She went to put top the freshly cooked French toast off with strawberry slices and powdered sugar. “Yes. He lived.” She plated it and brought it over to Hana, setting it in front of her. “You know, I always thought Doctor O’Deorain meant you had, like, a PHD. I didn’t realize you were a doctor doctor. That’s kind of hot. We could totally use that in the bedroom sometime-” “Hana,” Moira laid a hand on her arm, stopping her from picking up the silverware. “Can I trust you not to mention anything you saw last night?” She asked, voice dipping  low with seriousness. Hana’s eyebrows went up. She seemed to think about this for a second before she slowly nodded in acquiescence. “I mean… I didn’t really see anything,” She said. “I was mostly asleep anyway.” A flash of relief rushed through Moira. She leaned in to press a kiss to Hana’s temple. She knew she could trust her, but it felt good to be proven right. “Good, enjoy your breakfast, my love.” Hana picked up her fork and raked it over the syrup and sugar contemplatively. “Hey, uhm, do you think you could help me out with my student loan this month?” She asked carefully. Moira knew exactly what she was doing. If she was being honest, she didn’t mind. It wasn’t hush money, exactly. Moira would pay for anything Hana wanted, whether she had witnessed any illegal and illicit activities or not. She took out the cash Gabriel had supplied her with earlier that morning and counted out three hundred dollars, enough to cover Hana’s loans. “...and rent.” Hana added, pushing her luck. Moira smirked and counted our six more bills. She had paid Hana’s rent enough times by now to know how much it cost. She added an extra two hundred, a little spending money for luck, and handed it over. Hana smiled warmly. “Thank you, mommy!” “Anything for you, darling.” Anything.

i’m taking femslash february suggestions year round send requests or prompts ➝ here follow me on twitter ➝ here thanks for reading ✩°｡⋆

[behdahbswriting]

Ship me out of sight

“You don’t know what she’s capable of; she’s got a fucking gun....”

It’s a woman’s voice, or maybe a man’s voice that’s high pitched. Not that I’d be able to tell, and I’m not even sure that’s what was said.  I don’t know anything right now; I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what I did to get here- my head is throbbing, and my legs are burning. I can feel the bruises on my arms, on my ankles, and around my throat.  There’s someone there too, someone lingering around me, I can smell it -the cigarettes and the vodka. I can’t stop shaking and when it goes dark- like someone’s buried me six feet underground- I start to wish I was dead.

*          *          *

Finally, I woke up, sweat dripping from my face, tears coming from my eyes as if I cried in my sleep and my head's still fucking throbbing. I was fine a couple of days ago, but they don’t tell you the consequences of accepting help from the wrong people, the kind of shit that gets you killed. I shouldn't say that though, cause my family tried, believe me, they tried harder to warn me of dying then they did about unprotected sex- which could kill me just as equally.  I never listened to anything though, and I set up a trip by myself. Figured I’d head across the border, I could get across without a passport and just shuffle around from one state to another for a while until I found something- or someone- permanent. So, I didn’t have a plan- first mistake- but I didn’t just go without a plan to keep myself safe. I knew the laws of each state, open carry- licensing, and weapon laws- all of it. I just wanted to be on my own away from all my -imaginative- drama. Which brings me to my second mistake- thinking I could do anything alone knowing damn well how I'm treated out here on these streets and in these neighborhoods. There might as well have been a bounty on my head for $5,000. See, there was a guy who killed a woman a few years back in Toronto and was let out on $5,000 bail- she was beautiful and a mother, and she ended up dead. So that's basically where my mind wasn't. I didn't think of that then, and I'm still trying not to think about it now, but I'm still breathing, aren't I? So I must be thinking of something. My therapist said it's a survival instinct, but I think it's just me making up excuses for what happened to all those people because of me.

*         *         * I can't think a whole lot of anything right now, just staring at the ceiling and remembering when I was listening to my annoying ass sister, as she begged me to stay.  As of now-I'm in a hostel- not a brothel- let's get that clear first off. I couldn't afford a hotel, and those dingy little motels smell like piss and had cockroaches on the fucking walls. Who knows what kind of disgusting diseases were all over those bed sheets? I had about $3,000 saved in my bank account, the majority of it going into luggage, car rental, and bus tickets to get me wherever the hell I want to. First stop was Seattle, don't ask me why- I saw it in that 50 shades movie and I just really liked the skyline. So, Seattle it is, a hostel right by the bridge, you could see the sunrise every morning and see it set every night. It was a girls only hostel- specifically a girls-only sorority looking apartment with no cocaine on the tables and no stocked bar- so no fun. The booking woman looked like a cheap version of the Kardashian clans mother- over made up with makeup creasing in her wrinkles and smelling like every expensive perfume mixed on her skin. I wasn't going to judge her, but I could tell she didn't have much of a life, so in a way, I pitied her at first. The tour was standard- kitchen to cook in, bathroom to bathe and piss in, bedroom to fuck and sleep in, and of course, a living room to not socialize in at all. I took a glance at the other places in the hostel; there were around six rooms not counting the master one, one each with a girl either doing her makeup, watching tv, or eating a cup of noodles on her bed. I couldn't take them- or the scenery- seriously so I just ignored the fact that I was apparently the oldest one there. I'd have to deal with the implications of maturity much later on anyways.

When I first showed up, the rent lady said we could check in for a cost of $200 for a week. An hour later she said I could just pay her $500 up front and stay for a month, I figured It was my best price and best place to settle in for a while since I was running out of money- and fast. I gave the lady $500 in cash and called it a night. Within a few hours of not being able to sleep, I heard one of the girls crying- annoyed I opened my door and looked where it was coming from in the living room. It was the girl who was doing her makeup all fancy; she'd just gotten home and looked a bit roughed up to me. "This is only temporary..." I told myself, don't get into it with these people who wouldn't give two shits if you disappeared tomorrow, just leave them be. I did just that, I put on my headphones and drowned out everything else, I collapsed at some point and woke up to the sun shining directly in my eyes. I looked in the living room, and at the open-concept kitchen right next to it, the same girl was making herself a coffee and seemed to be doing better. I got up, threw a baggy t-shirt on and headed for the bathroom. Within a millisecond I was swarmed by the girls, the youngest ones anyway, they wanted to know why I was alone- did I have a boyfriend/husband and of course- did I hear anything about the disappearances in the city- which was a long pause and a no. I was intrigued but reminded myself to stay within my bounds for comfort and shit.

I can see all the windows and the one door; I can feel the anxiety go straight through me. It starts at my head; first, I overthink- scream? No. run? Fuck no. Punch, kick, bite? -Do you want to be tortured with a hot curling iron again? Then again-I tried my hardest to ignore it, but it kept spreading like a fucking cloud of smoke. It's in my throat and my ears now. I can't hear to be clear I'm deaf, so I shut my eyes-they say canceling out a few senses helps the other ones, so I close my eyes- feel my throat burning like acid was shoved in my mouth- and feel for something with my hands. I felt the footsteps, the clicking of heels and something else- thud-thud-thud-thud-glass breaking- some girl just pissed off the most massive guy here. I can feel the running of her feet, running fast and then it just stops- a louder thud- he must have knocked her out with his gun. My throat dries up and closes; she was young- too young. She was only 14, and she just signed her death certificate for not complying with the john or "daddy." I keep feeling for something- then it spreads in my chest. I sense it carefully- I can't breathe anymore so at this point I'm hyperventilating hoping I'll pass out until they've done what they wanted with me. I feel it spread to my arms, and my hands, then it spreads to my stomach. It burns, I remember the hunger I was feeling earlier, now- I can feel the sickness come over me. That feeling of knowing what's happening and not being able to do a fucking thing about it. I hold my stomach to try and calm it- if I throw up, or if I complain even my stomach feeling sore would be the least of my problems. I'd be forced to clean it and eat it while being whipped with an electrical cord or something worse. The anxiety spreads to my legs now, going past parts I'm trying to ignore, my waist and hips and everything in between. Everything burns as if someone took a blow torch to me- as if I was being made to feel what it was like to survive torturing slowly and surely. I don't feel much in my legs now; the anxiousness doesn't send me kicking or trying to get out of my chains on my ankles. It just makes my legs

I killed them, all of them, or maybe just three of them. I remember what it felt like, the way the gunshot back and almost made me hit my face. The way the shots rang out as I felt them in my hands, arms and my chest. I felt it and saw it, but I didn't hear it, that's why I was still standing. They say when you hear a gunshot at close range your ears start ringing and you can't think for a second; I don't have that problem, so I kept going. I emptied the entire clip, which was apparently ten bullets.

The one guy I recognized him, from over a year ago, he beat me, and I killed him. The other guys, I have no clue who any of them are, I just saw them enter rooms that ended with screaming and crying coming from the girls. I heard the whips, the torture they put the girls through, and that was it. That's all I knew about them- and it was enough- I didn't care about their family, their work, if they were given an honor medal for being in the army, if they were a prestigious doctor or lawyer- they were worthless. They didn't deserve mercy, not from me, not from the women- not from some God people seem to make up in their heads.

The others left and ran- or they were already dead. I didn't stick around to check and see, the only one I care about was Serena.

My brother showed up- of all people, and he's not even my brother anymore, I hardly ever saw him. He was in the army for some time when I was a kid; he used to fly in a helicopter called some birds name. There are pictures of him during his time over there. Now he's forcing me to do the same fucking thing.  I don’t want to survive this shit just to be sent to my death sentence again.

I'm not some fucking moronic little girl who cant handle herself anymore.

He said I have to go to Chicago and enlist, or I’ll go to jail, or I’ll end up dead.

Sounds like a never-ending five-way street to ending up assaulted by more men and beat to death if you ask me, but of course he didn’t.

I don’t know what he's trying to do but I'm in this stupid fucking uniform now and we’re on our way. I said I wasn't going to cry, cause soldiers don’t show emotion unless someone dies, but I feel like I did. I died back there, I survived, but that part of me that was still human is fucking gone now. It's like my soul or spirit or whatever the fuck you want to call it, is floating around somewhere waiting for me to go looking for it but I cant do that. I'm fucking gone; I killed people, I reduced myself to having no more humanity left, so this last stop, this drop off the face of the earth- it's all I've got left, and it's my only chance at "normal."

The one thing I swore id never do was to take another person's life, but those criminals weren’t people, they weren’t human, they were there to rape, beat and kill all the women who were with me. They were there to kill me too; they knew it would only cost them a little bit of bail money to get off scot fucking free. I keep saying I didn’t think about it; I didn’t even think about how to fire a gun and how to aim it. I just did it, and now I'm stuck in a hot ass car on my way to Chicago with the only person who could find me alive. Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be anybody? It’s a fucking joke; I should have just let them kill me when they had the chance. If I did...nobody would be dead and I wouldn't be on my way to another shit show.

[whitewallwhispers]

Little Lies

Narcos - Javier Peña - Series

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine

A young writer moves to Colombia to perform research on the drug war for her latest novel. She’s willing to do anything for information, which leads her down a rabbit hole that begins to blur the line between pretending to be someone and becoming something she might not be ready for.

Her latest target is a D.E.A. Agent named Javier Peña. Now they’re both being pulled into something neither of them were expecting.

Warnings: Smut - unsatisfied partner, cum play, daddy kink. Extreme violence. Very explicit. (Guns, gunshot wounds, blood, brain matter, knives, stabbing, more blood. Very graphic.) Strong language (pretty much every expletive under the sun.) Nothing you haven’t seen in the show, but a lot for a fanfic.

My hope is that you can imagine this character as any race with any style of hair (as someone with short hair I get annoyed when every fic mentions long locks and ponytails). Also (super minor detail) as right or left handed.

Author’s Note: This starts out very lighthearted, I hope it can make you laugh. But then it gets very dark. If you feel like you can’t stomach that part, don’t worry. I’ll have a non-explicit summary in Part Eight to get you up to speed without the gory details.

Tag List (Open! Chat or Reply): @fanfiction-trashpile | @sophster1881​ | @theringostarfanclub | @thinemineours

“Cum on my tits,” she mewled, arching her back with faked pleasure and need.

Don’t you dare cum inside me, you bastard. There was only one person allowed to do that.

The paunchy old man began to grunt like some sort of farm animal, his hands hooked under her knees and holding them apart unceremoniously. Uselessly.

She wasn’t even remotely aroused - it was a miracle she wasn’t as dry as a desert, but thankfully at least her body knew how to cover the basics. She’d spent the past five minutes moaning half-heartedly while thinking about what she wanted for breakfast tomorrow.

It seemed to be working for him, though. His pace was already stuttering, his breathing ragged, sweat pouring down his forehead and chest like a pair of greasy waterfalls.

Okay, ew.

She needed to stop looking at him. So she closed her eyes and thought of England.

“Please, daddy, cum all over my tits,” she panted, clawing at the sheets beneath her as if she was unable to contain herself.

Finally, the fucker obliged, groaning like he was about to die. Painfully so. Unfortunately his aim was terrible and a stream landed square across her face.

Oh, God. She braced herself, blocking off her throat so as to minimize how much she’d taste. She wiped his sticky semen up with her thumb and stuck it in her mouth, sucking it clean while moaning as if it was as good as sex itself.

She hadn’t done enough. It tasted as rank as she’d expected and it was all she could do not to gag.

“That’s a good girl,” the man panted. “Lick up daddy’s cum, all of it, and daddy will treat you extra good.”

Fucking everloving fuckity fuck fuck.

She was too desperate for cash not to oblige. But not until she got paid.

“Put it on the table, daddy.”

He rolled off of her with yet another animalistic grunt and went for his wallet, pulling out an unexpectedly hefty stack of bills and putting it on her nightstand. He turned to face her, looking down at her with hungry, piggy eyes as he stroked his cock.

“Lick it up, princess.”

She deserved an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony Award for the show she put on cleaning her chest of his spew and swallowing it like it was five-star caviar. By the time she was finished he was half hard again, but she wasn’t about to let things develop into round two - she wasn’t that desperate.

“I have another client due in five minutes,” she lied, laying out on her side and grinning at him with eyes as wide and lustful as if he were a Greek god. “I always lose track of time when I’m with you.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, then, princess,” he answered with a wink. “Same time?”

Oh, goody.

“Of course, daddy.”

He couldn’t have gotten dressed any slower if he’d tried, his eyes raking over her body the entire time, his sweat immediately pooling and sticking to his shirt as soon as he had it on. Her room would smell like his body odor for the rest of the night - if she was unlucky, until tomorrow morning.

It felt like a miracle when she finally got him out the door, but not before he gave her one last kiss, shoving his slimy tongue in her mouth and making it explore her like a drunken slug. She slid the locks into place and slumped against the door, feeling like she’d just rolled around in a gutter.

The shower was so hot she thought she might give herself a first degree burn, but it felt too good to turn the temperature down. She scrubbed herself three times over before stepping out and drying her body, too tired to do the same with her hair. She slipped into her pajamas and pulled her soiled topsheet from her bed, tossing it in the corner to be washed later. Grabbing a blanket from the couch, she wrapped herself up as she counted her cash.

He’d paid her time and a half, all for that stupid last-minute show. At least he made it worthwhile. She reluctantly got back on her feet to make her way back to the bathroom to roll up her wad of bills and stuff it into the tampon box in the cabinet under her sink.

When her head hit her pillows, she fell right asleep.

The sound of screeching tires jolted her awake.

Immediately, an innate and instinctual fear rippled through her, sending the hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing up straight. Car doors slammed - three of them. Feet shuffled loudly up to the doorway beneath her window, fervent murmurs dampened by the glass.

She was out of bed in a flash, ripping open her sock drawer, hands blindly feeling around in the dark until her fingers found the cold metal of her gun. She pulled it out and cocked it, keeping the safety on. For now.

Bang.

A gunshot. Something shattering. Then the repeated thump, thump, slam of what she could only guess was someone busting open the front door of her apartment building.

Her blood became frigid but her skin felt like it was on fire.

Fuck.

Whoever it was, whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. She raced across her apartment to hide herself around the corner of her bathroom, closing her eyes and trying to steady her breathing. For a while, there was only deafening silence.

And then came the clamor of footsteps thundering up the staircase, the slam of fists on doors, voices shouting “Open up!”

Some hopelessly optimistic part of her hoped that it was the police coming to arrest someone. Someone who couldn’t possibly be her.

“Where is she? Where does she live? The foreign bitch. Which apartment is hers?” The voice was familiar and she nearly vomited on the spot.

Manuel.

He’d found her, and if he’d seen her walking around with her gun it hadn’t phased him.

She was about to make a break for it to get to her phone when there came a violent crash at her door.

“I know you’re in there, you filthy fucking cunt!” Manuel roared. “Police whore!”

The weak wood creaked loudly and she could hear the hinges rattle loosely in their sockets.

Gunshots.

Three, then four, then five.

Wood splintered and metal clanged, followed by fierce, repeated kicks.

All at once, there was a great eruption of tearing and shattering. The lights flicked on.

“Come out, you stupid bitch.”

Several sets of footsteps entered her apartment, and she knew this was it.

Life or death.

She grit her teeth so hard she half expected her jaw to snap. She swallowed, her breathing so rapid it scared her and her heart pounding harder than it ever had before. Adrenaline was coursing through her like high voltage electricity, making her entire body feel like it was being pulled taut, held together by strings and wires stretched to their absolute limit.

One set of footsteps began to grow closer, and she could make out the sounds of her bed and couch being scraped across the floor.

She switched off the safety.

Something came over her.

Live or die.

Kill or be killed.

All of a sudden it was like she was standing outside of herself, watching the scene unfold. Everything slowed down, as if she were moving underwater.

Her hand went out around the corner first, already firing, before she pivoted the rest of her body around.

She’d gotten lucky - she’d shot the approaching man right in the stomach.

As he fell to his knees he fired a shot at her, then another bullet came from across the room.

She crouched and shot the man in front of her again. He was close enough that she got him right in the head, and before his body fell to the ground she launched herself across the floor so that he landed against her.

Three bullets sunk into his back, making the most sickening thuds, spraying blood everywhere. She was vaguely aware that blood and something else was dripping onto her from the gaping wound in his head, but couldn’t afford to care. She gripped his shirt and rammed her shoulder into his chest to keep him upright, the dead weight of his corpse threatening to knock her over.

She reached her hand out around him and began to shoot wildly in the general direction of where she thought the bullets might have been coming from. When another man cried out in agony, she knew she’d at least been somewhat successful.

More bullets flew past her, a few sinking into the back of her human shield again.

Then there were footsteps racing towards her.

“You fucking bitch!” Manuel screamed, firing shot after shot as he ran towards her.

She tried to shoot at him as he came down on her, but he knocked her gun out of her hand and it went skidding across the floor.

He pointed his barrel directly at her head, the scorching metal burning her forehead as he thrust the tip of it into her skin.

That was it.

She’d failed.

But at least she’d tried.

He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Either he was out of bullets or his gun had jammed, but it didn’t matter.

She stood and grabbed the barrel, pointing it up, trying to wrench it out of his grip, but she didn’t have the strength.

He fired a shot into the ceiling.

Fuck. So it wasn’t empty.

With her other hand she punched him as hard as she could in the balls.

He doubled over, collapsing over the corpse of the other cartel member and tumbling to the floor. She sprinted towards the kitchen, turning the corner just as another round was fired at her from across the room.

Whoever she’d shot, she hadn’t killed them.

She could try to run, but she’d never make it. Manuel had already gotten up and was firing at her again. She barely ducked in time, bullets shattering the tile backsplash above her stove. She ripped open the nearest drawer while staying as low as she could. Her hands fumbled for a moment before she found what she was looking for - thank God she barely had anything in there.

Two of those few things were a pair of large blades - one a cleaver, the other a sharp chef’s knife. Staying low she scooted to the far end of the counter. Waiting.

Manuel’s footsteps grew closer and his bullets more accurate, sending shards of the counter raining down on her. He probably could’ve killed her from there, but that wasn’t his style. He’d want to get her point blank in the head, looking her in the eyes as he ripped the life from her.

When he rounded the corner, his gun once again pointed right at her, she threw herself at his legs with all her might, one hand sinking the chef’s knife into his thigh and the other pulling at the back of his knee, trying to knock him over.

He fired another shot into the ceiling as he lost his balance, but by the time he hit the ground she was already swinging the cleaver at his inner thigh, biting through his jeans into the flesh as she yanked it outwards, hoping to lengthen the cut and maybe catch an artery. With her other hand she began stabbing at his stomach, her own turning each time her knife sunk into him with thick, wet sounds.

Manuel screamed, lifting his hand to fire at her again. He got one bullet out before she turned the cleaver in her grip and sliced out at his wrist, slamming the blade through his skin and tendons so hard the handle flew out of her grasp as he yanked his arm away.

He dropped the gun, but his other hand was reaching for her wrist that still stabbed at his stomach wildly. Manuel was able to wrench her hand back, and she thought he might be able to grab the knife from her, but then he coughed.

A cascade of blood flew from his mouth and he began to choke.

His hand slipped from her wrist as he tried to sit up, weakly reaching for the cleaver, but before he could get to it, his entire body went limp. He convulsed for a few moments, a horrible gurgling sound bubbling from his mouth as it overflowed with blood.

And then he was still.

But she didn’t have time to process it.

A bullet whizzed by only inches from her face and she launched herself backwards behind the safety of the counter. She scooted back so she could lie on her stomach and slid herself as far out as she dared to grab Manuel’s gun and yank it towards her. A bullet flew by her arm and sank into what remained of the door.

She had no idea where the last man was. Carefully, she sat up and rested her head against the corner of the counter, turning just enough that she could see a sliver of the room beyond.

He was propped up behind her bed, chest and arms laying across it, bleeding profusely from his right pectoral as he shakily pointed his gun in her direction. He must’ve sensed she was peeking out at him, because he fired right at her again.

Thankfully his aim was worsening, because it sank into the wall instead of her head.

She shuffled back again, trying to think of a plan.

He couldn’t see her when she was low.

There was no way for him to know where she was behind the counter.

So she slid about two thirds of the way across it, by the edge of the sink, and collected herself, dropping her knife and gripping the gun in both hands.

She might only get one chance.

If she fucked this up, she might die.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally launched herself up, firing as soon as the gun cleared the counter, desperately hoping that she’d get close. He fired back, but only for a moment. As she caught him in the arm he dropped his gun and flopped backwards onto the floor.

But was he dead?

No.

She could hear his ragged breathing, and after a moment he began to shout.

“Fucking police whore,” he bellowed. “You’ll fucking die. We’ll fucking kill you. Where this came from? There will be more. They’ll fucking get you. You’re dead. You’re already dead.”

Slowly, she knelt down to pick up the knife again, holding her gun in one hand and it in the other.

With measured steps she made her way from behind the counter across the room to the end of her bed.

She could see him, then, laying on the ground, bleeding.

Wounded.

Not enough to die.

Upon seeing her, he launched himself up again, making for his gun.

She raised hers and shot at him.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Now it was out of bullets.

He was desperately trying to reach his firearm.

Maybe he couldn’t have grabbed it.

Maybe she was already in the clear.

But she was still outside of herself, watching her body go through motions of violence and chaos.

So she dropped her gun and closed the distance between them, standing behind him and gripping his hair in a fist. She yanked his head back.

He looked at her.

His eyes were a soft, light brown. He had thick black brows and full lips and a bit of stubble on his chin.

He was a human being.

He was probably younger than she was.

He was afraid.

But she was outside of herself. Her mind registered these things, but her body did not.

So she ran her knife along his throat all the same, slicing it deep and even.

Blood began to gush from the wound so fiercely it scared her and she released him as if he were on fire.

He flopped forward, crashing onto her bed, his hands clawing desperately at his neck as blood poured between his fingers. His body slid to the ground and he looked up at her with his beautiful eyes until they clouded over with the unflinching stillness of death.

Only then did her mind and body became one again.

The first thing she did was throw up.

Right onto his torso.

Out of all the emotions she could be experiencing in that moment, the only thing she felt was guilt. Guilt for defiling his body like that. For some reason it didn’t matter that he’d been trying to kill her. Somehow the crime of puking on his corpse felt like the worse of the two. The concept of death was still sacred to her, and she had just defilied someone in what should be their final state of dignity.

Once her vomit faded to bile, then dry heaves, she was able to straighten herself up. She dropped the knife and ran a shaking hand through her hair. The clatter of the metal hitting the floor was deafening. She winced. There was an unbearable weight on her, something coating much of her body and pushing her down. Mostly her arms, her face.

She looked at her hands.

They were completely crimson, soaked and dripping in a thick coat of blood.

She gagged again, but nothing came up.

Desperate not to look at herself, she surveyed the room.

They’d broken through her door through the hinges, shooting them off and forcing their way in, kicking in much of the half-rotted wood on that side.

All of her locks remained intact.

Something flew out of her then, something that may have been a laugh but was accompanied by a flood of tears. By sound, it continued to be a laugh. A roaring giggle that made her shoulders shake and stomach hurt. But she was crying - hard. Harder than she ever had before.

Then, she was on autopilot. Still laughing and sobbing over the state of her door, the state of her apartment, the state of herself, she somehow made her way to her phone.

She’d memorized Javier’s numbers in case she ever felt unsafe.

Even though her attackers were dead, she’d never felt more unsafe in her life.

Never had a ring sounded so long, so loud, so grating and awful.

One, two, three, four. Again and again.

Then nothing.

His cell phone was a bust.

So she tried his office.

One, two.

“Peña.” He sounded tired. Annoyed.

“Javi.” Her voice was so strange, so strained, so weak and foggy. “It’s me. Something happened. I - I don’t know what to do.”

“Something happened? What happened?” His voice was laced with concern and impatience.

“They came, and then I -”

And then I what?

Murdered three people? Shot and stabbed three men to death?

Covered my apartment in blood and bullets and brain matter?

“Holy fuck, Javi, I think I -”

“Who came?”

“Manuel. The friend who beat me. And other cartel members.”

“Are they still there?”

“…yes.”

In the technical sense, sure. But did a corpse count as the self?

“I’ll round up a team. I’m on my way.”

“No!” she yelled. “No, don’t, don’t bring anyone, you can’t. Just you. Just you, please, Javi, please don’t bring anyone else. They can’t see, no one can see, I can’t…Javi, I can’t. No one can see, no one can -”

“What happened?” Now he sounded concerned. Maybe even scared.

“Javi, please. Just you. Just come. I don’t know, I - I don’t know.”

She hung up then, unable to stand any more questions.

Suddenly exhausted, she leaned up against the wall and sunk down to the floor, latching her hands onto the hair on the sides of her head and curling herself up as small as she possibly could.

[fathersonholygore]

Hulu’s The Handmaid’s Tale Season 1, Episode 1: “Offred” Directed by Reed Morano Written by Bruce Miller

* For a recap & review of the next episode, “Birth Day” – click here This adapted series from Margaret Atwood’s blistering novel begins with a car being chased down a road, police close behind. Offred (Elisabeth Moss) sits in the back with Hannah (Jordana Blake) next to her; Luke (O-T Fagbenle) drives, fast as he can. Soon they’re stuck in a ditch and they have to get out and run. They go quick in desperation, their destination supposedly not far off. Gunshots blast in the distance, so Offred picks her child up and runs. After some time they hide, but men with guns lurk too close for comfort. They eventually leave. Although it’s clear this is a world full of dangers. It isn’t long until the men catch up with them and take the child from her mother. They’re taken out of the woods and back to the place from which Offred so badly hoped to escape. She is a handmaid. She’s forbidden to be herself; a woman. Or rather, she is made to be only woman. As in, nothing other than her biological sex – determined by the ruling class: man. She’s kept in line by Serena Joy (Yvonne Strahovski), who shovels the shit of Commander Waterford (Joseph Fiennes) and others like him. Offred is at her new posting, seeing as how the last one didn’t… work out. There is much woman-on-woman hate here. In the days of hyper nationalist women today, ushered in heartily by Trump and Co, it isn’t hard to see Strahovski channel people like Ann Coulter or Kellyanne Conway (among many) who seem to be women bent on destroying other women. And what all that can lead to, which is this authoritarian, patriarchal nation-state they live under.  Offred: “A handmaid wouldn‘t get far. It‘s those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself given a cutting edge, or a twisted sheet and a chandelier.” Poor Offred and other women go through the motions. They’re in permanent servitude. There’s definitely a hierarchy of men, too. But then again, that doesn’t matter because they’re the oppressing and ruling class, the dominant gender in this horrific world. Guys like Nick (Max Minghella) do the ‘lower’ work like labour as The Commander struts about his mansion. Meanwhile, Offred and Ofglen (Alexis Bledel) walk in pairs, they wear their uniforms. Note: The headdress they wear is intriguing and in terms of costuming this series is off to a major start, such impressive work! They’re essentially a less-covered, Conservative version of a veil. Also, they’re blinders. Like horses would wear. Fucking grim, Margaret! Nice touch. Likewise the cinematography already is spectacular – so rich, at the same time it’s grim even in the light of day in the midst of a forest. Courtesy of Colin Watkinson (shot Tarsem Singh’s 200 visual feast The Fall). Life in this nation-state is terrifying. Offred and Ofglen see three men hung on a wall as they walk through the otherwise beautiful city: a priest, a doctor, and a gay man. We see Offred in flashbacks to life outside in the real world, with a friend named Moira (Samira Wiley). Then they’re in a classroom, Aunt Lydia (Ann Dowd) talking of God and how he “whipped up a special plague – the plague of infertility.” And we see Offred meet eyes with Moira, now both in the same, awful place. These women in the room are fertile. They’re intended to bear children; this is their purpose to men. Lydia is another self-hating woman whose purpose is to keep other women in line. A little worse, though. She has a stun stick she carries, zapping anyone who talks too much. Those aren’t the worst punishments. The breeding stock women are treated almost worse than others; one of them is punished by having her eyes plucked out. Don’t need eyes to have babies. Yikes! Aunt Lydia: “This will become ordinary” Ceremony Day is coming up, so this means Offred must be washed, cleaned to the utmost care. Like a “prized pig.” At the same time, it’s hard for her to forget life before the state and its tyranny. She longs for her daughter, hoping that she won’t be forgotten. It’s a brutally real emotion and Moss quietly portrays it with great nuance. The breeding women sit in a circle, as one of them is made to confess supposed transgressions for leading on boys. Lydia makes them all chant “Her fault” in response. When Offred doesn’t say the right words, a woman steps in and slaps her face (that’s Margaret Atwood, by the way). Then she succumbs, falls in line; in her place. There are many rules living with The Commander. One reason why Serena is so bitter towards Offred is, clearly, she is infertile, and hates her for somehow being able to bear children. Well, Ceremony Day isn’t the easiest especially. A bit of reading from the Bible, some mechanical sex as Offred is held by Serena who looks her husband in the eye, and he stares back. Holy fuck; pardon the double pun. Afterwards, it’s more than awkward. The environment of the house is straight out hostile. “Get out,” Serena tells Offred once the dirty deed is complete. At night the girl with her eye plucked out, Janine (Madeline Brewer), is having troubles. She’s going a bit crazy, talking to herself. When Moira tries to stop her, we find out a bit of information. About the Colonies, where people clean up toxic waste, where they get radiation poisoning and their skin peels off and they die. One place is as bad as the other, just in different terms. All the handmaids are brought to a field where a stage is setup. Offred hears that Moira was sent to the Colonies. Likely dead. No time to mourn, they have rituals to perform and everyone lines up to kneel on their pillows while Aunt Lydia speaks onstage. A man’s been convicted of a rape, and sentenced to death. We see the disconnect between state and individual, as the state sanctions widespread dehumanisation of women, lets the Commanders rape and impregnate women. Yet this lower man, still a rapist, is held to a different standard. These men are used to let the handmaids take out frustration. Capital punishment is carried out by their hand, as they beat him to death. All their hatred for the state is purged on this single individual. Such a strange, terrifying concept.

Another flashback to Offred and Moira outside, to when the former first believed she was pregnant. We see the original fears of women before the authoritarian state. Offred worried about a miscarriage, but she had Moira, her husband. She wasn’t kept under lock and key. Now, she’s in that tyrannical place without Moira. Ofglen: “Was there ever a before?” We see the further disconnect between the women, how they’re nurtured to distrust one another. Ofglen and Offred understand each other better as they talk more. We discover that Ofglen, in her real life, had a wife, a son named Oliver. They were able to flee to Canada while she was caught on the border without a passport. So many families divided, torn apart. So many women destroyed, abused, and much worse. At the Commander’s home there’s a big meeting of men, all the while the women scuttle about preparing dinner and alcohol and everything else the patriarchy requires. And again there’s more disconnect. Offred can see how Serena, though more privileged, is just another woman to the men; though she has a seemingly better life than the rest, she is still excluded and set aside. Furthermore, we now know Offred’s name was and is June. And she intends to survive this tyranny. Some way. What an episode! Wow. I’m more than impressed, and satisfied as a fan of the novel. I’m excited for the next episode. Been grateful to get to see the first few episodes before the premiere. Next is “Birth Day” and you can be sure, it doesn’t mean what it used to mean. The Handmaid’s Tale – Season 1, Episode 1: “Offred” Hulu's The Handmaid's Tale Season 1, Episode 1: "Offred" Directed by Reed Morano…