#cigarette smoke smells worse than death

[jeonggukieverse]

Number One Fan - Teaser

Pairing: Writer Y/N x Yandere Jungkook 

Genre: Yandere/Horror Fic 

Warnings: This is gonna be a pretty dark one, so I’m going to put content warnings and disclaimers each chapter. There aren’t any in this one :)

Word count: 1.5k

Synopsis - After a serious car crash, novelist Y/N is rescued by former nurse Jeon Jungkook, who claims to be her biggest fan. Jungkook brings her to his remote cabin to recover, where his obsession takes a dark turn when he discovers Y/N is killing off his favourite character from her novels. As Y/N devises plans for escape, Jungkook grows increasingly controlling.

- Ryeon <3

Teaser

Your feet were aching. The torn-up flesh on the souls of your bare feet pound on the mossy patches of the forest floor. The foul mixture of half melted snow and mud seeped into your wounds. It hurts. But you don’t care. 

Your lungs feel as though they would shrivel up at any moment. Each inhale feels like fie and acid pooling in your chest. Your poor heart is doing all that it can to keep going. As are you. 

Your skin was damp with sweat. The once warm perspiration that seeped out of you now clung to your clothes, making you cold. You felt as though you had been running for hours.

But you couldn’t stop. You mustn’t stop running. You had to get away from him. 

You only had one chance to escape and this was it. 

You knew that if he caught you, that would be the end of the game. And you will have lost.  

A game. 

That’s what this was. 

That’s what everything in your life was and always had been. 

And you’d always lost. Cause you never paid attention. 

Even now, as your life is in peril, you couldn’t help but think back to a moment in your past. Where distraction had gotten you in trouble. 

You couldn’t have been any older than thirteen. 

You must have been. Because your teacher was Mr. Kim. The teacher whose breath smelled like coffee and Newport cigarettes. A vile combination. 

You remembered so distinctly because in this particular instance, this breath blew into your face as his was about 10 centimeters away from yours.

He was scolding you, pretty severely, because you had been caught jotting down stories while in his math class. 

You were always doing that. Always doing the wrong thing at the wrong times. Always going left when everyone else was going right. And it almost always got you in trouble, but this time was different. This time was worse. 

Mr. Kim was adamant that you had done this one too many times. You remember he had said: 

“Y/N get your nose out of your book. Writing these silly little stories is going to get you nowhere. You need to learn to pay attention, young lady. Since you aren’t taking my warnings seriously, it may be time to escalate the matter”.

Your palms began to clam up, as you knew what this meant.

“I’ll need to contact your mother” 

At that moment everything seemed to move in slow motion. Panic began to set in as you knew a phone call to mother would be a step beyond a death sentence. 

“Take this note to the principal’s office, I shall be in shortly so we can organize a discussion with your mother” 

Your mother was not a nice woman. Not nice at all.

Nothing good would come of this and you knew what fate awaited you in the grim future. 

So, you did the only thing you knew how to do. You ran. You ran as fast as your little legs could carry you. 

Mr. Kim handed you the note and as soon as the door closed, you were off. 

You ran to the only place you knew solace. A woodland area behind your school. 

Your school was built in 1898. The old girl had seen some things. Horrific things. 

Back in the 1900s these woods were used as a hunting grounds. The older students would come out here and hunt deer and rabbits. Now, it was just a place where the older girls would come out here and smoke cigarettes at lunchtimes. The ones that were brave enough, that is. 

There was something dark about these woods. There was nothing about the woodlands that looked outwardly abnormal, there was just too much of it. Like a smile with too many teeth. Not to you though, to you it was freedom. Solace. Peace. 

Maybe you were just drawn to dark things. 

You ran deep into the coppices. Past the brook and beyond the abandoned mill. You perched yourself under the large oak tree. Inhaling and exhaling hard as the running mixed with the panic had your heartrate going a million miles per hour. But now you could rest at lease for a while. 

It’s funny really. Even when your life was in danger your mind wondered away. You guess Mr. Kim had every right to be concerned. 

“Y/N! Why Are you running, baby?!” 

Fuck. His voice sounded so close. Too close. 

His footsteps hammering on the same crushed, now blood-soaked, snow, leaves and moss-covered ground. 

“You know I’m going to catch up with you. Why are you doing this?! I thought you were happy with me!”

Christ. Why was he doing this?

“Look Y/N. I’m sorry if you weren’t comfortable, we can make changes baby just please come back.”

Through the trees you can make out a light ahead of you. Not much further to go. 

“Baby, we don’t have to tie you to the bed anymore! Please, Y/N, you’re still injured! It’s not safe for you to be running when your feet haven’t healed properly”

‘Because of you, you sick fuck’ you screamed inside your head. You wanted to scream at him but all your focus needed to be on running. 

“Just stop now and your punishment won’t be too bad” 

Oh god. He sounded just like her.

The earth and muck beneath your feet had changed to concrete. A road! You’ve don’t it, you reached the road. 

You try to take another step onto the cold wet asphalt but your feet fail you. True to his word, your feet hadn’t heeled yet and the adrenaline keeping your pain at bay had worn off. 

You collapsed on the floor, the dull pain in your ankles paralyzing you. 

You hear his footsteps and his heavy panting behind. In horror, you drag yourself further onto the road. You can’t give up; this can’t be the end. 

“I will say Y/N, I admire your spirit” his slightly exasperated voice still sounded sickly sweet. 

“I’ve always admired that about you. You never give up on anything. But yet you gave up on us. I don’t think that’s very fair, do you, my love?” he walks towards you, at a petrifyingly slow pace.  

This is it. You’ve lost. Certain this was your last moments; you close your eyes. A tear, you hadn’t released had been at bay rolled down your cheek. 

You listed to the birds in the distance and the soft patter of rain and you couldn’t help but think back again. You couldn’t help but think back to how you got here. How it came to be that you would die like this. 

At the hands of Jeon Jungkook. Your number one fan. 

This is gonna be a wild ride! Im so happy to be back writing again~ Hope you all enjoy!

This fic is loosely based on one of my favourite movies: ‘Misery’

Let me know if you want to be added to a tag list 🤍

[lustnhim]

“goo goo muck.” — vamp! elvis x reader

note: happy halloween y'all!  / warning: elvis is a…vampire! religious themes, mentions of the occult, death, violence, blood and biting (obvi), dub-con, p in v sex, no protection, fingering, mirror sex (you can see elvis though!). / summary: his bloodlust is getting harder to control, especially when he sees you late one night. 

October 31st, 1970.

“Well when the sun goes down and the moon comes up.”

Vampires. Such a childish thing to believe in Dracula and Nosferatu, even that Vampira gal, foolish and inaccurate depictions. Hellish, bloodthirsty creatures, kings and queens of the night, seductive and sinful. How perfect that Elvis Presley was a vampire.

Halloween was a day that went by with little recognition, Elvis had never celebrated it when he was a kid course’ if any kids decided to make their way to Graceland he’d give em’ candy and had taken Lisa trick or treating a few times before the divorce- but other than that nothing. It was a particularly lonely day, nothing going on, no plans, but he had hoped for that. Certain days were better than others, he could contain his thirst for long periods of time- raw meat did him wonders, but every now and then he’d get that feeling that he couldn’t quite push away- that urge to just pull someone off the street and drink them dry.  He hated it with every ounce of his being, he knew that if he were to die, a fate worse than eternal damnation would follow him- still, he prayed to God every night for forgiveness, begging for any kind of comfort from his savior. 

As the hours ticked by and the night grew darker, Elvis found himself restless. The hunger gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his cursed existence. He paced the halls of Graceland, his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms when a loud ringing filled his ears, the phone. Picking it up he cleared his throat, “Hello?”-- “EP! It’s Red, you oughta come out tonight with us, you can’t stay cooped up in there forever!” Red complained, before Elvis could even say anything more. “I ain’t feelin’ too well tonight-” Elvis started before being interrupted, “C’mon! Look, we’ll be down at the bar on Elm- me and the rest of the boys. It ain’t as fun without you.” Red said, the sound of loud drunken laughter coming from the background as Elvis let out a groan, his arm clutching his stomach gently as he looked outside, the sky deep shades of blue and purple, “Fine. I’ll be down in a few.” Elvis hung up the phone with a sigh, his stomach churning with the familiar pangs of hunger. He knew he should stay home, lock himself away until the cravings passed. But Red's insistence wore him down, and the prospect of a night out with his old friends was too tempting to resist.

He threw on a long black and red jacket and headed out into the cool October night. The streets were alive with Halloween revelers, their costumes a riot of colors and creativity. Elvis walked briskly, trying to hurry and get down there- which took a bit longer than usual since the amount of people on the street stopping and getting what they could from him. He regretted this immensely. He could smell it, hear the sound of their hearts beating in his ears- his stomach growling widely. Eventually he made it to the bar and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke and the clamor of raucous laughter. Red and the boys were already several drinks deep, their faces flushed and eyes glossy. They greeted Elvis with hoots and hollers, slapping him on the back and pressing bottles of beer into his hands to which he only took one, he didn’t like drinking too much. Elvis forced a smile and took a seat at the table, his eyes scanning the room. That's when he saw you, sitting alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey sour. He could smell you. So strong. A deep floral scent, your heartbeat steady, he could even hear the blood coursing through your veins.  Elvis' mouth watered, and he felt his fangs elongate in his mouth, pricking his tongue gently. Shit.  He usually could control when and where they came out, but not right now, he couldn’t- “Whatcha’ lookin at EP?” Red asked, and Elvis jerked his head forward but he knew Red had seen him staring. “Ohh, I see. Go talk to her man, get some.” He nudged and Elvis’ jaw clenched, his gaze lingered on you, his eyes darkening with hunger and desire. He could see the way your pulse raced beneath your delicate skin, the way your breath quickened as he stared. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch you, to feel the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingers. But he hesitated, knowing the danger he posed to you. Instead, he downed his beer in one long gulp, hoping the alcohol might dull his senses and quiet his thirst. "Think I'll take a walk, clear my head," he muttered, rising from his seat. Red and the boys nodded, too caught up in their own drunken revelry to pay him much mind. Elvis made his way towards the exit, his steps purposeful and determined. He knew he should leave, put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. But his feet carried him past the bar and straight to you instead. You could feel eyes on you and when you heard footsteps coming towards you you turned around to see him behind you. “Nice Elvis costume.” You smiled, studying the man that had approached you. Elvis laughed nervously, careful to try not to reveal too much of his mouth. “Ain’t a costume darlin’...” He shook his head, trying to ignore the way your hair fell, your pretty neck on full display. Letting out a choked sound you looked over him a few more times, “Holy shit.” You muttered under your breath but of course, Elvis heard it. “Mind if I sit with ya, honey?” He asks, knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing that the feeling in his stomach is only growing more noticeable and how horridly his fangs were pressing into his tongue. “Yeah, of course– Sorry, I just..” You stammered, wholeheartedly shocked that he would talk to you- or the fact that he was even out of the house, you hadn’t seen much of him in the papers since his divorce but he seemed to be doing fine despite looking a bit…tired? His eyes twinkled behind his sunglasses as they raked over you, drinking every bit of you in.

He sat down, moving gracefully. A smile plastered on his face as he motioned for the waiter to bring him a drink. “Lone on halloween?” He asks, making you snap back into what’s happening. “Huh? Oh, yeah- unfortunately.” You respond, moving your glass around in your hand, the ice clinking gently. Elvis' eyes gleamed in the dim light of the bar, his gaze intense and unwavering as he studied your face. "Well, that's a shame. A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be all alone on a night like this." He leaned in closer, his warmth radiating through the cool air between you. His voice was low and honeyed, sending a shiver down your spine despite the chill of the October night. You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was, of the way his fingers tapped against the table. "I-I'm not usually alone, just this year it worked out that way..." You stuttered, trying to ignore the way your pulse raced at his proximity, at the way his eyes seemed to bore into your very soul, and he- he was hungry. It was getting much worse, your heartbeat was loud enough for him to hear it, and your smell. God. He couldn't get enough of it. Elvis breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of your blood singing in his veins. ‘Holy hell, what am I doing?’ he thought, desperately trying to control his raging thirst. His eyes flicked to your neck, transfixed by the pulsing rush of blood just beneath the surface. “Well that’s no good…I’m be more than happy ta’ give you some company. “ He smiles and you really can’t believe your ears. “I-I’d really like that ...thank you Mr.Presley.” You respond, dumbfounded. Elvis struggles not to smirk too wide, his fangs pressing into his tongue. His stomach growls unreasonably loud and he clears his throat, finding it impossible to ignore any longer. Maybe if he can just find someone real quick...”Scuse’ me honey…I’ll be right back.” Elvis got up abruptly, looking around the bar before making his way to the bathroom, leaving you at the table to babysit the drinks.

Elvis swung open the bathroom door, lunging himself at the sink and splashing a bit of water on his face before opening his mouth. His fangs had caused his mouth to bleed, the taste of iron filling his mouth, only aiding to his hunger. “Goddammit.” he whispered under his breath as the door flung open, a young man in a cheap werewolf costume stumbling in, his body swaying as he maneuvered his way to the sink beside Elvis.  Elvis' fingers dug into the porcelain sink, his nails scraping against the smooth surface. He could see the way the man's blood vessels pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin. The man stumbled, his hand coming up to grip the edge of the sink as he swayed on his feet, his werewolf mask slipping slightly to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes. Elvis' fangs ached, his gums throbbing with the need to sink them into warm, pulsing flesh. The man laughed, a slurred, drunken sound that sent shivers down Elvis' spine. "Man... you're freakin' the hell outta me!" The man stammered, his voice muffled by his mask. He reached up, tugging the mask off to reveal a face flushed with alcohol and sweat, his eyes wild and slightly crazed. Elvis swallowed hard, his throat clicking as he tried to force down the rising tide of thirst that threatened to consume him. “S-sorry my boy.” Elvis said, and the man almost fell down- Elvis caught him and helped him stand a little better but the man was obviously too drunk to even know where he was. “Here man, lets…lets sit ya’ down for a moment.” Elvis said, sitting down the man on the floor, he looked over to the bathroom door and thanked God there was a lock on it. Turning it he looked back at the man who was still giggling idiotically. “Man- You look stupid with those fuckin’ teeth in!” The man exclaimed and Elvis let out a low growl. God, this guy was insufferable. “Yeah, well I can get em’ to go away soon.” He said and the man shook his head letting out small hics before Elvis took a deep breath. Fuck, this guy didn’t smell half as good as you had, a pitiful drink this guy was gonna be. Elvis's nostrils flared as he leaned closer to the drunk man, inhaling deeply. The scent of cheap beer and cigarettes assaulted his senses, far less enticing than the sweet, floral aroma of the woman waiting for him back at the bar. But desperation was setting in, his hunger becoming more insistent with each passing second. "Shhh, it's alright son..." Elvis murmured, his hand coming to rest on the man's shoulder, feeling the prominent pulse point beneath his fingers. "Just relax now." The man's eyes were glazed and unfocused, too inebriated to comprehend the danger he was in. "Wh-what are you... ohh fuck..." He slurred, his words trailing off as Elvis's fingers dug into his shoulders, pinning him against the wall. Elvis's breathing became shallower, his chest constricting as the thirst raged within him.

With a low growl, he buried his face in the crook of the man's neck, his sharp teeth grazing the smooth skin. The drunk man let out a strangled gasp, his eyes widening in fear and confusion. "Wait... what... stop..." He choked out, struggling weakly against Elvis's iron grip. But it was no use. Elvis was far too strong, driven by a primal instinct that superseded all reason. With a swift, violent motion, he sank his fangs deep into the man's throat, piercing the delicate skin and plunging into the warm, pulsing blood beneath. The man screamed, a high-pitched, agonized sound that was cut short by the rush of blood filling his mouth. Elvis drank greedily, the coppery taste of the man's essence flooding his senses and momentarily quenching the fires of his thirst. The drunk man's struggles grew weaker, his body going limp in Elvis’ arms slowly draining him. Elvis had gotten good at this, drinking enough to keep him satisfied but not enough to kill them– do doubt the guy would be sick n’ sore but not dead. Elvis drank until there was nothing left, until the man's heartbeat faded to a distant, barely audible rhythm. Then, with a shudder, he pulled away, licking the crimson stain from his lips. The bathroom was eerily silent, the only sound the slow, rasping breathing of the dying man at his feet. Elvis stood up on shaky legs, his vision swimming as he stumbled towards the sink. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear the haze of bloodlust that clouded his mind. "Dear God..." He whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of horror and satisfaction. "Forgive me..." But even as he uttered the prayer, Elvis knew that there was no true repentance, no absolution for the monster he had become. He looked at the man, at the bruises forming around his neck, the eyes staring accusingly at him and he walked over to the man, placing a hand on his head and prayed that he would make a quick recovery. 

The blood had left, but that pestilent feeling was still there- it always would be. With a shake of his head, he threw away the remnants of his impromptu bathroom sink cleanup and stepped back into the bar, his eyes immediately finding you still sitting at the table. God,  you’re so beautiful he thought as he felt his eyes widen at the sight. His lips spread into a grin and he shook his head slightly, making his way back over to you- you had waited for him. “Sorry bout’ that, honey.” He says, sitting back down, noticing that you had already drunk your drink. “You wantin’ another?” He asks, pointing at your empty glass. “Ah, no I’m all good now– Actually, I think you should finish your drink and you give me that company you so kindly offered earlier.” Bold. He could tell that you were nervous, your heart was beating so fast…like a scared little lamb. “Well, I spose’ we can- I'll take ya to Graceland, how's that sound honey?” Elvis cood, taking his whiskey and drinking it in one quick gulp before sitting the glass down with a soft clink. “Sounds perfect.” You responded, standing up- Elvis hesitated for a moment studying you, how small. He towered over you. Smiling down at you Elvis motioned for you to follow him, the two of you starting out of the bar when Red drunkenly, “You be careful with that one, EP!” Which made the other boys laugh, Elvis promptly flipped them off and the two of you stepped outside. Elvis had not realized how late it had gotten, the streets were practically empty apart from the few teenagers who still roamed the streets. “You drive or walk, honey?” He asked, looking over at you. The wind had blown your hair, exposing your neck and he swallowed hard. His stomach wasn’t growling, his fangs not stabbing his lips, why did he feel so…hungry? “I walked– I don’t live far from here.” You said, looking over at him, he still looked so tired– his eyes masked behind those sunglasses. Why was he wearing them at night…just a quirk of his, you guessed. ”Alright honey, Graceland ain’t far either…let’s get goin.” Elvis guided you through the quiet streets of Memphis, the moon casting an eerie glow on the sidewalks. Despite the late hour, the air was still thick with the lingering humidity of a Southern October night. Your shoes clicked softly against the pavement as you walked beside him, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of late-night revelry in the distance. As you walked, Elvis's hand brushed against yours, sending a spark of electricity through your body. You jumped slightly, startled by the contact, but his touch lingered, warm and reassuring. He gave you a sideways glance, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but his smile evident even in the darkness."Cold?" he asked, his drawl more pronounced in the quiet of the night. “Just a bit…” You responded, holding your arms together, your cheap ass ‘costume’ which really was just a flimsy sparkly dress did very little to keep you warm. “Here honey.” He said, stopping and pulling off his coat, handing it to you. Hesitating you looked up at him, he looked…really good. His arms looked nice and strong, and that white undershirt fit him perfectly. “You gonna take it?” He drawled, shaking the coat in front of your face before you took it, marveling at how heavy it was. “Thanks…” You replied and Elvis nodded. He seemed a bit distant, like something was bothering him, did he not want to take you back to his place anymore? Had he already lost interest?

Elvis watched as you slipped on his coat, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The fabric enveloped you like a warm embrace, the collar engulfing your delicate neck. You looked so small and fragile wrapped up in his coat, the sleeves drowning your tiny hands. Like a little doll he could just pick up and carry away. In a way, he was. Taking you to his home, knowing that the gnaw in his stomach was starting to come back, knowing that your smell was enough to drive him insane. How irresponsible he was. As Graceland came into view Elvis watched you longneck to see more of it– he chuckled to himself as the gates opened allowing the two of you in. The grand gates of Graceland creaked open as Elvis led you onto the sprawling estate grounds. Elvis placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you up the long, winding driveway. The warm glow of the mansion's exterior lights cast eerie shadows across the lawn. As you reached the front door, Elvis turned to face you, his shades reflecting your wide-eyed expression. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Welcome to my little slice of paradise, darlin'," he murmured. "Something tells me you're gonna fit right in here." His hand left your back and grabbed the doorknob, the heavy wooden door swinging open to reveal the lavish interior. Plush carpets and ornate furnishings greeted you. Elvis gestured for you to enter before following behind. The door slammed shut, making you jump and the air seemed to press down on you from all sides. Elvis watched you intently, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Now, I’d say it’s warm enough for me ta’ take that coat back from ya honey.” Elvis coos, sliding his coat off of you and placing it on the rack, looking around the house you feel a bit tense, it's quiet but comfortable– but being alone with Elvis still makes you a bit uneasy. “How about…you an’ I head upstairs huh?” He asks, taking off his sunglasses and placing them on a small table beside the stairs, his baby blues hiding something dark. "Upstairs?" you ask hesitantly, sudden butterflies swarming in your belly. Upstairs meant privacy, intimacy. Away from prying eyes and judging ears. Away from any chance of rescue or interruption.

Elvis took your hand, leading you up the stairs. He began to feel a bit dizzy, the scent coming off of you much stronger now, clearing his throat he stopped at the top of the stairs and motioned for you to go on. “You go on ta’ my room, honey. I’ll be there in a second.” Elvis' heart races as he watches you disappear down the opulent hallway, the sway of your hips hypnotic. He leans heavily against the banister, fingers curling into the polished wood. This is madness. He knows it. But the hunger, the craving, it consumes him. The scent trailing from your skin is like a siren's song, luring him ever closer to the rocks. "Dammit." He curses under his breath, voice strangled. He runs a hand through his slicked back hair, black locks falling over his forehead. Sweat trickles down his neck despite the cool air. He straightens up, square shoulders back, determination set in his jaw. Elvis strides down the hallway, the click of his shoes echoing off the hardwood floors.At his bedroom door, he pauses, hand hovering over the golden doorknob. He takes a deep breath, centering himself. He couldn’t help it. Not anymore. As he opened the door he saw you facing away, your gaze fixated on what was on the vanity in his room. He had entered quietly, whether he meant too or not. He walked slowly towards you, his heart pounding, his stomach growling and his fangs drawing blood from his own lips. Moving with gentle swiftness he was right behind you and you didn’t even know. You didn't even know. Elvis took a moment to appreciate the view before him. Your delicate frame, small in comparison to his own imposing figure. The way your dark hair tumbled down your back, framing your pale neck. The way your dress hugged your curves perfectly.. His mouth watered at the sight, his fangs elongating, staining his bottom lip with crimson drops of blood. He reached out a trembling hand, running his fingers along your shoulder. Your skin was so soft, so warm. Like silk caressing his worn, calloused flesh. Slowly, almost reverently, he trailed his fingers down your arm, feeling you shiver beneath his touch. “E-Elvis…you scared me.” You breathed, something was wrong, you felt…scared. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, seeping into his own cold, dead flesh. It was intoxicating, addictive, and he wanted more. Oh, how he wanted more. Elvis' head dipped, his nose brushing along the shell of your ear. "Ya smell so good, darlin'. So sweet." he whispered hoarsely, his breath ghosting over your skin. His fangs grazed your earlobe, nipping gently and drawing a gasp from you. “Elvis…?” You whimpered, and he let out a moan. What was he doing? Elvis didn’t even know. You could feel his heart beating against your back, his mouth slowly opening then shutting against your flesh, small pricks of something sharp threatening to break through your skin. Elvis’ mouth moved along your neck and you shivered, his grip on you was strong enough to leave bruises you were sure. “Gonna be okay honey..” Elvis groaned, finding the sweet spot on your neck making your knees buckle but he kept holding you up. His hands moved from your hips roughly to cup your breasts, that flimsy dress doing very little to conceive them. He could hear you breathing much heavier now, your heart beating so fast, your smell getting stronger. Just…a …little…more…

Your body involuntarily thrashed against him, but your arms stayed pushed against the side of vanity, unable to let go, unable to move– it was like you were frozen. Elvis moved quickly, his face still nuzzled into your neck, his lips trailing feverous kisses along your skin. You felt yourself melting into his touch, his hands groping you and rolling your nipples between his fingers. The mirror in front of you showing it all. His hand moved to the top, taking a hold of the straps in his hand he tore them, the dress falling down with ease. You were shaking, shaking so badly. Elvis loved it, as you began to speak he moved his hands to grip your hair, jerking your head back real hard so that your neck was on full display. Looking at him from the mirror your chest heaved as you caught sight of his face, eyes blown and wide, muscles strained and mouth hanging opening, pearly white fangs protruding from his mouth and just inches from your skin. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the mirror, how foolish you felt– stripped naked only in your panties from one motion, hair jerked back and body frozen in place. “Only gonna hurt for a second honey…” Elvis groans before kissing your neck softly, his mouth opening as his teeth slowly pricked through your skin, small drops of blood already forming. Elvis shuddered violently as the first coppery taste of your blood flooded his mouth. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy, sharp fangs slicing deeper into your tender flesh. The pain made you cry out, struggling weakly against his iron hold. "Shhh, it's alright darlin'," Elvis purred thickly around a mouthful of your essence, "Just relax 'n let it happen. Let me in." One hand released your hair to stroke soothingly down your side, trying to placate your panicked thrashing. The other remained wrapped around you, keeping that perfect bite aligned. He swallowed deeply, savoring your unique flavor before finally pulling back. Crimson drops welled from the punctures, spilling down the graceful column of your throat to dampen your heaving breasts. It was the most delicious sight Elvis had ever beheld. His body vibrated with pure primal lust. With a growl, he spun you around to face him. You felt weak, your head was dizzy and you struggled to breath– but something felt…odd. Your heart was beating alarmingly fast and you could feel something flowing through your veins. Suddenly, almost in an instant your body collected itself, the dizziness fading and you felt more alive than you ever had been, your neck stung as you placed a hand on it, feeling a sizzling pain as the wound faded away. Elvis grabbed you by your shoulder with a growl, forcing you forward, bending you over the vanity. “F-fuck…” He whimpered as he pulled down your painties to your ankles, your puffy cunt on full display. “So…perfect…” He whispered as two fingers plunged their way inside of you before you could begin to protest.

Your breath caught in your throat as Elvis' moved inside of you. Shockwaves of pleasure coursed through you, making your knees buckle and vision swim. It was almost too much to handle at once. Elvis seemed to sense your overwhelmed state. "Easy darling, breathe through it," he coaxed roughly, fingers still pumping steadily. "Gonna get this tight little cunt ready for my cock." Each press and curl made the fire building in your core flash higher. Your eyes squeezed shut, lower lip caught between your teeth as you fought to stay upright against the vanity. The scent of arousal mixed with your blood hung heavy in the air, making Elvis' nostrils flare. He knew you were close already. "Look at yourself, honey," Elvis demanded darkly, head nodding to the mirror. "Watch me finger fuck this sweet pussy 'til it's drippin' for me." Wide eyes fluttered open, locking with your reflection. Bright red cheeks, hazy eyes, and a dazed expression - you'd never looked so debauched before. Seeing yourself in such a compromising position sent another bolt of pleasure through you, only worse that he was still fully clothed. "That's it baby," Elvis purred, relentlessly working you through it. Your legs shook like crazy, barely supporting you. The newfound intensity of your body's reaction left you sprawled bonelessly against the vanity. Elvis withdrew his coated fingers, bringing them to his lips for a leisurely lick. "Gonne be mine forever." he promised as you stayed bent over the vanity, breathing heavily, you raised your head to see him holding his shirt up as he fumbled with his belt before quickly pulling it off, his pants soon to follow. His erection sprang free, slapping lewdly against his stomach with a shiny sheen of pre-cum dripping from the tip. He stroked it lazily, smearing the clear fluid up and down his length. "Gonna fucking wreck this pussy," Elvis growled possessively, fisting his cock in clear anticipation. You could only whimper, gaze transfixed on his hardness. It was so large, easily more than seven inches long and thicker than your wrist, uncut and pooling. Watching him touch himself with such obvious enjoyment only served to stoke your own growing need. Elvis gripped your hips again, thumbs digging into your already bruised flesh. The vanity creaked ominously under the added weight as he pressed against you, his substantial girth a searing line against your sensitive folds. You gasped sharply at the promise of what was to come. "Mmmm, look how wet you are," Elvis rumbled appreciatively. "Soaked and swollen for me already. Such an eager yittle thing." The tip of his cock kissed your entrance, spreading your juices as it went. Your whole body trembled with pent up tension, every nerve on fire and begging for relief. Common sense screamed at you to struggle, to get away before this went too far...but your body craved more. Burned for something only he could give you. "Please," you heard yourself whisper brokenly, sounding distant even to your own ears. "I need..." "Shhh, I know darlin'," Elvis soothed, his voice a sinful caress. "Gonna give this greedy cunt exactly what it wants. Gonna fuck you 'til you scream." Then he was pushing in, hilting himself inside you with one brutal thrust. The sensation of being so completely stretched and filled snapped you out of your daze, a scream tearing from your throat. It was too much all at once, the pleasure and pain blending together until you couldn't tell them apart. Muscles clamped down hard, fluttering wildly as your body fought to adjust. "Fuuuuck yes," Elvis snarled, not giving you a moment to recover before he started moving. Each snap of his hips drove him impossibly deeper, thrusts short and powerful as he claimed your mouth in a brutal, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue dominated yours, mimicking the actions below. Nipping and sucking at your lips until they were puffy and swollen.

 Your cries were muffled against his mouth, breath ragged as he kissed you through your first orgasm. It crashed over you with devastating force, back arching and toes curling as your inner walls spasmed rhythmically. Elvis groaned gutturally, hips stuttering as your muscles rippled around him. "Fuck, you're milkin’ my cock so good," he gasped, dragging his lips along your jaw. "Wanna fill this cunt up… wanna have you be all mine forever, no one else's.” He was delirious with lust, all primal need and animalistic intent. Your blood bonding had triggered something deep within him, pounding into you mercilessly as his balls drew up tight to his body. It was too much stimulation, the excessive pleasure edged with pain pushing you quickly towards a second peak. Pressure coiled in your lower belly, egged on by the obscene squelch of his cock plunging in and out of your cunt. Building, building...you teetered right on the cusp. "Elvis!" you sobbed wildly, knowing he was close too. He redoubled his efforts, angling just right to peg your g-spot dead on. "Come for me baby, come on my fuckin’ cock." And with those words, you shattered. Pleasure detonated behind your eyes, every nerve ending singing in blissful release as Elvis followed right after. His final thrusts grew erratic as his orgasm overtook him. Thick ropes of seed painted your inner walls, you could feel everything. The sensation of Elvis' hot cum flooding your insides sent you spiraling into another mind-blowing orgasm. Your pussy clenched greedily around his spurting cock, milking him for every last drop as he grunted and cursed, emptying the last of his release deep in your womb. "Holy shit," Elvis panted, hips twitching with the aftershocks. "Never came harder in my life." He collapsed against you. Slick flesh still joined intimately together, you both struggled to catch your breath. Your thighs trembled with exhaustion. Elvis' softening length slipped free from your well-used hole with a wet squelch. Cum began seeping out to trickle down the insides of your quivering thighs.Slowly, unsteadily, you straightened on weak knees. Every muscle protested and screamed in protest. It felt like you'd been fucked for hours instead of minutes. Arousal still buzzed along your nerve endings, your clit throbbing between your legs. Elvis' seed coated your inner walls, cock sliding out slick and shiny.Elvis grasped your hips, turning you around briskly. He pushed you down into a sitting position on the vanity bench, “What…what did you do to me..?” You whispered to him, looking at him was heavenly– you felt so close to him.

“Made sure you wouldn’t be lone’ on Halloween again.”

A/N: HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!!! this is 9 pages long on my google doc making it my longest fic to date 😓 i rlly hope y’all like this i’m sorry if some doesn’t make sense or if there’s grammar or spelling issues i tried sooo hard 😭🖤 also i had it scheduled for midnight n’ it didn’t post m’ so so sorry 😢

taglist: @hooked-on-elvis @atleastpleasetelephone @lola-1013 @indiatuck @eptodaytommorowforever @suspiciousmindsxo @tupelomiss @myradiaz @i-r-i-n-a-a @elvispresley1956 @sisssygirl @your-nanas-house @callieselvisobsessed @eapep @auntbee22 @elvisiana @ladelinee @jhoneybees @elviswhore69 @sissylittlefeather @dontfeedthebigbadwolf @louisejoy86 @cherrycolaride @sloppyzengarden @faeolwen @slayingjd @iloveelvisss @theelvisprincess @fairybloodsucker

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Self Control.

Javi keeps refusing himself what he wants. One night puts everything into perspective.

Pairing - Javier Peña x female reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - Cursing, mentions of blood and death

Word Count - 3429

Author's Note - hello lovely people, hope you're all well. i've been a huge fan of pedro pascal since his narcos days, so all of this love for him happening currently is making me very happy. javier peña is perhaps my favourite tv character of all time, so i'm very excited to share this story with you. i'd always love to write more javi stuff, so if you ever have any thoughts, please send them my way. i'm happy to write for all pedro characters actually!! as always, much love x

Masterlist. Requests.

It wasn't supposed to go like this. 

It was supposed to be simple. A routine raid. Get the information and go. 

How did it all go so wrong? 

Gunshots. Blood. A sea of green uniforms scattering the ground. Escobar had somehow known about it. He was taking no prisoners. 

The Search Bloc had lost men. The Colombian Police had lost men. You were just praying that you hadn't. 

Javier Peña and Steve Murphy were still out there. You had no idea if they were okay. They could be shot, bleeding out. Kidnapped. Or worse. 

No. 

You're driving yourself insane thinking of all the possible worse case scenarios. Your mind can't help but go there. It's instinct. 

You're sat waiting. Hoping. Praying. You've made your home at Javi and Steve's desks - they're more central to the action than your own. You're watching the front doors, sat in Javi's chair. It smells like cigarette smoke, and musk, and him. You let the familiar scent envelope you, allowing it to bring you comfort. You breathe him in. He'll be here soon. You know he will.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Javier Peña was a complicated man. An enigma. He was tough, but gentle. Rugged, but tender. Commanding, but reserved. He was one big juxtaposition. Impossible to read. 

Or so he thought. 

You came along, and challenged every single one of his existing beliefs. You turned him soft - more understanding, more empathetic. He'll tell you he hates it. He lies. 

You weren't supposed to be here. Not really. You'd followed your brother, a DEA agent, all the way from Texas to Colombia. He'd told you he was being sent to South America to assist with the Pablo Escobar situation, and you'd packed your bags without a second thought. You had no one else. Wherever he goes, you go. Except one place. 

He'd died two months into the job. Shot dead by Escobar's men, in a situation that he shouldn't have even been in. And all of a sudden, you were alone. Alone in an unfamiliar place. Alone in the world. 

Javier made sure that wasn't true. He took you under his wing like an injured baby bird, slowly but surely nursing you back to health. He'd been there, when Carrillo had told you the fate of your brother. He'd caught you in his arms when your knees had given out, held you like he was scared you were going to shatter into a thousand pieces. He was holding you together. He has been, ever since. 

You were just a secretary. The odd one out. The only woman. Looked down on. People pitied you, really. You heard the things they said. Even if you didn't understand, you heard. You could take a guess. 

The world was a terrifying place for a woman. It was a terrifying place in general. But it seemed to be less scary knowing that Javier and Steve were at their desks just across the precinct every day. Your safety blankets. Your protectors. Which is exactly why the thought of losing either of them was currently ripping you apart from the inside out.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Your eyes shot up every time the door opened. Slowly but surely, members of the Search Bloc filtered in - many of them bloody, and injured, but alive. You weren't taking your eyes off the entrance to the precinct. Not for a second. Not when any minute, Peña and Murphy could walk in, and everything would be okay again. Any minute now, you reassure yourself. Any minute now. 

You hear steel toe boots on the linoleum floor, and your breath hitches… but it’s Colonel Carrillo. He spots you from across the room and strides over, ignoring any pleas for his attention from the Search Bloc guys. He envelopes you in a hug - professionalism be damned.

“Are you okay?”, you ask when he pulls back. “What happened? I’ve been going insane listening over the radio.”

“I’m okay, mi amor. We’re still trying to figure out what went wrong. He knew, someone had to have told him.”

You’re just about to ask him about Murphy and Peña when he says,

“We got separated in the chaos. I don’t know where they are, but I’m sure they’re fine. Try not to panic, okay?”

He’s looking at you carefully, and you’re nodding, but you know you aren’t going to take his advice. If anything, now you’re panicking more. Men are filtering through the door every minute, but none of them are the two you’re looking for. Anxiety creeps into your stomach, wraps its claws around your insides. You can’t shake it. You feel like you’re being swallowed by dread - it’s all too familiar. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone you love go into the field and not return.

Carrillo strokes your cheekbone with his thumb gently, and leaves to attend to his men. You sit back down in Javi’s chair, trying to burrow into his scent, the warmth of the leather. You can imagine his big strong arms wrapping themselves around you, the way he nuzzles his nose into the crown of your head when he hugs you, how he traces patterns on your back when he holds you when you’re particularly upset. 

You think about Steve, and the way he winks at you when you catch eye contact across the room, or how he throws an arm around your shoulders whenever he sidles over to your desk to bother you. He’s always stealing candy from your top drawer, and then acting innocent when you call him out on it. You feign annoyance, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You know you’re lucky to have the two of them looking out for you. You know you’re lucky to have Carrillo on your side too - life would be undoubtedly more difficult without his protection. They make you feel less vulnerable, more equal. You no longer feel like a lamb at the slaughter every time you walk into work. 

Drops of water hit your lap, and you realize you’re crying. Warm, wet tears slide down your cheeks, taking streaks of your mascara with them. Your lipstick has smudged where you’ve been peeling at the skin of your lips, and your nail polish has been incessantly picked at for hours. You know you look just as much of a mess on the outside as you feel on the inside. You close your eyes, and take a deep breath. Calm down, you tell yourself. You’d know if something bad had happened to them. You’d feel it. 

It’s as if time has become molten - sticky, warm molasses. Minutes feel like hours. The world is moving in slow motion, and it’s making you dizzy. Your breath is coming in short, sharp pants, and the urge to curl up into a ball grows stronger by the second. If the boys don’t show up soon, you’re convinced you’re going to crumble into a thousand pieces. You feel like you’re shattering, splitting apart at the seams. Fear sits on your chest like an ugly, relentless creature, choking you with each passing minute. The world is getting colder, darker, and you’re defenseless.

And just like that, your sun appears. Battered, bruised, bloody, but alive. Standing in the doorway, panting and breathless, is Javier Peña. Before you can register what’s happening, you’re leaping out of his chair, and practically running to close the distance between you. You collide with the solid mass of a man, and he wraps his arms around you like it’s second nature. He smells like cigarettes and musk and gunpowder and the outdoors and smoke and home. Relief fills your body, and the weight of it almost knocks you off your feet. You settle further into his chest like you belong there, pressing your nose into him and inhaling. 

You pull away, and notice that his chest is damp. The tears from before are back with a vengeance, sprinting their way down your cheeks, forming puddles wherever they can reach. You’re not sure if you’re crying due to happiness, or fear, or relief - perhaps a mixture of all three. You’re both still panting, looking at each other in disbelief. You fist your hands into the front of his shirt, as if to ground yourself to him. Checking he’s real. In the flesh.

“Don’t cry, cariño. I’m here. I’m okay. We’re okay.” 

He’s murmuring quietly to you, as if you’re the only two people in the room. He reaches out, and gently uses his thumbs to swipe away the tears that are still escaping. Cradling your face in his big, calloused hands, he looks at you earnestly.

“I’ll always come back, bonita. You know I will. Just like I promised.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and for the first time in hours, you relax. You stay pressed together like that for what feels like an eternity, until you hear familiar footsteps approaching. 

You break away from Javier to get a good look at Steve. He too is battered and bruised - hair mussed, shirt torn, blood staining his jeans and his hands. But he’s alive. That’s all that matters.

“Murphy,” you breathe, before wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You’d go out there and take down Escobar yourself if you could. If it meant you didn’t have to see your friends in pain anymore. This job is killing you all from the inside out, slowly but surely. You’re all shells of yourselves. You wonder how much longer you’re all going to be able to cope before you snap. You have a feeling that these two men in front of you are closer to their breaking points than you think. 

“God, I need to shower. I’ve never sweat this much in my life,” Steve remarks, and now that you’re looking at him, you can’t help but agree. You nod, smirk etched on your face, and the corners of his lips turn up. A slight smile from Steve. That’s a win.

A voice rumbles from behind you in response to Murphy’s statement. Jesus, Javi was closer to you than you thought.

“Yeah, me too. You go. I’ll drive her home.” He places a hand on the small of your back, and you can feel the warmth of him seeping through his palm.  He always runs so hot, you think to yourself. Your sun.

Murphy squeezes your arm and heads out the door, leaving you and Javier standing in the middle of the precinct. Everyone seems to be heading home, the room becoming increasingly quiet. You figure the two of you should follow suit. You gesture at Javi to give you a minute, and make your way over to the Colonel’s office, popping your head in the doorway. 

“You should go home, Carrillo,” you say softly. “You need to sleep just as much as the rest of us.”

He smiles at you tentatively, his face dampened with worry. You can see clear as day that he’s blaming himself for the events of the evening. You also know that there’s nothing you can say to make it better.

“I will, querida. I will.”

And with that, you grab your things from your desk, and make your way over to where Javi is waiting for you. He returns his hand to the small of your back, and guides you to his car.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Your hands are shaking when you try to unlock the front door to your apartment. You can’t quite get the key in the lock, and it’s becoming frustrating. Why are you acting like you were the one being shot at tonight? All you had to do was sit at your desk and wait. Get a grip, you tell yourself. You’ve had it the easiest.

Javi can see you’re struggling, so he reaches out and opens the door for you. You step inside, immediately kicking off your heels and throwing down your purse. You turn on the lamp in the corner of the living room, and draw the blinds. All the while, Javi stands in the doorway, watching you complete your nightly rituals. It’s disarming to see you like this, he thinks. So domestic. So at peace.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and places his hand on the doorknob.

“Let me leave you alone, cariño. You need to rest. The adrenaline of tonight is going to wear off any minute, and we’re all gonna crash.”

He takes a step, but you lunge forward in his direction to stop him.

“Wait! Wait. I - I don’t… I can’t - please.” You can’t find the right words. In fact, you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

He steps back inside your apartment, and shuts the door behind him gently, making sure to lock the deadbolt. He’s never been a man to take stupid chances when it comes to your safety. When it comes to you.

“What is it, mi amor?”, he asks carefully. “What do you need?”

“You,” you answer without a second thought. “Please don’t leave. I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight if you leave.”

He looks at you for a moment - carefully surveying. He takes in your appearance, the pain in your eyes, the way you look so small and fearful standing in front of him. It’s not even a question.

He kicks off his boots, and takes his wallet and his cigarettes out from the back pocket of his jeans, placing them on the counter. Then, he strides over, across the room, and smothers you in a hug that he’s convinced he probably needs more than you. 

You stand like that, embraced in each other, for what feels like forever. Two people breathing each other in, trying to absorb the other person. If you could crawl into Javier’s chest, bury yourself into his ribcage, you would. No hug is ever close enough. Never enough. It’s never enough.

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ll always stay.”

You pull back to gaze into those big brown eyes, warm and sweet like chocolate. He looks serene, peaceful, almost. You don’t get to see him like this very often.

“You should shower,” you tell him quietly. You’re worried that you’re going to spook one another, so you both keep the volume to a minimum. “I’ll make us some tea.”

He nods gently, and makes his way to your bathroom. Moments later, you hear the water running, so you begin to boil the kettle, reaching for two mugs from your cabinet.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You place a mug of tea on each nightstand either side of your bed, and slip out of your skirt and blouse. You opt for a tank top and shorts - the Colombian heat still unrelenting, even in the early hours of the morning. The sun will be up soon, you think. A new day.

Javi stands in the doorway of your bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. Droplets of water are journeying down his chest, and your eyes follow, as if on instinct. He smirks when he catches you, watching your face heat up slightly.

“Cute bedsheets,” he remarks. “I like the love hearts.”

He’s still smirking, so you get up to smack him on the arm.

“Shut up, Javier,” you threaten, with no real malice. “Your tea is on the nightstand.”

You turn your back when he changes back into his black boxers, which only amuses him further. He can’t help but admire you from his place across the room. The way your hair blows slightly with the breeze from the opened window, the band of skin between where your tank top ends and your shorts begin, the sweat at the nape of your neck. He knows you’d taste like salt and sugar simultaneously. It takes everything in him not to run his tongue up your spine. You shiver from your spot on the edge of the bed, as if you can read his mind.

“I’m dressed, querida,” he almost whispers. You turn around, and shamelessly let your eyes rake over his golden skin, wishing so badly to reach out and touch him. He’s wearing significantly less clothes than you expected. Not that you’re complaining.

He lays down carefully on one side of your bed, stretching himself out on his back. You turn off the lamp on the nightstand, and lay down on the other side, careful to keep some distance between the two of you. You thought that having him here would relax you, but it seems to be doing the opposite. You feel like your nerve endings are on fire - the room is too warm, you can’t seem to get your lungs to fill with air, you’re hyper aware of every little movement in the room. You’re on edge.

Javi’s breathing is deep, calculated. He’s trying to keep calm. Everything in him is screaming to reach out and touch you, to throw an arm around your waist, to tangle his legs in between yours. He’s not sure he’s ever shown this level of self control.

“Javi,” you breathe. “Relax, please. I can feel how tense you are from here.”

He takes a deep breath before he answers you.

“Sorry, mi vida. I’m just - I’m… I’m trying.”

“Trying?”

“Trying to use every inch of restraint that I have.”

Your breath hitches, and he hears it, clear as day.

“What for?” you whisper.

“To resist the urge to touch you.”

You’re breathing quicker now, and so is he. The air in the room is thick with tension - it’s a miracle you’re both still conscious. 

“You’ve never really been one to deny yourself of the things you want, Javi," you whisper. "You’re not usually the patron saint of self control.” 

And with that, he snaps. He grabs your hips, and uses effortless strength to pull you so you’re straddling him, settled in his lap. He sits up to bring your faces level, and presses his forehead into yours, just like he did mere hours ago in the precinct. 

You know that tonight has changed everything for the two of you. You also know there’s no going back from this - you can’t uncross this line. The friendship that exists between you and Javi, a relationship that’s been so carefully built on trust and support and boundaries - permanently altered if you continue. You just can’t seem to find it in you to care. Not really. You want Javier Peña for all he is, all he has. Consequences be damned.

“I love you, cariño,” he breathes into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”

You’re convinced that any minute, you’re going to wake up from this beautiful dream. But for now, you make the most of it.

“I love you, Javier Peña. I love you so much it hurts.”

And with that, he’s kissing you. It’s desperate, and it’s needy, and it’s so full of love you’re worried that you’re going to pass out. His lips are on your lips, and he’s got one hand firmly at the nape of your neck, holding you in place. As if I’m going anywhere, you think. I’d happily stay here forever.

You’re so lost in each other that you don’t notice the sunrise. Dawn hits the window, casting an orange hue across the room. Javi looks like he’s glowing, the sunlight glinting off his hair. Golden boy.

He pulls off your shirt, and presses his chest to yours. He’s convinced you’re tethered to each other - he can feel the connection through your skin. It almost makes him want to cry, this feeling. It’s never felt like this before. It never will again. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist, ensuring that there isn’t a centimeter of space between you. You don’t know what today holds. You know it won’t be easy. But you’re comforted by the fact that you know Javi will be right there beside you. No matter what happens from this moment on, Javi is always going to be right there beside you.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you breathe into his mouth.

“I love you, mi alma,” he breathes back. “Mi corazón, mi alma.”

My heart, my soul. It’s as if he took the words right out of your mouth. 

Mi corazón, mi alma.

My heart, my soul.

[kismetlotts]

-`♡´- Simon Rileys cigarettes x afab femreader

cw: Simon’s death, smoking, grief, moving on, blood, sad stuff, heavily rushed writing but I'm keeping it up so hopefully I can see an improvement

It must be a theme with military boys always having a cigarette drooping out the right side of their mouths. It was strange. You didn’t get the reason behind smoking however you didn’t hate on smokers either. People are free to do what they want and just because you chose against it doesn’t mean others shall.

Simon Riley definitely didn’t.

The strong tobacco scent was pungent on his skin, his breath and clothes every time he lit one. You’d hug him and have to push him away due to the stench, wide smiles casted on his face a mix of sorrow but also happiness.

Over time you began to fall for it, for him. You looked for him whenever you smelt tobacco or saw people smoking. Every smoke sign on the street now meant Simon could be around, lurking from the shadows.

The smell of every date, The smell of every argument, The smell of anxiety and the smell of love was associated with his tobacco, it was everywhere. The two of you could sit for hours out in the cold, in the warm-the rain as he smoked; you by his side watching.

The company wasn’t bad as Simon initially thought it would be, he didn’t really like people but you were different to him. Something about you made him want to do best, to be the perfect man. Instead of thoughts of war, battle and pain, it was thoughts of comfort. The idea of slow dancing in the moonlight, sharing a meal beside the warm candlelight, holding you carefully in his arms like a flower. His darling gardenia.

He accompanied you with advice, he listened when you needed a rant and talked when you needed to hear words. He wrote down advice or quotes -things for you to conquer- on the back of his cigarette boxes before passing them over to you. Leaving it to you to bin them whenever you felt you’d accomplished the thing written. It was therapeutic and you told him personal things you would never dream to share with others.

“I’ve always been big on photography, capturing the moments so they never vanish.” His eyes would flicker to yours with an unreadable expression before flicking back to the scenery in front the two of you.

“Yeah?” His gruff voice questioned quietly.

“Yeah.” You responded.

And it didn’t take long until you were around the base, taking photos of everyone on a camera Simon had gifted you, some bad, some good, some funny and some meaningful. The crew found it hysterical and even joined in sometimes, Simon especially by taking candidly awful selfies of the two of you and some without your knowledge. Showing you them next time you sat beside while he smoked.

You loved cigarettes like your heart loved him because that smell was him, that smell was your home- your centre. You couldn’t live without him or the scent of the smoke until you were forced to.

Shot, over and over by a bastard whose fate was far more tame than deserved. A thief who stole and broke the most valuable jewel to you- and butcher and a knife dripping with innocence. He was gone, your Simon was gone. Right in front of your eyes.

And grieving was worse than you’d imagined, the jokes you and Simon had shared about not missing one and other a tragic hyperbole forever fallen flat. You’d lived in your own dirt and grime, not wanting to wash the small traces his finger prints had left on you. You’d kicked everyone out, left the military and most importantly picked up a bad habit. Smoking.

First it was just lighting a pack of cigarettes you’d brought, inhaling the fumes it let off, tasting the gentle stream of grey on the tip of your tongue. Until finally your lips met in a soft kiss, tears pouring as coughs erupted from your throat. The smoke filling your lungs and leaving you like he did, the way you put it out, the butt falling lifeless in your hands: the ash staining your finger tips like Simons blood.

They reminded you of Simon and were something so special to you. Unlike a picture or a note of his, it was something replaceable if lost because he’d always be there. Unlike a tattoo it’s not permanent, if you ever felt mad at him you could leave the cigarettes at home. The nicotine wasn’t just what had you hooked it was more than that, it was the feeling of him between your fingers, the feeling of him reaching down into your lungs and seeping back into your heart again, the sensation as your eyes watched the residue fly away up and into the sky.

And as you progressed in life, you kept him with you. Lighting a few before you had your first date in years, almost asking him for advice, asking if it’s okay to move on. Letting droplets of ash burn you whenever you lit one during your pregnancy, unsure if it was accidental, subconsciously your own guilt or Simon flicking you to tell you to “Watch it.”

Your new partner, the dad to your lovely daughters was amazing. Smart, caring and overall a gentleman. Confident in what he wants and what he needs but also understanding. He knew just as well as you knew that he was the farther of your kids and not the love of your life and he seemed okay with it. You had a similar look to one and other and although the conversation had never came between you, you just knew he understood.

He never questioned your cigarettes even after you’d told him you don’t do it due to addiction or any other reason. And you never questioned the small jewellery box he keeps hidden in his night stand. You were just two grieving souls who’d lost their lovers but didn’t want to give up on life just yet. You loved him, you really did. But not like you’d loved Simon, you’d love no one like you’d loved Simon.

Your kids were wonderful bundles of joy and chaos, you’d never trade them for the world. You worked your ass of day by day to brings them the best and happiest life they’d ever live. Family holidays, movie nights you name it, there was always something you were doing together. You hated when they cried and especially when you couldn’t do anything about it. Watching them arrive home after school, tears staining their cheeks.

“Oh no! What’s wrong my darlings? Talk to me, let me know what’s up.” You’d assure them, wrapping your arms around the two of them and crouching to get to their level, their noses sniffling and eyes full of worry and fear.

“Smoking is bad, mama.” They’d tell you, your heart shattering like glass.

“We learnt about it at school, you could die mama! Please don’t die!” They’d beg and squeeze you firmly in a tight hug unaware you’re feeling lost. Their pain and worry over death and the grief and suffering they’d have to deal with if that happened. But if you quit smoking, you’d lose Simon. The small steps of their dad approaching, over hearing the conversation, changing the subject and reassuring you after.

You weren’t a bad mother, you were just struggling and that’s normal. You were only human and unfortunately your life had pan out that way. You didn’t need to be some perfect superhuman role model for your daughter because life isn’t perfect and no one’s lives are. It was easy to look at their adorable faces and breakdown on the spot, their innocence and their big eyes new to life, easy to forget that you were still new to life too, this wasn’t your fifth play through, it wasn’t a game you could skip levels on, this was your life as well as theirs. And Simon was a part of it, through smoke and cigarettes.

Years flew by and slowly you found yourself sinking in and divulging into this new chapter of your life. Cigarettes still being smoken and thoughts still being thought however Simon was slowly being forgotten. Somewhat healthy arguments between your now husband becoming more and more frequent and your life was getting into the swing a bit more, you felt happy and loved and purposeful, until a knock at the door one day left you speechless.

“Price? Oh my god I haven’t seen you in years.” You smile and awe lost behind the shock in your face. You’d welcomed him in your home, your husband greeting him and children eager to find out who he is.

“This is mamas old work friend, say ‘Hi John’!” You told them watching as their eyes would widen and smile, renovating to the other side of the room, busy playing with their toys. You’d sat and talked, drank a bit of tea you made until he finally revealed why he’d visit.

“Was cleaning through the old drawers and dressers at the barracks and found this old thin’. ” His rough hands gripped hold of a brown, ripped and scruffy photo album which belonged to me and the team. You’d started to make of your time in task force 141 but due to Simons death, you’d never really gone back to rescue your old items. Your camera, the old cigarette boxes, clothes.

“Wow..thanks.” You’d mumble, hand wiping some dust particles off of the cover and broken spine as you opened it showing the photos. Your kids walked over laughing slightly as you skimmed over some of them, your own face forming a smile at some of the awful captured.

“Johnny eating a sandwich, Your ear, Gaz upside down- Oh god is that Laswell?” You’d mumble, laughing pointing them out as John chuckled back, nodding and shaking his head with a sigh, but then you’d flip the page everything changing inside you.

“Haha, mama who’s that? Why do you two look so silly?” Your daughter pointed at, the photo consisting of you sticking your tongue out as a man with a ghost mask takes a selfie of you two. His name falls dead on your lips and you shut your mouth not able to get the word out. Simon. Simon. Oh Simon.

A small exchange of glances from John to your husband had him rushing over smiling and taking the girls to the back garden, and nod from his head in your direction but your hands remained on that page, fingers curled over the edge of the book. Prices hand laid on yours as he unhooked your fingers and dragged them over the photo and to his other hand, your eyes tearing as you looked at him, face bland and emotionless but your eyes telling him exactly how your heart feels.

A box of old cigarettes hit your palm and you saw a familiar squiggly writing on the box eyes scanning one of Simons old cigarette packet.

“Move on from the hardships, look for me in the smoke, i’ll be there.” Price mumbled reading out the words, and you smiled laughing at the cringey message, a few chuckles leavkng his mouth too. Your hand wrapped around the box slowly, rubbing your thumb over the shiny plastic stained with ink.

[fluff-n-cookies]

You may call me crow anon

Idk how any of this worls as i recently joined tumblr

But can i pls ask for platonic dabi who comes looking for sister reader after she moved out years ago from the todorkoi house and only keeps contat with fyumi, natsuo and occasionally rei?

Idl man

HI I don't know Either but WELCOME TO TUMBLR, I hope you enjoy your stay. I will add you to my anon list on my rules for requests page and. I hope to hear from you again, and fun fact you are my first EVER anon so thank you, It's my pleasure.

ANNNNDD for the sake of the story the reader has pink hair.

warnings Dabi tries to commit suicide. and some swearing.

RUN. do nothing but RUN.

RUN to find her. RUN to safety. RUN AWAY from the police.

Dabi's Inner monologue rang loud, louder than any other, louder than the sound of the police and the hero's trying to catch him. so, damn, loud.

Panting, the young 15 year old Dabi, who somehow managed to dye his hair and steal food for 2 years of his life, turned a swift corner into the alley way before jumping up to climb the fire shoot, it was now when it occurred to him.

(y/n) would not be happy to see the man you have become.

he froze for a second, scared, he did his best, he tried so hard to be a hero, a hero for his older sister, for she who believed in him when none else would, but it wasn't until the scorching pain of blood polling at his eye bags that he started to move again.

oh how he admired her, and her dreams of becoming rich, dreams of being someone other than their father daughter.

too bad they were broken down and beaten everyday.

too bad that Touya had to sit there and watch his darling sister, his one and only light, be dimmed and overshadowed.

it was worse he couldn't do anything.

it was worse he just could watch.

it was painful. even more so when at 16 she told him she'll be back soon, hugged their mom good bye, handed him a sheet of paper with the Words "We'll meet again" written in shabby hand writing, took the car and never cam back again, it wasn't for 4 hours at Touya realized something was wrong, it took Rei 1 day to notice something was wrong, it took 6 days for endeavor to notice, and 3 months before he actually started to care... that his car was gone. Fuyumi asked where "big sister" went, Enji never told her, and every time she would ask Rei, Rei would just burst into tears, eventually, Fuyumi stopped asking, Natsuo thought she was still at school, and Shoto simply forgot she existed. that year was the same year he faked his death, that was the year Touya Todoroki died, the day Dabi was born.

eventually he grew tired, the police had lost him, so had the heroes so why run when you're not being chased?

Dabi came to a stop, looking around before lighting a cigarette he stole from a convenience store sighing out the smoke, the hot smoke a huge contrast to the cool summer breeze, like you her kindness was a huge contrast to the rest of the family.

no one really acted right in the Todoroki household, their they were cold and brash, or had mental issues, most had daddy issues, and all should really go to therapy, she on the other hand was softer, kinder, a soul who needed helping but put the needs of other before herself. soft words, soft pink hair (a mix of white and red, odd since no-one else had pink hair.) and the most welcoming smile you ever saw.

she was always like that,

always such an angel.

Dabi leaned on the railing of the short building, smoking, reminiscing on memories of the past.

leaning too hard, and falling.

at this point it was intentional, how one to endure such horrors, who is the deity was cruel enough to taunt him by giving him the soul he adored the most and then ripping it right out of his hands?

it was a short fall, just as it was a short building, but he didn't land on concrete instead he landed on the dumpster.

greeted by the smell of dog shit, and the feel of soggy cardboard and black plastic garbage bags.

"the hell?" he whispered a sort of surprise that came to him as he realized this was not hell, but a smaller, stinkier, hell.

he was even more surprised when he realized he was not alone.

"oh dear! sir are you alright?!" a gentle voice yelled out, she was wearing a soft (favorite color) dress, and had the kindest eyes, that was the only way to describe her.

she helped him out of the dumpster, not even looking at his face.

just like (y/n) would

"hey, stay with me, we'll go to my apartment, just hold on tight."

she didn't even mind the smell of smoke on his T-shirt.

all he remembers after that is fighting, fight to stay awake, fight to thank the angel that is his savior.

then he remembers sinking into the soft cushions of a warm red or orange couch.

like fall, her favorite season. (sorry if you don't like fall)

then the angel came back, now is when she noticed the purple scorches, the piercing blue eyes, and the little white segments near the roots.

he was sure she was going to scream, he was sure she was going to run and flee, and call the police, but instead she carried on, gave him an ice pack, checked his temperature, check for any major wounds gave him some water.

nervously, she asked "I'm sorry to be asking this but are you by any chance a endeavor hater."

Dabi chuckled fighting back the blood from reaching his eyes this was her alright.

"(y/n), big sis," blood threatened to trickle down what was left of his cheeks.

poor girl, choked out a sob, scared to even embrace him scared he'll drift away like she drifted away from him, salty tears prickled the edges of her eyes.

"To-Touya," she gulped "I-"

she pulled him right toward her, holding him tight, just like she would when they were younger and Dabi had a nightmare and was scared, except now, Dabi was truly scared, sacred of both himself and the future, scared you would poof into vapor his arms if he hugged you too tight.

"I"M SORRY" she yelled out, letting her own tears fall.

that night was spent in a shabby apartment, that night was spent together, that bight Dabi promised himself.

I'm never letting you go, ever.

I TRIED MY BEST BUT IT WAS SHITTY ANYWAYS BYYEEEE

[ghulehunknown]

Movie ’n Chill

Terzo x F!Reader

Day 9 of KINKTOBER is here! 🎃

**WARNING - EXPLICIT, NSFW**

Also available on AO3!

“Movie ’n Chill”

Summary: You and Terzo go see a scary movie, but your mind couldn’t be further from the plot.

CW/Tags: F!Reader, making out, vaginal fingering, P in V sex, public fingering, public handjob, public sex, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, nipple play, cigarette smoking, warning - the public sex acts are around other people who are unaware this is happening so if that bothers you please scroll away

Word Count: 1745

You had particularly enjoyed being Terzo’s latest object of affection the last several weeks. He was doing all the things right - courting you, taking you on cute dates, showing up with flowers and chocolate. “It’s Italian,” he said sportingly whilst waggling his eyebrows at you, shoving an expensive looking box of sweets into your hand one night.

Multiple times a week he was taking you out. Hell, he even took you to an apple orchard last week (where you may or may not have given him head in between the rows and rows of low hanging trees). Then he would take you back to his room where he’d fuck the life out of you and make you cum over and over. It was all going very well, and you were having the time of your life. You never knew what he was going to do next and in some sort of depraved way, it excited you.

Tonight you were going out to see a new horror flick in theaters. You dressed in a short leather skirt with thigh-high stockings. You knew that would drive him wild.

“You were smart to wear a skirt, Sorella,” he said, stomping out a cigarette on the pavement and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He sneakily placed his hand on your ass and walked inside the theater with you.

You rolled your eyes, knowing he was probably talking out of his ass anyway. “Anything for you sweetie.”

You made your way to the back, which was completely empty - perfect. There were only a handful of people sprinkled in the rows in front of you, closer to the screen.

You plopped down in the middle seats of the row, Terzo remarking, “Why does no one sit in the back? Is it because of the reputation it has of teenagers stealing kisses in the dark?” He snapped his glance at you, taking your chin in his fingertips and nipping at your bottom lip.

You kissed him - just an innocent peck - and pretended to ponder, tapping your index finger against your chin. “Well, is that reputation true?”

“What? That we’d act like two teenagers in love back here?” He rolled his eyes. “No, Sorella,” he said, glancing at you again. “No, we can be much worse than two horny adolescents.”

The woman three rows in front of you shot you two a warning glare. Terzo snickered under his breath and you couldn’t help but smile. God, he was incorrigible - but you couldn’t help it. The way his raven hair framed his perfect handsome face. The way he smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corner. The way he smelled - Lucifer, it drove you wild. The way he fucked, like you’ve never been fucked before. Like he’d never fucked before each and everytime his determination winning you over.

You had both been so enraptured with one another that you didn’t even notice the previews had already played and the lights began to dim. Ominous music began to play and the usual credits appeared onscreen, and finally a line of dialogue.

“Che cos'è questo? Where are the captions?” Terzo exclaimed aloud, receiving shushes from various moviegoers and death glares again from the woman in front.

You rolled your eyes at him. “Can’t fucking take you anywhere,” you muttered under your breath.

The movie started but you didn’t care. After a few moments of introduction to the plot, his hand already found its way in between your skirt, his lips on your neck.

“Terzo,” you whined. “I’m trying to watch the movie.” That was a lie. You coyly shoved him away but that only instilled the animalistic hunt inside him.

He growled in your ear, mimicking the monster shown for mere seconds in the beginning of the film, nibbling at your earlobe. He thumbed the fabric of your panties, rubbing you gently through the cloth. You could feel a wet spot forming as he dipped into you and massaged around your clit.

“How can I watch this merda when I know you are so fucking wet?” he said lowly into your ear.

Your mouth parted into a gasp as he slipped his hand under your panties, and parted your lips to meet your quivering bud.

“Mmm,” he whined, panting with you as he felt your slick between his fingers. “Sarebbe così facile…”

“Terzo, we can’t - ” You gasped again as he lightly pinched your clit between his fingers, instantly shutting you up. He knew just how your body would react to any and every touch he made.

“We can’t what exactly, la mia gattina?”

You slacked your head back against the lounge, defeated - you could no longer fight your desire. “We can’t stop,” you whispered, resigning yourself to him and leaning in to kiss him while your hands desperately reached for his belt buckle.

The soft clink of his belt sent alarm bells to the woman, who snapped her head back in your direction but unable to see anything through the empty rows between you, turned back around. You sat frozen for a few moments, then slowly undid his belt and zipper while both stifling laughter again. You opened his trousers and freed his bulging cock from his boxer-briefs, his tip already glistening with precum in the flashing lights from the screen.

You took his member in your hand and stroked up and down lazily, teasing him in your loose grip - holding him slack but tightening your fist on the upward stroke. He circled your clit with his fingers, his hand flat against you, massaging into you. The two of you made out while touching each other, working up the friction between your legs to a frenzy until you were sloppily laying kisses all over each other’s faces. Just like two teenagers going at it but not daring to take it all the way - yet.

You carefully climbed sideways onto this lap with your legs spilling over into the next seat, breaking your ministrations but still kissing him on the mouth. You ran your hands through his hair, tucking the little piece behind his ear that always fell into his face.

He ran his hands up and down your body, caressing every curve, before trailing his hand to your face and holding your cheek. “Così perfetta,” he breathed, one hand on your face, another resting on your hip. “You are so fucking sexy, Sorella.”

You kissed him again and palmed his erection again before turning around with your back to his chest, slowly sinking yourself down on him. He held your panties to the side and watched himself disappear into your cunt, easily slipping in.

“Oh Christ,” you let out as he stretched you out in full - forgoing his usual gradual entry in favor of a quick fuck to finish before the loud parts of the movie were over. Again the woman in front looked around to find the culprit of the noise, the others in her vicinity going “Shhh!”

“Shut the fuck up, Sorella,” Terzo whispered, clapping his hand to your mouth and you could practically hear the sadistic grin you knew was on his face right now. He continued to rub circles on your clit as he slid in and out of you.

Loud screams from the movie and its soundtrack covered up the squeaking from the theater chair as he pummeled into you from below. Strategically he seemed to plan his most intense motions during the heavy action scenes so your muffled cries could just be read as you reacting to the jumpscares in the movie.

You grinded on his lap in circles more slowly when the movie got quieter then sped up and bounced on his cock as the music crescendoed. His hands made their way up to your breasts and slid under your bra, pinching your nipples and pulling on them. Your head fell back against his shoulder as he did this, your walls clenching even more tightly around him but you were missing the friction at your core. You slipped a hand inside your panties and pawed at your clit, rubbing circles furiously while grinding against his lap.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum soon,” he said quietly into your ear. “I have to cum inside you Sorella,” he warned. He was right - it’s not like he could just leave his DNA all over the place. It was bad enough you were being as shameless as you were now, fucking in a theater where people still had to sit after this.

You turned your head and nodded, your cheeks brushing. He kissed your neck while he pumped into you, spilling inside you and grunting quietly. You could feel the hum in his throat as you leaned your head back against him, feeling his chest rise and fall against your back. You remained on his lap, feeling his cock pulse inside you.

“Ah, I should be ashamed of myself,” he remarked quietly. He reached around your front again, generously sliding your slick and his cum (now spilling out of your orifice) up to your clit like lube. “I should have made you cum first, Sorella. I need to feel you shake while I’m still inside you, and hear you cry for me when we get home.”

He spread your lips apart with one hand, the other sliding around your inner thighs and brushing his thumb over your clit - again and again. Your orgasm was already so close before, the pause between his climax and now building up the intensity even more. You arched your back, your hair in his face as he murmured Italian praises through your locks into your ear. “That’s it Sorella, brava ragazza.”

Your hands gripped tightly around the arms of the lounge chair, a silent “O” forming on your lips as you managed to not utter a sound, save for a quiet “fuck!” through your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly until you slunk back against his body. You gave yourself a moment then slid off his lap, moving your panties back in place so his ejaculate wouldn’t spill out of you onto the chair or the floor. He shoved himself back into his pants and quickly zipped and buckled himself into decency as you pulled your skirt back down over your hips and landed back in your seat next to him.

“Great movie,” he let out with a sigh as the credits rolled and the other attendees began to file out of the theater.

Italian to English Translations

- Che cos'è questo? (What’s this?)

- merda (shit)

- Sarebbe così facile… (It would be so easy…)

- la mia gattina (my kitten)

- Così perfetta (So perfect)

- brava ragazza (good girl)

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

What is Deserved: Bigby Wolf x Reader

You could smell the stench of those disgusting cigarettes the second the elevator doors opened up. It usually wouldn’t worry you that he smoked a pack a day of those cheap cigarettes, but it quickly started to worry you when you noticed empty packs in trash cans around the business office, his own office, and his trash cans. They were becoming more frequent. You had only hoped that Bigby had been cleaning and found yet another carton of Huff an’ Puffs to throw away. But even as you knocked on his door, foregoing the key now sitting head as lead in your pocket, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

You heard something from inside of Bigby’s apartment. Slow, lumbering, grumbling something under his breath. For a moment, you had thought Colin had gotten back into Bigby’s apartment after yet another escape from The Farm, but as the door unlocked and opened, you were taken back by Bigby standing before you.

He looked awful.

Sure, he came home most nights with bruised knuckles and bloody noses and scratches and whatever… But the heavy and dark bags under his eyes and his stubble he shaved at twice a day - before going to bed and after waking up - was longer than usual and dark, blood still crusted under his nose and scratched scabbed up on his face and neck. A cigarette loosely clamped between his sharp teeth, lit, smoke curling out from his chapped lips. He smelled like death itself.

“Bigby, what happened to you?” you murmured.

“My job,” he bit at the cigarette bud.

“Your job is to look like your dying?”

Bigby took the cigarette out of his mouth and stamped it out somewhere next to the door, an ashtray or onto a small mountain of other cigarette buds.

“I’ve had a long week.”

“Is that why Snow called me and said yo-”

“Don’t,” he gave you a pointed look.

“Bigby, I’m worried about you.”

With a sigh, Bigby left the door open as he wandered back into his apartment, allowing you inside which you quickly followed in after the wolf. You sneered at the stench radiating around his apartment. No windows had been cracked open, no fans going, no candles lit or anything. Stale, old, cigarette air. You eyed what you thought would be a small mountain of cigarette in an ashtray like there normally was, but to your shock, it was big. Bigger than the one formed during the Crooked Man case when he had to do all that paperwork as fast as he could before King Cole came back. And that was a good few inches high.

You eyed Bigby moving towards his trusty chair.

“No,” you called out. “The bed.”

Bigby tossed you another look over his shoulder before he slowly trekked away from his beloved recliner to his bedroom door. You never knew why Bigby avoided his bedroom like the plauge, and you didn’t feel comfortable asking Snow due to hers and Bigby’s past… experiences and such and you weren’t about to ask Colin because… well you weren’t really going to ask Colin much about Bigby.

The Sheriff sat down at the foot of the bed, his broad and muscular back facing you still.

“Bigby…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

His bedroom was so different from the rest of his apartment. With what little light from the lamp in his living room, you could see the rustic styled furniture, the old and thick flannel sheets, paintings of the forests in the Homelands before the shit hit the fan, and it seemed to be the one place that didn’t reek of cigarette smoke shockingly. It looked so comfortable in here, why would he not relax in here? Sleep in here?

“This isn’t healthy, Bigby.”

“It doesn’t affect me like it does with Mundies.”

“I’m not talking about the cheap ass shit you smoke, fucker. I’m talking about why you’re avoiding help and comfort and friends and love.” Bigby hunched in on himself, russet hair falling in his face, shoulders tensing. You knew you should stop, but you couldn’t stand to see Bigby like this. “Why are you doing this to yourself? You’re only going to make things worse, Bigby!”

“Because I don’t deserve it!” he roared, suddenly standing up and looking at you.

You gasped softly at how quickly he had turned. You eyed the black claws twitching and his sharp teeth bared at you, those wicked yellow eyes tortured and pained.

“What do you mean you don’t deserve it? You don’t deserve love and kindness?” His thick brows furrowed, he recoiled at your questions. You saw his shoulders shake for a brief second. “Oh, Bigby,” you murmured.

You barely held your arms outstretched for him when he launched himself and snatched you up. Arms around you, his strong knees now trembling, head buried in your shoulder as you heard his unsteady breathing and sniffling. You felt the fabric on your shoulder become wet the more he clawed at your person, refusing to let go anytime soon.

You felt yourself start to tear up, shaky hands grasping at his broad back, fingers crinkling against the wrinkles of his loose dress shirt. You whimpered into his shoulder, hiccuping as you held him in your arms.

You could barely believe it yourself. the big bad wolf had come apart in your arms.

How many years had it been since he last cried? Since he showed any real emotion? How many years of abuse, lies, betrayal, and suffering did he have to go through just to have you walk into his life and change it for the better? How many years was he treated like a monster to actually be treated normal tonight?

You knew what he did in the past, but a lot of Fables were no different. Some have done way worse than Bigby and yet they’re treated better than he is. It wasn’t fair to him, it was disgustingly cruel. To think, the people he keeps safe on a daily basis treat him worse than most of the criminals he locks up.

Disgusting.

You were caught off guard as Bigby let out a pained sob, fingertips digging into your back, trembling against your back like you would vanish if he let go. You softly shushed him, a hand coming up to his thick russet locks to scratch gently at his scalp, slowly swaying with him side to side as you both stood there in his empty bedroom.

[artemis-73]

Suptober Day 13: Monster Mash

"For the record," Castiel ground out. "I think this is a bad idea."

"Noted," Michael said as he straightened his tie in the reflection of the car window.

They were both horrifically out of place. The meeting location had been picked by the Winchesters. It was one of their shitty dive bars with a parking lot that looked like a bad movie set. There were wooden palettes stacked haphazardly with a tarp thrown over them in one corner. In another, a grimy dumpster with broken beer bottles littering the ground around it.

It was before noon, so the parking lot was empty except for their car, but Castiel imagined the unassuming gray BMW was unusual for the area as well.

Of course, Michael noticed his hesitance and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, in our business, you have to get your hands dirty. Now, use your brains and not your fangs, and we'll be fine."

As much as Castiel wanted to argue, he kept his mouth shut and followed Michael into the bar. All the lights were on, but it was still dim. Every surface was wood. The walls, the floor, the bartop, the ceiling. Not only was it ugly, but it meant that the smells of the place seeped in deep. Every cigarette that had been smoked, every beer that had been spilled and not wiped up for hours, it all lingered. Worse than all of that, though, was the current, present scent of dog.

Castiel did his best not to react, no matter how much he wanted to wrinkle his nose.

The culprits were perched on barstools, each with a bottle of beer in their hands. Castiel had seen John Winchester before--they'd had a few tentative trade deals over the past few years--but he didn't know the other man. Judging by the smell, he'd guess another werewolf.

Even though the Winchesters were known to employ nearly exclusively family, and Castiel knew John had at least two sons, there was no resemblance between the two of them. Where John had dark hair and eyes and a broad build with blunt hands, the other werewolf was slight. He was a delicate thing with fine hands and fanning, light lashes around soft, green eyes. He was swallowed up by the leather jacket he wore.

There was something about him that made disquiet roil in Castiel's gut. He knew that he was trouble.

Michael held a hand out in greeting. "Winchester."

The Winchester patriarch smiled wide and half-drunk. "Mikey." He shook Michael's hand sloppily.

The blatant disrespect made Castiel's fangs tingle and threaten to descend, but he willed them to stay in place.

Ever the professional, Michael didn't react. "You've met Castiel."

"'Course. The kid brother, right? Is that what the sharps call each other?"

"Yes, he's my brother."

"I see the resemblance." Winchester laughed at his own joke though Castiel balked at it. He and Michael actually did look alike with their dark hair and blue eyes. It wasn't as though Michael had brought Zachariah or Raphael with him. "Anyway," Winchester continued, "let's get this show on the road. Follow me."

He wobbled off the bar stool and headed toward the door with a "Staff Only" sign. When Castiel tried to follow, the other werewolf slid into his path.

"Nuh uh. You and me stay out here," he said.

"That wasn't the plan," Castiel snapped. He looked to Michael for support, but Michael just raised a hand, effectively telling him to stop.

The door clicked close behind the two older men, and the werewolf went back to his beer. "Name's Dean. Sorry my old man didn't say. He's used to working with people we already know." He said it like doing otherwise was worse than death. "You want a drink?"

"Not from you."

"I meant a beer."

"The answer doesn't change." Castiel shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Maybe if he just got a little closer to the door… He started pacing. After a couple of passes he chanced an extra few steps closer.

"Uh-uh." Dean snapped his fingers. "Where you think you're going?"

Castiel glared. "Nowhere."

Dean smiled, almost easy, but with a sharp edge. "Then why don't you take a load off? And if you don't wanna sit too close to me, there's plenty of seats around." He gestured broadly to the long line of stools.

"No, thank you."

"It wasn't a suggestion." The smile was gone, replaced with an intensity that probably had all his underlings scrambling to obey.

"And what makes you think I take orders from a dog? No, not a dog. A puppy."

Dean's eyes flashed golden, and he snirled his lip to show his canines. "Watch it."

Castiel let his fangs drop and showed them fully on a hiss. Dean crossed the space between them in a blink, but he still had enough control not to touch. He was growling low in his chest, and they were close enough that Castiel swore he could feel it in his own. There was nothing he wanted more than to take the first swipe. He wanted to tear into the other man's throat.

"What is your fucking problem, man?" Dean grit out finally. His eyes flashed back to their natural green, and the breath stuttered out of Castiel. It was the strangest thing, and it threw Castiel off kilter.

Finally, he said, "You smell like a dog." Which was technically true, but he'd worked with wolves before.

"And?"

"This place is a shithole."

"Well, boohoo, Princess." Dean backed away then. He deliberately turned his back and continued nursing his beer. His canines still made bumps across his upper lip, but he seemed calm enough. "You're the one asking us for help."

"Michael's asking you for help," Castiel corrected without a thought.

Dean slanted an unimpressed look at him. "Huh. Never would've guessed you weren't on board."

"I fail to see what you mutts—"

"Okay, dude," Dean snapped. "Enough with the dog shit. Yeah, we're werewolves, yuck it up. Jesus, you'd think you'd never worked with a different species before."

"Most of the species we work with don't smell—"

"Yeah, well, you smell like an emergency room, so people in glass houses…"

Castiel waited for him to continue, to explain, to elaborate. When none of that happened, he said, "What about people in glass houses?"

Dean spun around on his stool. "You're kidding, right?" He looked Castiel up and down. "Oh, man, you're serious as a bullet in the gut. You know, the saying 'people in glass houses shouldn't throw rocks'?"

"No."

"Well, buddy, it's self-explanatory. You stink, so don't go around telling other people they smell bad."

"We don't sme—"

"You really, really do. It's singeing my poor, delicate puppy nose—" It really was a nice nose. Castiel huffed at the ridiculous thought, realized he was staring, and looked away. "—and soon, I won't be able to smell anything at all."

"Are you making fun of me?"

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar behind him, making himself a long, confident line. He smiled crookedly. "Only a little bit."

If Castiel were human, he was sure he'd be flushed. Something like anger heated his blood, and he wanted… He wanted…

Dean had freckles, Castiel realized. They were a light dusting across his nose and the top of his cheeks. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed them before. He wasn't sure why he was noticing them at all. Dean's eyes were sparkling—even in the shitty, low light—like he knew a secret. He raised his beer to his lips. His tongue darted out to guide it home, and as he tipped it back to take a drink, half of it slipped past his mouth and down the front of his shirt.

He jerked upright with a muttered "shit." He scrambled for the roll of paper towels behind the bar. Castiel let himself laugh, grateful that the ridiculous, obscene display was over. His heart slowed to a more reasonable rhythm; the adrenaline that had been singing in his blood faded.

As he cleaned away the spilled beer, Dean kept darting looks up at him through his lashes. There was still a small smile on his lips, but it didn't seem like a taunt anymore.

He tossed the last of the soiled paper towels and grabbed two fresh beers. "Now that we've both made asses of ourselves, you down for a drink?"

"I did no such thing," Castiel said. Still, he took the offered bottle.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure Michael would be thrilled that you hissed at me like a fucking cat." Dean settled on his barstool again, and after a moment's hesitation, Castiel took the one beside him.

"I gotta ask," Dean said after they'd nursed their beers in silence for a few minutes. "The whole hospital thing. Do you bathe in bleach?"

Castiel struggled to stifle his laugh. "Feeding can be messy. We have to use a variety of cleaning materials."

"You totally bathe in bleach. Have you ever heard of cologne? It could do wonders for you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Dean tapped a rhythm on the bartop. If Castiel didn't know any better, he'd think the werewolf was nervous. "Don't know if it would help the dog smell. That's a harder one to cover up."

Before Castiel could think of anything to say, Michael came sweeping out of the back room. "Dean, thank you for keeping my brother company."

"Any time," Dean said easily enough. To Castiel, he said, "Maybe next time we'll get through a full beer?"

Castiel's mouth suddenly felt dry. He nodded tersely before following Michael out of the building.

[judysxnd]

Hiiii

I was wondering if you could write a pedro and reader where pedro is smoking and the reader is trying to make him quit?

The idea I have gives me Peña vibes, god damn, and coincidently I have "smoking by the window" that started playing

That’s funny because I wrote this yesterday and I liked what I did, but today, I proofread and all, and I absolutely don’t like it. But I’m publishing it anywayyyy

Also, I wrote a few requests yesterday, but I’m going to publish them progressively, I still have a lot to do, but I’m getting there!

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

You were laying on the bed, breathing heavily. You were looking outside, the lights from the street lighting the room in a dark orange shade. Pedro was next to you, got up, and put his boxers back on. He reached his jeans that were laying on the floor not far from the door of the bedroom, grabbing his cigarettes and lighter. He walked towards the window, opened it, and lit his cigarette on. You chuckled watching him.

"What's so funny?" he turned to face you, laying against the balcony.

"Nothing, just the after sex stereotype" you joked

"the after sex stereotype?"

"yeah cigarettes after sex"

"is that so"

"yeah, fuck the girl, smokes and generally leaves" he stared at you, smirking. "Is it a bad stereotype?"

"Only for your health" Pedro chuckled. You paused as he didn't say anything more. "I'm just joking" you sat up

"I know" he got closer to you "don't worry mi amor, I am not going to leave you anytime soon"

"You better not" you both laughed. He was puffing more on his cigarette as he got just a few inches from you. But you pushed him away. He looked confused.

"I am not a smoker" you paused "and I don't want to become one" he walked back to the window “plus I don’t like the smell" he leaned on the balcony "you should stop you know"

"I know"

"It's bad for your health" you stood up and started to grab your clothes

"I've smoked worse than that" he joked

"That's not something to be proud of" you chuckled "but it's also bad for the sake of your relationship" he turned around

"what?"

"I'm just messing with you" he rolled his eyes. You started to get dressed "but still, you could try"

"It's only occasional" he finished his cigarette then put it in the ashtray on the nightstand.

“Yeah only after sex probably, but since we have sex a lot, it’s not really occasional anymore” you both laughed

“I’ll try” he said as he walked slowly towards you. “For you” you smiled

"No no, not for me. For you" you both laughed "imagine if we break up. If you did it for me, you'll automatically smoke again" he faked being offended

"who said we'll break up?" he smiled "you're going to be the death of me Y/l/n"

"nah, but smoking will" he playfully hit you before pulling you into a hug.

[charleslee-valentine]

♪ Now when I'm very good, and do as I am told I'm Mama's little angel and Daddy says I'm good as gold

And when I'm naughty and answer back and sass I'm Mama's little devil, and Daddy says I've got the brass. ♪

- What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

~~~~

Fic word count: ~1,600

Warnings: Detailed depictions of child abuse (mental, medical, and physical,) canonical mistreatment of the Sinclair twins, the highchair/restraints being used on Bo, panic attack, near asphyxia, fear of death, smoking, psychological torment, weaponized love, Trudy and Victor Sinclair being horrible parents, childhood mental illness, all hurt no comfort.

~~~~

“Don’t you love your brother, Beauregard?!”

Does he?

Vincent is sitting in his big boy chair in the corner. His hair is parted neatly down the middle, smoothed by Mama’s doting hands and a lipsticked kiss. There’s no mask on his face today. His last one melted.

The brat left in the window where the sun could get it too long.

Not that it’s his fault actually. If the Doc didn’t insist on interrupting breakfast to prod at some scar tissue in Vinny’s nose that was making a whistle sound when he breathed, it wouldn’t have happened. Pulled him away and left his mask where it lie, forgotten for hours while he inspected and snipped the problem away.

And then there was a new issue.

Mama’s mold was still shattered. One problem the Doc’s cold, rough hands couldn’t piece back together into perfection. There's a hero cast somewhere that could make a new mold, but Mama wants a newer one. To replace Vinny’s year four mask.

Every second his scars stay exposed makes him cry. He doesn’t like being stared at and dissected like a bug with its wings pinned.

Bo isn’t in his big boy chair. He’s strapped into the too small highchair. The tray squeezes his stomach and the metal hurts his knees. Not as much as the straps though.

Not as much as his feelings when he’s asked about if he loves his brother.

Of course he does. Vincent is the only one in the house that Bo still trusts. And that means he loves him. Because it isn’t his fault the mask melted. It’s Doc’s. And it’s not his fault about the mold breaking, it’s Mama’s.

And it’s not Vincent’s fault that his face got messed up. That one is Bo’s.

Being a good boy and sitting still and letting Mama get her copy of his face should be just the easiest thing. He’s doing this for his brother. His only friend in the world.

It’s never easy.

Mama makes the mixture in a big bowl, hot water and some powder that turns orange. It’s slimy and smells an awful lot like marshland before a rainstorm. The schlop always feels clammy on his skin. Unpleasantly cold and wet no matter how dry it gets.

“Don’t you move now, Bo. Your papa’ll woop you.”

Lies aren’t allowed in this house, unless it’s ‘I love you.’ So Bo knows she means that threat. He’s got to behave or face worse than this.

Doesn’t mean he just can.

The alginate makes Bo flinch, rocking back to scoot his chair away from the sickening feeling. Mama don’t let up. She scoops up handfuls of it and spreads it on his face like it’s one of her fancy creams. At first she always leaves his eyes out, and his lips, and every time he thinks maybe he got lucky and she ain’t gonna drown him in it.

He’s always wrong to trust Mama.

All it takes is another handful, pressed against his mouth while he tries to scream his protests, but she presses her palm down hard so he can’t open it. Everything’s muffled, bottled up so no one can know.

The mixture sneaks tiny drops past his lips and makes him gag, once, twice- but Mama keeps pressing her clawed hand down until it starts to dry just enough that it holds itself. Then over his eyes it goes.

Bo tries to hold them open, but Mama always knows when he’s gonna do stuff like that. She purses her lips and blows a quick puff of cigarette air, makes him flinch again so his eyes close and she can take advantage of it.

Once it’s dark is when Bo panics for real. The healing wounds on his wrists tear right open again as he thrashes harder. The blood drips slow as honey, pooling around the leather straps holding him down.

It’s moments like this, that Bo questions his trust of Vincent.

Vincent who sits patiently in the corner for Mama to finish her torture so he can get back to being the favorite. Without his mask, he’s not wanted. An ugly, warped thing that needs covering up. Like a weed in the garden. Or a corpse in the Doc’s operating room.

Bo wishes his brother would help him. He wishes his mama would listen and take this stuff off his face. He prays that the Doc won’t come home yet and get mad and make things hurt worse. Or maybe that he won’t come home at all.

Mostly though, his brain is like static. Painful, heated, buzzing tv static burning a hole right through the back of his head. He’s in the middle of it, the dark, and sinking. There’s two little holes for him to breathe through, but he can’t get enough air.

Bo digs his nails into his own palms and draws even more blood, and underneath the sticky shell, he screams. And screams. And screams.

Nobody ever listens.

Mama tugs his messy hair in place of being able to slap his face.

“What did I tell you! Quiet while I finish!”

But there’s not enough air and he needs her to listen. Bo’s going to suffocate and all his mama cares about is making Vincent pretty.

Never learning, never getting used to the constraint, Bo tries to tear his arms upwards from the tape, to dig those blunted nails into Mama’s flesh instead of his own.

He can’t get them to budge.

She just keeps going, either not knowing about the mental threat to her safety or not caring.

The alginate starts to get tacky, so Mama wets strips of plaster gauze, the kind from Doc’s office like he used when he broke Bo’s arm putting him in his restraints a long time ago. Water splashing in a new bowl, rung out of each piece before its placed over top, just makes Bo feel even more like he’s dying. Drops landing somewhere in the abyss, his head underneath the water as he drowns.

Bo wants to die. Or he thinks he is dying anyhow. With the very last strip, Mama covers over his nose too.

Again Bo tries to scream, but barely a groan gets past his sealed lips. The full minute it takes to all harden up is far too long without breathing. What was a completely black void behind his eyes gets sparks of flashing red and white. He’s out of air.

A last effort to get his mama to listen, Bo rocks and slams his back against his highchair, desperately trying to tip it. The impact of the ground would force air back into his lungs.

He feels it start to give way, gravity suddenly weighing more heavily on him, but Mama hisses and rocks him right back upright. Her fault for putting a big kid in a little baby's chair.

Mama peels it all away then. From the outside it’s so easy, to cup the sides of his fake plaster face and ease the two layers back, only a couple scraps left sticking to his skin. She’ll help him clean up later if he’s well behaved at supper maybe.

First thing Bo does now is take a big breath in, but it’s too much at once after so long without air, he coughs, throat raw and dry, making Mama jerk back in disgust from him.

“Did you have to be so dramatic?”

Bo knows he’s crying when the image of his mama turns blurry. His face is already numb and cold and wet, but chest starts heaving with sobs, rising and falling all out of rhythm. Instead of his growling and screaming, Bo wheezes and cries and whimpers, unable to catch his breath, because of the tears this time.

The thing about alginate- it’s very sensitive.

Sure it doesn’t pull too bad once it firms up like jell-o, coming off easy from Bo’s eyelashes and eyebrows without disturbing single hair, but that’s just the thing. The rubbery, weak material ain’t meant to last long. It’ll dry out and shrink in a couple hours anyhow, the whole thing got no real structure.

Mama laid the fresh cast in a box of sawdust to pour plaster in it without spills or damage, and noticed, in the mess of Bo thrashing as it came off, a rip had formed. Right across the middle of his face from the side of his mouth to the opposite side of his nose.

Once upon a time, she’d tried to just patch it when it tore, only for the plaster face to come out warped, cheeks flattened and bumpy, nose crooked. One eye missing. She’d given it to the Doc to dispose of. Familiar story.

Mama clicks her tongue against her teeth, a noise of distaste Bo knows just as well. It sends a cold feeling down his spine, worse than the goop on his face.

“You know I’m gonna have to do that all over again now.”

His wrists won’t stop bleeding. They itch and burn as much as his tearful eyes.

Bo steals a glare over at Vincent in his precious, safe corner. His head down, he’s doodling something. Maybe drawing pretty pictures of Beauregard’s misery. All for himself. Selfish, selfish Vincent, doesn’t help and keeps the pain around as art.

Still, that’s no worse than stealing his brother’s face.

The scar on the back of Bo’s head aches.

“I love you.”

It’s for Vinny. To answer the question, he does love his brother.

Mama answers back, like she belonged between their bond,

“You love me. Well thank God you do.”

Her cigarette ash on his skin hurts worse than the burning in his lungs. The crumbling cherry touches his cheek and leaves a little singe by the corner of his mouth. His own tears soothe it.

Though smoke doesn’t make calming down any easier.

“You best love me, Beauregard. Show me. Be a good boy and sit still.”

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 When the Music’s Over 🎶

After Zelda left, Antoine had opened the club on his own just as he had promised. But after a few weeks, the officers had come back to demand double the cut they were already receiving. Why shouldn’t they? It had worked twice before; they knew he was bleeding out, and like sharks, they wouldn’t stop circling him until he was dead or in prison.

So the next morning he drew every curtain in the building, locked the door, and started drinking. There was an endless supply of alcohol in the club, and Jo kept coming every few days to bring him food and water, so he had no reason to leave the confines of his self-imposed prison.

Each time she saw his worsening state, Josephine would try and coax him out of his stupor, Come outside with me Antoine. Just open the club, I’ll stay here to help. I promise, it will be okay; we’ll make it work. No son, I said there, behind the screen, you don’t want to frighten anyone, do you?

Shit. Had Jo really said that last one? Or was it his mother? God he needed to stop drinking. But why stop? His mother was no worse than those cops, or the sickening guilt eating at every fiber of his being that he had let Zelda go alone.

So he reached for the whiskey to refill his glass. Only as his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle he thought better of it. Yes the whole bottle. Even easier.

Later, as night fell into day or perhaps day fell into night, Antoine groggily awoke with his head on a tablecloth that smelled of champagne and cigarette smoke. He could swear that he heard a noise on the other side of the curtain, the quiet rustle of a lady’s skirt as it disappeared into the hidden corners of the brothel with the shadowy figure of a man.

He lifted his head from the table to grab the bottle of liquor. Empty. Shit.

His world began to spin and the shadows grew into grotesque caricatures. Suddenly the rustling sounds from behind the curtains danced closer to him, obfuscating anything else in his mind.

They danced around him, stroking his face and promising comfort and familiarity as their voices rose into a crescendo, Such a pretty boy, Delphine. I mean really, must he hide behind that screen? Oh look at him. Even more beautiful than his sister, if you ask me. Come on, Antoine, just play us one more song. One song and then we’ll let you dance with us. We’ll even go upstairs with you Antoine, come on. Just play for us.

Their jasmine perfume permeated the club, cutting through the cigarette smoke. The tinkling of the beadwork on their dresses mingled with their laughs, overtaking the sound of lace gloves as they brushed against skin or the heavy silk of a dress as it fell to the floor. Still they came closer and closer, pulling him in deeper, taunting him. One more drink, Antoine. One more song. Then you can come upstairs with us, come on, just play for us.

Each of them the shadow of a woman who once roamed these halls, now nothing but phantoms around him. He brushed them away angrily, their disappointed sighs dissipating into the silence. Then he heard a nearly silent tsk, the one that his mother made when someone had offended her.

Antoine stood, searching for the one person who was capable of injecting a single syllable with so much judgement and emotion.

“Mother…?”

Again the tsk, rising and falling in octave as though she were shaking her head as she made the sound. He spun around furiously, “Mother, I know that you’re there! What do you want, huh? You want me to keep doing this? Breaking my back just to keep the doors open? Hiding away my family just to stay in this damned place? I should be there with Zelda, damn you! Damn you for this place, for your phantoms, for your memories!”

No sound, no response. Not even the ladies laughter or the near silent judgement of his mother that had lived in his mind ever since her death. Just silence.

Antoine grabbed his empty whiskey bottle, resigned that he was alone, the ghosts only in his mind. As he tried to bring it to his lips it clattered to the ground and he fell to his knees along with it.

He pulled the bottle close to himself, addressing the phantoms who were no longer there, “You don’t give a damn, do you? Well I don’t give a damn, anymore. I’m tired, so tired. So tired of being here, so tired of trying to impress you, just so tired….”

Then he laid on his back to let the world go dark, to let the whiskey lull him into yet another disjointed sleep. As his eyes fluttered shut, Jo returned back into the room after leaving moments before to grab him a glass of water. She found him lying there, completely immobile and seemingly unrousable.

Part 1/2

[propertyofkylar]

visitings whitneys moms grave with him on mothers day !!!

anon. whoever you are. i will find you. how DARE YOU

anyway haven’t written angst in YEARSSSS since i was in high school prbly so i hope i do this prompt justice

You walked slowly by your boyfriend’s side, his expression more dour than usual. It was only recently that Whitney had started opening up to you more about his feelings, and you still weren’t entirely sure how to navigate it.

It came as somewhat of a surprise when Whitney told you his mother had died when he was young. He rarely showed emotions, but you could tell the wound still hurt him.

It had made you realize - though you grew up in an orphanage and he still lived with other living family members - that the two of you weren’t really so different.

You looked around at your surroundings before hesitantly reaching out to take Whitney’s hand in yours. He flashed you a surprised look, before his sullen expression reappeared. But he clutched to your hand as though his life depended on it.

Today was a special day. It was Mother’s Day. Since neither of you had a living mother, Whitney had decided to take you to visit his mother’s grave.

You had picked some lilies from your garden and Whitney was holding them in his other hand as the two of you trod ahead. He had been unusually silent the entire walk, but that wasn’t too surprising considering the circumstances.

“Here,” his voice snapped you out of your reverie. “She’s here.”

He led you to a small, nondescript headstone. Your eyes shifted between his mother’s name, birthday and death date and Whitney himself. What do you say at a time like this?

Whitney set the flowers down and then sat himself beside them. “Don’t expect me to, like, talk to her grave or any of that shit,” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “Not happening.”

You gave him a small smile before sitting down next to him. “Didn’t think you would.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder and he let you, the smell of smoke filling the air. “Do you remember her?”

Whitney stared ahead a moment before answering. “Kinda. She was warm. She was real good at cooking,” he took another puff of his cigarette before turning to you. “You?”

“Me?” It always surprised you when Whitney actually seemed interested in your life. “No. I don’t remember either of my parents at all.”

“Hm,” he looked away again. “Wonder which is worse.”

You didn’t have an answer. Instead, you just sat in silence, idly playing with Whitney’s hair as he continued smoking.

“…I still have the teddy bear she gave me.”

Whitney’s voice startled you after the period of quiet. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “The raggedy one on the shelf over my bed. Gave it to me as a baby. Still kinda smells like her, if I breathe in real hard.”

You could picture the bear in your mind - you had been in Whitney’s room plenty of times. It was old and worn, but clearly well-loved. The thought of a little Whitney snuggling it brought a smile to your face. “She sounds sweet.”

Whitney sighed. “She was.” A few more moments passed before he stood up, brushing his pants and extending a hand to help you up. “Come on. It’s cold. Don’t want my slut getting sick.”

You took the hand gladly and stood with him, his eyes not leaving the grave.

He cast one last longing look before trudging forward. “I think she would’ve liked you, you know. She probably would’ve said something dumb like you’re a good influence on me,” he gave you a smirk. “What does she know, huh?”

Whitney’s hand didn’t let go of yours the whole walk back.

[hoziersleftear]

Jason HCs

Is unnaturally cold

Sees Talia as a mother but knows that if he admits that to himself he’s just cursing her to die

Doesn’t actually hate him family, is just angry they couldn’t do more

His eyes have a bit of Lazarus green in them

His eyes are slightly cloudy

Wants to protect Damian more than anything

He’s unnaturally pale and physically cannot tan anymore

Actually would love to spend time with Dick but doesn’t know how to bring it up

Hates the smell of cigarettes

Has never stopped seeing Bruce as a father

Claustrophobic

Is scared for Tim and Damian

Hates silence

Cannot be in pitch black spaces

Won’t let the same thing that happened to him happen to his family

Doesn’t like to look in mirrors because the man staring back at him cannot possibly be the boy the Joker killed

Wasn’t scared of death until he met Bruce because before that he didn’t have all that much to live for

Isn’t scared of death anymore because he knows there are much worse fates

He dyes his white streak to match the rest of his hair so he doesn’t stand out

His voice is constantly hoarse due to smoke inhalation

[collaredattachment]

Feast

Character: Nadja of Antipaxos Word Count: 6,079 Warnings: Blood, Vampire-typical violence, death Rating: M (for violence -- no smut today) Description: Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue. -- There's no worse (or better) day to work a night shift than when Nadja of Antipaxos arrives in London. She is bound to be angry, and very, very hungry. A/N: Happy season 5 countdown!! Here’s a bit of Nadja to ease the wait.

The cigarette tastes bitter and stale as you take a drag and blow out a puff of smoke. You quit a year ago. And then again, two months later. One more time, at the end of June. It never did quite stick.

“You alright, mate?”

One of your co-workers, a man in his late fifties dressed in grimy company overalls and a worn blue cap comes to stand beside you. He seems to be enjoying his smoke significantly more than you.

You never did remember his name. Cal? Cap? Cam? It definitely started with a C.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just savoring it.” You gesture at the dirty midnight streets of Hackney. Nothing quite like working the nights to figure a new place out, to find the heart of it.

Someone pukes a few corners down, and you throw out the remaining half of your cigarette, no longer interested.

Cam laughs. “Nice night for sure. You been here long?”

“Arrived a month back.” You breathe in the stinging air, savoring the bite of Cam’s cigarette smoke.

“London’s all right.” Cam leans his hand over the paint can acting as an ashtray and flicks his cigarette. The burnt remains fall like little snowflakes. “It’s not like films or nothing, but it’s all right. Could be worse.”

“Oh, yeah?” you ask him just as a man, presumably the same one who emptied his stomach just moments ago, stumbles into view and passes you by, careening first towards you, and then back into the opposing wall. You can smell the piss on him all the way from here. “What qualifies as worse?”

Cam coughs and smiles for the first time. His teeth are yellow, and one of them is chipped.

“Let’s just leave it at that, eh?” he says, drains the rest of his cigarette, and throws the remains into the can. He clears his throat wetly, and spits a ball of phlegm into the gutter.

“Time to go?” you ask. He nods quietly, and you follow him back inside.

The warehouse is massive compared to any you’d worked in before. Black splotches crawl from floor to ceiling in a mixture of shadows and spilled engine oil. Yellow support beams reach all the way to the top, stained and worn from holding the place up since the day it was built. The walls are solid concrete, save for the huge shutter doors that open into the chilly night like windows into a different dimension.

The place is bustling — people swarm it like bees loading and unloading, shouting for assistance or barking orders, driving heavy, wheezing trucks and whizzing by on forklifts. The noise is immense.

“There you are!” A gruff male voice calls a few feet away, muffled by the crowd. Your head whips in his direction as he pushes past a group of men with clipboards and hardhats.

Your boss, Tomas, is hard to forget — thick, wild eyebrows constantly bent in disappointment, gaunt cheeks covered in greying stubble, and the constant, pungent stench of sweat poorly disguised by cheap cologne. He’s huffing heavily by the time he reaches you. “Where the fuck have you been, eh?”

Sorry,” you say, tongue thick and dry in your mouth as you try to speak. “I didn’t know we’d already—”

“Bull-fucking-shit, I say.” His hands are for once out of his pockets, and he points his dirt-stained finger towards a Barrington Freight truck that had just entered the building. “Get to work or you’re out — both of you.”

Without another word, you scurry to the truck with Cam on your tail. Cam, who is entirely unbothered by getting chewed out by the boss. He digs something out of his teeth with his little finger and shakes his head as he approaches.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and pulls you out of the way as the truck’s rear doors swing open. He pats your shoulder, much like you imagine a father would. “He pulls that shit every time you take a break. You get used to it.”

You glance back at Tomas, currently busy shouting at a truck driver with so much force you can see spit all the way from here.

“Come on,” Cam says. He climbs inside the cargo space and then offers you a hand that you gratefully take.

Multiple hours pass by in chunks of wrapping and piling and driving and avoiding the wrathful eye of Tomas. It’s monotonous work, work that will remind you of its price the following morning when you roll out of bed only to realize that your back is permanently bent in the shape of an S. But it pays the bills. Parts of them, anyway.

The truck empties slowly, and it seems to be matching up with your lunch break quite nicely. You can’t say you look that forward to fifteen minutes in the front seat of your car with a sandwich and a water bottle, but it’s still a little bit of breathing room.

Just a little further.

There are two crates left, both of them shoddily thrown together and just a bit taller than you, and if you weren’t a little bit superstitious, you might have even said they look like coffins.

You go to push one of them towards the forklift, currently operated by Cam, but stop as soon as you’re close enough to put your hands on the fractured surface.

The edge of the lid is slightly open, the nails still trying to keep it shut completely bent out of shape. Some of them are missing altogether. A thin crack runs down from the corner of the lid and ends right in the middle.

“Hey, Cam?” You chance a quick glance at him, just to make sure his half-open eyes are looking at you. “What do we do about this?”

He doesn’t ask what this is, doesn’t say anything at all, and instead clambers into the truck, absentmindedly scratching at the bald patch hidden beneath his cap.

“Ah, shit,” he says and wipes his forehead. “We gotta check for damage, make sure the goods are still good. If everything’s okay we just seal it back up and let it find its owner like any other package. Got it?”

“Got it.”

You don’t know if he’s talking protocol or if he’s pulling this out of his ass to cover for you, but you appreciate it all the same. Cam looks around for a moment and then hops back out of the truck. He returns with a banged up crowbar, nicked and stained by countless doors and boxes. Maybe even a burglary, who knows.

He turns around, looks both ways, and closes the rear doors behind him.

“You got a light?” he asks, and you quickly fish your phone from your pocket to guide him with its flashlight.

Cam dips the crowbar under the lid of the strange crate and places his foot carefully at the other end.

“Cover your ears,” he says, and you do as you’re told.

The wood cracks as the lid breaks into two. You watch the broken piece ricochet off the wall and clatter to the floor, right by your feet.

“What the fuck?” Cam whispers. He takes a cautious step back, the crowbar held tightly in his hands, pointed toward the crate like a knife.

You frown from your position a few feet away. When he doesn’t say anything further, you approach him, steps loud and heavy, heart fluttering with curiosity and a healthy dose of fear. You’ve known Cam for all of five hours, but you get the feeling that he usually doesn’t rattle easily.

You look inside the crate, and breath runs from you like a pheasant in the burning woods.

A corpse. Inside an obsidian coffin with a broken lid lies a beautiful woman, perfectly preserved. Her nose is straight and sharp, and the curve of it leads down to thick lips, painted dark crimson. Her skin is dry and cracked around her knuckles, and there are splinters under her long nails. Black hair cascades down her shoulders onto her preposterously detailed dress — an incredibly well-kept antique by the looks of it. Early 19th century, maybe? If it weren’t for the dried mascara on her cheeks, she might as well be a porcelain doll, posed and painted to perfection.

“Do you mind?”

Something shuffles beneath the wood, and small childlike hands reach for the splintered edge. Some far off place in your brain wants to warn her to not touch it, but you’ve long since lost contact with your mouth.

A doll nearly identical to the dead woman crawls into sight, its face twisted in frustration.

“Well, what are you staring at?” it asks. “How about a little help?”

You scream and lose your footing as you try to back away. Pain flares in your spine as your back hits steel. Your phone falls from your hand but the light stays on to coldly illuminate the insanity in front of you. By your side, Cam is like a statue of stone, with the crowbar now pointed at the little doll.

Beneath it, the woman creaks to life. A thin layer of dust billows forth as her hand rises slowly, reaching for Cam. Cam, who’s offered her a helping hand in return.

You can’t look away. You’ve never been the type.

The woman’s fingers curl around Cam’s wrist and she snatches a grown man off his feet like he’s made of thin air. A snarl tears from her throat when she opens her mouth and crushes his throat between her jaws. He doesn’t even have time to scream before his neck snaps, the crack soft compared to the moist crunch of the woman’s teeth — fangs sinking into him. The second he is dead, she pulls her head back, and slowly, as if she’s savoring the feeling, she rips off a piece of flesh and suckles it, her cheeks hollowing, and then spits it across the cargo space. In a flash, she’s back at Cam’s neck to nuzzle the spraying arteries, the mangled flesh, the red bone – almost like in prayer, like this is a holy gift sent from the gods and the only thing she can do is accept.

She licks his exposed jugular, dips her jaw into the crevasse of his destroyed throat, and drinks.

Cam empties of fluid in seconds, and his husk of a body falls to the floor with a hollow thud.

The woman lets go with a thin gasp. She wipes her eyes, wipes her mouth. Her hair is soaked, as is her entire face, and she leaves a dripping trail as she climbs out of the crate, red handprints sharp against its pale wood.

She smacks her lips and coughs, mouth downturned in disgust.

“Oh, ugh,” she says. “Anemia.” She blows a raspberry and shakes her head. “Fuck me.”

“Been there, done that,” the doll says, its plastic face dyed a deep, dark red. “You made a hell of a mess, there.”

The woman turns to the doll and makes a face — apparently one of offense, because the doll flips her off in return.

“You try doing this shit,” the woman says, and kicks Cam’s body to emphasize her point. A twitch shakes you from head to toe. “I haven’t gone this hungry since I had to flee the country in 1857.”

The doll imitates her voice mockingly, and the woman curses potently in return. She grabs a bunch of her soaked hair and twists it; a small puddle of blood forms by Cam’s corpse.

“Wait,” the doll says. “What about that one?”

She points at you with a tiny pale hand, and all heat escapes your body. Your fingers feel like blocks of ice as you try to crawl toward the rear doors. Pressure builds in your throat and your mouth opens in an involuntary, instinctual scream of terror, but before a single squeak escapes, the woman rushes you at unprecedented speed and slams your back to the floor. Air explodes from your lungs, and if it wasn’t for the woman’s hand firmly over your mouth, you’d be left gasping.

“I’m not sure,” she says. You whimper and try to free yourself, but her grip is like iron. You can only watch her, desperate, like a pleading mouse in the claws of a hawk.

She purses her lips and looks at you like yesterday’s leftovers. “I’m still a little hungry. But I don’t know if I want to finish this one so quickly.”

A hoarse wail slips past your lips despite the woman’s best attempts at keeping you quiet.

“Let’s take it with us, then,” the doll says, flipping its hair. “I’m down for some fun.”

“Maybe.” The woman turns your head from side to side, appraising. She lowers her face to your neck and your pulse picks up. Your breath quickens. Panic makes lights up inside of you like a flash fire. The woman drags her nose up your neck and places a sloppy kiss on your jaw, as if your fear only enhances her hunt. “I could go for a little snack, still.”

Tears burn your eyes and fall down your temples. The woman catches one, brushes it into your skin and then puts the finger in her mouth, her tongue peeking out to savor your fear.

“Don’t worry, little morsel,” she says, and boops your nose with her manicured nail. “You’re going to a good cause.”

You try to shriek past her hand but her hold only grows stronger as she bends over you and, despite your thrashing limbs, your punches and kicks and scratching fingernails,  she plunges her teeth into the side of your neck.

It stings, sharp as a needle, and then the rest of her teeth dig in, like a vice lined with rows of broken glass. What follows is the strangest of sensations. You’ve had hickies from past lovers, even been bitten by your best friend’s niece, but it’s nothing like this feeling of being drained, emptied like pulling guts out of a fish.

Your fingers claw at her face out of pure instinct, nothing more. She swats you away like a fly and continues, uninterested in your distress.

Your flailing weakens when your limbs grow heavy, like they’ve been replaced with brick. The woman’s hair is in your face, thick and wet and suffocating, and the only thing you can see is neverending black, like staring into a dead void.

You begin to grow still, only twitching when the woman’s teeth dig deeper for just a few more drops.

Wood cracks behind you. The woman pulls back with a deep breath, heady and broken, and turns to look at the commotion along with you.

The other crate, the identical one; its lid is in shambles on the floor, and a man climbs out.

He is short, with a stubbled chin and a pale brown coat, stained with sweat. You smell something acrid as he comes closer, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose.

“H—Help,” you whine through a mouthful of blood. You can barely lift your arm to reach for him. “Please.”

The man looks at you, looks at the woman, and curses in Spanish.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says to the woman.

Darkness finally claims you.

—

You awaken, every muscle in your body sore and aching, in a beautifully decorated living room.

It is dimly lit with candles of wildly different shape and size, freely leaking wax onto the floor, the mantle of the fireplace and the coffee table. The walls are old and wooden, decorated with portraits of the people who must live here: a rich-looking family, blond except for the youngest son and the dog. Beside the paintings are thick curtains, their beautiful silk stapled shut to keep out the sun.

The sun.

How long has it been? What even happened?

You sit up with a groan, your head immediately protesting via a sharp blast of pain behind your eyes. The world flashes to white, then to black, and then finally fades back into view. Another pain bursts forth, this time on your neck, and you cover the spot with your hand, only to be met with a thick layer of bandaging.

You breathe in as deep as you can, and your throat burns, seethes like fire reduced to coals.

Thirsty.

So, so thirsty.

You swallow several times, but it brings forth the taste of vomit and inflames the pain in your mouth — in your teeth. Your canines ache like you’ve badly chipped them, but when you feel the tips with your tongue, they’re unharmed, if a little sore. And much sharper than you remember.

Something tickles the corner of your eye and you gently rub your lower eyelid. Whatever it is flakes off onto your finger. You blink away the spots in your vision and try to inspect the stain despite the dim lighting.

Blood. Long since dried, but impossible not to recognize.

You knead your whole cheek with the flesh of your palm and manage to scrape off a long stain that runs down from the corner of your eye to the top of your upper lip. Strangely, you can’t find the source of it. There’s no cut – you can’t even feel a bruise.

Something clatters in the distance, beyond a door to your right. You strain your ears for more, for footsteps or muffled words, but can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

As gently as you can, you set your feet down on the carpet, soft and plush, and probably worth more than your yearly salary. You test your legs, put a little bit of weight on both of them. A twinge of pain, an echo of severe strain, as if you’d just fought off an intense fever, but other than that, you manage to stand up fine with the assistance of a decorative floor lamp.

You place your palm against the wall, firm and steady, and take a step, just to test the waters. Though your knees wobble and every moment of it hurts, you manage to get moving.

The doorknob is old and made of brass. Your heart is in your throat as you turn it, only to meet no objection. It turns smooth as butter, and the door clicks open, inviting you further.

Beyond, you arrive into a dining room. A massive table stands in the middle of the room, laden with plates and trays of food, all of it half-eaten, like the occupants had stood and left in the middle of dinner. Their forks are still buried in potatoes and steak.

The smell is a crooked kind of heavenly. You know meat, remember it. Your uncle standing at the grill, turning sausages; shepherd’s pie right out of the oven; chicken wings, covered in barbecue sauce. But the smell is off, as if you’d forgotten the fine details of it and could only sense a hazy memory.

Your nose leads you to the spot at the head of the table, furthest from the door you entered. The veal on this plate is half-pink, the way you’d never eaten it.

You don’t need a fork or a knife. You take hold of the nearest chair for support, snatch the meat from the plate with your bare hands and take a bite.

It goes down quickly, and you expect the satisfaction of a meal well prepared, but instead your stomach cramps and you heave, overtaken by nausea. The meager morsel comes up to stain the hardwood floor along with a splash of stomach acid, burning your esophagus like molten magma.

You stare at the mess, brows furrowed and your mouth open, drool still dripping off your lower lip.

Thirst strikes you as if you’re stranded at sea and you pick up a glass, half-full of wine. Usually, it’s not your drink of choice, but at this point you would drink gasoline straight from the pump if you could.

Your fingers tremble and the glass is at your lips, but your stomach turns — enough for you to gag and let the glass slip from your hand to shatter against the floor.

The sound, at least, is satisfying.

Another door to your right opens. You try to hide behind the chair, but your vision fills with dark spots again, and you sway, eyes barely open as you stare at the man standing in the doorway.

It comes back, then. Maybe it’s his cracked glasses, or the smell of viscera enveloping him, but you remember nevertheless.

A late night shift.

A crate.

Cam.

Sick burns the back of your throat all over again as you remember his bloodied corpse on the floor of the truck, staring at you with pale blue eyes, red-rimmed and frightened.

You finally fall to your knees, unable to keep yourself standing a second longer.

The side of your neck burns, and this time you tear at the bandage until it shreds to pieces. There, right where you remember the woman’s cold lips, is a bumpy scar in the shape of her teeth. It’s not as rough as you imagined it would be.

“That’ll be gone in a week or two,” the man says, nonchalantly. “You’ll be good as new.”

He sounds almost derisive. Like you aren’t worth his time. Like you’re beneath him.

A growl rises from your throat, deep and guttural. The tremble in your larynx is simultaneously foreign, like suddenly breathing fire, and as natural as breathing.

“You,” you croak, your shaking finger pointing at his out-of-season sweater. He looks mildly amused, and not even vaguely threatened.

“Oh, boy,” he says.

You leap over the table, dishes and decorations alike crashing to the floor as you clear the room in one single jump without an inch of wind-up. The man doesn’t even take a step back. You snarl and circle him, taking in his scent, the sweet ambrosia staining his plastic apron.

“Where am I?” you ask him. “What did you do to me?”

“I just wanted to take a bath,” he mutters to himself in a voice that should be far too quiet for you to hear. He reaches for his pocket slowly. Whatever weapon he has, you will not give him the chance to draw it.

You leap again with the full strength of your weakened legs, and hurtle right into the wall with a sharp crack as the man dances out of your way like water. He pulls a string of beads out of his pocket — to strangle you, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. He won’t live long enough to lift his arms.

You curl your fingers, claws at the ready, and soar towards him again with a hiss. He dodges, an infuriating smirk on his lips – one that makes you want to break his nose. He slaps something into your back: cold metal that instantly turns searing. You shriek, your hands flying to cover the injury. Your knees buckle, and you bang your forehead into the corner of the table as you go down.

The man comes to stand in front of you and lets the beads dangle by his knees. There’s a beautiful cross between the rosary beads. He must have stabbed you with it — but there’s no blood to prove it.

You pull your hand away from the wound, only to find no wound at all. Your fingers brush the bumpy ridges of a burn scar that’s already beginning to fade.

You look up at the man, confused.

“What’s happening to me?” you ask him. In return, he looks at you like you're an animal too fragile to put down. A chick that got under his skin before he could lop the head off. The man rubs his temple and pockets the rosary.

“Come on,” he says, and puts his hand around your arm.

“What?”

He painfully lifts you to your feet, and you growl in protest.

The man rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

You’re shown through a variety of rooms: a library, a sitting room, a music room, and then up the stairs and through a long, dark hall lit with more candles. Every curtain in the house has been drawn, and some of the windows are covered with newspaper.

You arrive at a door that’s identical to all the other ones: dark, wooden, and with an ornate brass handle. It’s the smell that’s different; sweet and rich and delicious, and it makes you fidget in anticipation as the man fixes his glasses on his nose and knocks twice, his knuckles sharp against the wood. The sound feels like an ice pick driven through your skull, hammered a good two inches in with each rap.

Muffled groans slip past the door, but no one answers. The man knocks again with a bothered sigh. When no one turns up, he opens it himself.

“Nadja?” he says, annoyed.

Your jaw falls open at the sight on the other side.

On the floor are three bodies, mangled and dried up like raisins. A middle-aged man, tall and lanky, by the upended desk and its former contents. Another man, shorter and stockier, spread on the stained satin couch. A woman, no older than twenty, in front of the massive bookshelf by the farthest wall.

In the middle of the twisted formation is the woman, the one who murdered Cam.

Nadja.

Her face is buried in another victim, a woman in her forties with red hair and a ripped safety-vest. Her glasses fall off her nose as you watch.

The man next to you takes a look at your face and scoffs. “Well, we couldn’t leave witnesses, could we?”

You wait for horror, for nausea and fright and all the things that come with seeing real dead people strewn on the floor of someone’s personal library.

It never comes, though. None of it.

You don’t faint in shock. You don’t scream. You barely feel grief as a thick, pungent veil overwhelms you, like the perfumed kiss of a lover pressed to your forehead. The corners of your lips lift, and you feel a little laugh bubbling in your throat, just like after two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

Nadja finally notices you two, and rolls her eyes. With a smack she releases the woman on her lap, who drops to the floor and begins to bleed freely into the ornate rug. It feels like a waste. You want to cup your hands beneath the tooth marks on her neck to save what you can.

“What the fuck, Guillermo?” Nadja says.

Guillermo points at you. “This guy finally woke up.”

Nadja licks her teeth, digging at a bit of skin stuck between her incisors. “Why is it my problem?”

“You’re the sire.” His voice is deadpan, like he’s stating the obvious. “You deal with it. I have my hands full with the shit you pulled back at the warehouse.”

Nadja groans like there’s a knife caught between her ribs. You wait silently, lost in the strange haze caused by the smell – and the faint taste – of the room. Nadja worries at her teeth for one more moment and then finally gets up.

“Fine. But just the basics.”

You feel her stare at you, but you can’t take your eyes off the woman slowly bleeding to death in the middle of the room. The burning in your throat grows stronger, brighter, and butterflies take off in your belly when Nadja comes closer and brings the smell of death with her.

She snaps her fingers in front of your face, and you return to your body. She sighs.

“You’re hungry, dumb-dumb.” She grabs the collar of your shirt to drag you into the room. The smell intensifies and you can’t help drawing in a breath so deep you feel your lungs might burst. Nadja stops and turns to Guillermo, who is still standing in the doorway. “What the fuck are you still here for?”

Guillermo looks like he wants to say something along the lines of fuck you and your mother too, but instead he offers Nadja a smile that doesn’t even remotely reach his eyes and closes the door.

“Good.” Nadja lets go of you and you stumble, still unsteady on your feet. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“What?” you ask her through the smell invading the rest of your senses. The burnt orange light from the candles fades into a vivid maroon, casting the room into pulsing shadows, the strongest of which keeps pulling you towards the syrupy fragrance stuck to the woman discarded by Nadja.

Nadja laughs, and you marvel at the sound. It’s harsh, like a swarm of bees or the screech of a cat.

“Weak in the knees? Little human tummy all upset? Feel like someone put you in one of those blendy things and drank you and shit you out?”

You tick every box on her list, slightly perturbed as to how she knew each one. She then looks at the drained bodies at your feet, specifically at the woman still gurgling only a foot and a half away from you.

“Thirsty?” she asks with a honeyed voice.

You nod, too much and too fast, and regret it immediately when lightning strikes behind your eyelids.

“I thought so,” Nadja says and walks to the dying woman. She drags her to you by her arms, and her pained moans sound like sirens beckoning you into the dark depths of the sea. Nadja appraises you for a moment, takes careful inventory of your clothes, your hair, and then purses her lips. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Some semblance of fear finally seeps into you, and you watch Nadja carefully, measuring the distance between you. “No.”

“Shame. You look like you’d be good at it.”

Nadja crouches and grabs the woman’s chin to turn her head and expose the neck. It isn’t like in the movies, with two tiny round holes to mark the canines. The woman’s skin is rough and torn where Nadja’s jaws were locked before, both rows of teeth firmly sunk into the flesh. She’s beginning to empty; the tide of blood grows slower on her neck and her wet gasps for air are fewer and far between. Based on the gently rueful expression on her face, she knows the end is near as well.

It twists the tight coil of panic in your gut.

She’s going to waste.

Nadja rises to her feet with a grunt.

“I’ll help you, but only because you’re cute and it’s your first time,” she says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply weakly through your trance. Nadja’s hands encircle yours and she presses her thumbs into your palms to pull you down to your knees with her.

Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest, with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue.

Nadja takes your hand and places it behind the woman’s neck, slick with blood.

“Hold on tight,” she says and waits as you tangle your fingers into the woman’s hair. “The first time is the most intense — you’ll need the support. Don’t be afraid to break a few bones.”

Your mouth opens. The woman’s scent hits you like a mirror shattering, and you take a shuddering breath as you bend yourself over her. She coughs and wheezes, blood splashing from her lips, and she looks straight at you. Her eyes are the same shade of green as the calathea on your windowsill.

Nadja sighs. “Look, she’s going to die anyway,” she says. “Make use of her or don’t. I don’t mind a bit of dessert.”

But you can’t move. The woman is staring at you like a drowning mutt, and under her severe watch you can’t make yourself take the leap.

Nadja slides herself behind you and presses into your back, her whalebone corset pronounced against your thin, sweat-soaked shirt. The beads of her dress prick at you, but her breast is soft on your shoulder blade.

She grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes your head down. You inhale slowly, let the enticing scent of iron, of cypress and cherries reach the back of your mouth, and nuzzle the woman’s neck. Nadja’s fingers curl tighter against your scalp, and you finally feast.

The taste is inexplicable. Exquisite beyond your wildest hunger-ridden dreams. It reminds you of a hot summer day, at dusk when the sun has set but the air is still so humid you can feel it move on your skin; of the first autumn evening, when you get to dig candles from the back of your kitchen cabinet and put them by the window; of a winter morning spent indoors with your friends, bundled up by the radiator with a cup of coffee that’s too bitter to drink.

It is relief. It is frenzy. It is peace of mind. It is hysteria.

The accursed burning in your throat ebbs at last, and you hear yourself laughing around the human flesh in your mouth. Something tears, splits, and you move deeper in search of more, more; you bite, you suckle, you drink like it’s your last day on earth until your lips are wrapped around an empty, sunken shell devoid of life, and more importantly, of sustenance.

You finally let go, gasping for air as the woman’s body falls from your hands and onto the floor, her head thumping as it hits the carpet. You lick the remains from your fingers, tongue dipping under the nail so you don’t miss a single drop.

Nadja’s hand untangles from your hair, and her head falls on your shoulder.

“Good, right?” she asks with a sigh. “I still remember my first time. The 1600’s were something else.” She cranes her neck to see your face and slips her arm around you to wipe something off your cheek. Her fingertip comes away bloody, and you open your mouth, but she quickly dips it between her own lips instead. She laughs, softer and more languid this time, and shakes her head. “Someone’s eager. But you’re lucky — this one was the best of the batch.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. She looks at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“So you do have manners.” She huffs another laugh, and runs her eyes down your face slowly, from the arch of your brow to the curve of your chin. “Feel any better?”

“Yes.” The churning growl in your belly has been sated and replaced with a soft, heavy weight, a warmth that spreads all the way to the tips of your fingers. Your head has been filled with cotton and you have trouble keeping your eyes open anymore. “Warm. Good.”

Nadja smiles, wide enough for the tips of her fangs to peek from under her lip. “Sleepy?”

You nod, leaning too hard into the movement, and find yourself approaching the floor at an alarming rate. Nadja’s arm tightens around you, and she pulls you back until you’re off your knees and sagging against her instead. Engulfed by her sea of hair and the abundant layers of her dress, you wait for a reprimand with bated breath, but she lets you lie right where you are without a word. When you make the effort to look up, you’re met with her face, curiously watching you with a small and devious smile. Drops of blood are coagulating on her eyelashes, glittering like gemstones under the light.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, drawing your thumb slowly across her cheekbone. Nadja’s smile widens into a mischievous grin.

“I knew you’d be good at murder,” she says. “A little messy, but first kill is always like that. We’ll fine-tune your technique later.”

You finally let that champagne-laugh bubble over and it spills from your mouth like birdsong, bright and borderline hysteric. Nadja joins your laughter, and you both fall over to the squishy, bloodied carpet.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you float in the euphoria of feeling truly satisfied for the first time in your life.

"We're going to have so much fun," Nadja whispers. She brushes her hair off your face and kisses the curve of your jaw.

In the strong hold of her arms you let yourself sink into oblivion. Your dreams are filled with the sting of her knife-sharp teeth at your neck.

[thousandsun]

Meeting again

Pairing:Chuuya x Dazai

Genre:Angst

Words:1.5k

Warning: Addiction, alcohol, smoking, toxicity, depression,mention of death

After Dazai left the Port Mafia,Chuuya found himself falling deeper and deeper. He thought he could replace Dazai,so he tried to befriend Tachihara. They became friends,but nothing felt like Dazai. Nothing felt like his annoying remarks,like his uninspired nicknames,like their childish arguments.

Once again,Chuuya tried to replace Dazai with something else. He grew closer to his addiction, alcohol. Every night would be just him and a bottle of wine. For a while,the alcohol satisfied him enough. The lonely feeling seemed to stop,the feeling of betrayal too. But nothing lasts forever, right?

On the other hand,Dazai tried to stay away as much as he could. Yet he spent many sleepless nights thinking about his old partner. He quickly realized that,the ginger boy is now more prone to alcoholism. Dazai knows Chuuya better than he knows himself. That's just what many years of friendship did to him.

After all,that shorty wasn't that bad. Even if it took a while to accept this,Dazai knows it,he cares about Chuuya more than he should.

Today,the detective arrived tired from work. Kunikida really overworked him today.

Another night,another attempt to sleep. Dazai knows he can't continue this way. He does not want to see Mori again,but he wants to see Chuuya one last time. Just one last time. Perhaps that would finally make him feel at peace.

He gets up from the bed changing his sleep wear into something more appropriate for their meeting. He grabs his phone and quickly leaves his apartment.

The moon seems to be following him as he makes his way into the Port Mafia unnoticed. Not surprising since he knows this place better than anyone. He picklocks Chuuya's door with a hair pin,just like in a movie. He enters his room carefully,on his tip toes, looking around for his old partner.

The smell of alcohol hits Dazai, intoxicating his nostrils with the harsh scent.

Chuuya is on his bed with his back turned to Dazai. It would be impossible to know someone entered his room.

Dazai grabs a hat from a bedside. The hat of his partner. The hat that he has seen everyday for years. The hat he once stole to make fun of Chuuya. It wakes up lots of memories, doesn't it? An ordinary object can make a simple man shed a few tears. Isn't it interesting how our minds work?Dazai smiles a little.

"Dazai?" He suddenly hears. He freezes realizing Chuuya noticed him. As he glances at the ginger,he acknowledges that the man in front of him is drunk.

"What are ya doing here, mackerel?" Chuuya leans closer to him. His legs are like gelatine. He can't even stay still due to how drunk he is.

"What happened to you?!" Dazai says, ignoring his question. He takes a look around, finally realizing how unorganized his room is. There are clothes everywhere, empty bottles of wine on the floor, cigarette butts,and ripped old photographs of him and Chuuya. He must admit,this is way worse than he expected.

"What do you mean,you jerk? Everything is alright. Stop asking stupid questions." As much as Chuuya would want to hug him tight and never let him go again,he doesn't. He hides his current feelings. This jerk doesn't deserve his tears.

"I know that's not the truth." Dazai gazes at him with a concerned look. "It's me, isn't it? I am at fault for this, right?"

Chuuya tries to take a step closer to him but he ends up falling. "Fuck." He tries to get up. He got too dizzy due to the alcohol he consumed. "You aren't that important. Don't you think you can do anything to me." His tone is cold and rough.

Dazai gets even more concerned. He offers him his hand to help him get up."Let me help you." The ginger just growls at him finally getting up on his own.

"Look,I know I messed up,but you can't keep doing this to yourself." Chuuya knows he is right. He can't keep drinking like this just because Dazai left. Yet he doesn't want to admit it.

"You have no right to tell me all of this" His reply hits Dazai like a sharpened knife. He really doesn't have that right,does he? However,that doesn't stop him from still telling him.

"You know what? I miss you too! I miss you so damn much. But I am not acting the way you do." Dazai says. His voice masks his pain,but his eyes show his true feelings.

"Dazai, you're a goddamn hypocrite." He leans closer to the concerned detective. "Why are you even here? Leave me the fuck alone." His words are said with a harsh tone. One that can't help but hurt Dazai.

"I-..." He tries to respond. No word comes out of his mouth. He just stays there trying to find his words.

Unexpectedly,Chuuya falls again. This time Dazai catches him in his arms. "Careful now" He finally says.

Chuuya's gaze is locked in his eyes. The room is covered in darkness, however the moon is again on Dazai's side. The moonlight falls upon his face highlighting his face features.

"I want to talk to you sober. Let's take you to the bathroom. A cold shower will sure help" He carries Chuuya in his arms to the bathroom. Chuuya struggles against Dazai's grip, his drunkenness making him clumsy and uncoordinated. That doesn't bother Dazai at all. He knows the man he's carrying is too drunk to have enough strength. He enters the bathroom, slowly putting him into the bathtub letting the cold water run all over his body. Chuuya flinches at the sudden touch of the water, his drunkenness momentarily forgotten in the face of the shock.

"The fuck did you do that?!" He sounds more like his true self now. In his eyes, there's a hint of gratitude.

"So we can talk normally" He closes the shower, getting up to grab a towel for him.

Chuuya prefers ignoring him for now. He is definitely not in the mood for a conversation with Dazai right now.

"Look,I came back because I care. I came because I was worried" Dazai handed him the towel along with some clothes he found in the ginger's room. "I thought something like this might happen."

"Then why did you even leave in the first place?!" Chuuya snaps. His voice suddenly became louder.

"Because of him." He immediately replies. "All for his last wish." The brunette gives the man in front of him a sad smile. That makes Chuuya pause and think,then he finally realizes. Odasaku recently died. Dazai must have promised him something related to his disappearance.

His finally got an answer, therefore he should feel better, right? Not really. This only got him wondering why Odasaku was more important than him. Since Dazai had foreseen the outcome of his actions,he must have decided he is less important. This hit him right in the heart.

Chuuya cares about Dazai deeply. His words only convinced him that he isn't worthy of his love. "Fuck you,Dazai!" Dazai sighs giving Chuuya a disappointed look,as if he expected him to react differently. After Chuuya changed, Dazai carried him in his room. He carefully places Chuuya on his bed wrapping him in a blanket. "Do you feel alright?"

"Emotionally? Obviously no." He rolls his eyes at Dazai's question.

"I meant,do you need a painkiller or something? You might be having a headache." Somehow, Chuuya's response reminded him of himself. This was usually the way a conversation with Mori and him would go.

"As if I'll ever accept your help,jerk." His words were sharp,but his body language was enough for Dazai to understand. He immediately brought him a glass of water and a painkiller.

"I know what you said,but this is in case you might need them." His words were carefully chosen to make Chuuya as less irritated as possible and it worked. Chuuya just nod in response.

"I...I want you to know I am sorry.I know you'll never forgive me,and you don't need to." He is nervously playing with his bandages while talking. "I've been thinking about you so much...So much that it kept me awake at night." Dazai is transparent about his experience,even if he knows the ginger might not believe him.

"There's one last thing I have to ask you. A favor." Dazai once again speaks.

"A favor? I'll never do shit for you. Especially after what you did" Chuuya is truly irritated now.

"Take care of yourself. That's all I want to ask." The brunette's voice is trembling. That raises a lot of questions in Chuuya's mind. "Just promise me,ok?" He adds.

"Fine.I promise" The ginger finally agrees. He knows this might make him drink and smoke less,but a promise is a promise.

A sign of relief can be seen in Dazai's eyes. "I just... Can't lose you like I lost Odasaku" He felt a sharp pain in his chest just imagining.

Chuuya immediately notices that something is wrong,but decides to shut up. It shouldn't concern him.

"Time's up." He says looking at the watch on his hand. It's indicating that it's almost morning. "Thank you for letting me stay. Goodbye." Dazai leaves not letting Chuuya even say goodbye to him too.

Was this really their last meeting?

[spideryves]

Forgiveness

carmen berzatto x fem!reader

warning: cursing, mention of death, & angst

Cigarettes weren’t something she smoked often. She preferred weed, the high filling the emptiness she felt when life got too real, the memories of her mistakes and failures flooding in and mixing with whatever shit she was going through at the moment.

Currently, that shit involved the death of Michael Berzatto.

The news knocked the wind out of her lungs, grief taking over her daily routine and leaving her an empty shell of a person for far too long.

Even with Carmy’s (her former best friend) return and takeover of ‘The Beef’, seeing his face for too long only reminded her of what they’d both lost.

The sound of a lighter flickering next to her alerted her of a presence. As if he’d been in her head all along, Carmy leaned against the wall behind her, before inhaling his own cigarette as well. His actions were monotonous, a routine he seemed to know all too well.

It made her shudder a little.

With an exhale, Carmy spoke without catching her eye. “Tina said she saw you run out here, said something about a panic attack.”

Damn you, Tina.

Y/N loved the woman as if she was born and raised by her, but the amount of times she played mother when she didn’t want her too were too many to count. She almost envied Tina’s disdain for some of the other workers, like the new hire Sydney, who walked on eggshells around the older woman.

If she wasn’t on the verge of tears right now, Y/N would’ve let out a chuckle.

“You okay?”

And there it is— the wall she was currently holding came crashing down, silent sobs escaping her lungs as the cigarette fell out of her hands, belonging concrete and piling with the few she smoked a few hours prior.

Carmy’s concern, although genuine, pissed her off greatly.

It was one thing to come running back to save the restaurant after Michael’s death, but to barely acknowledge her existence besides a few moments in passing or direct orders in the kitchen hurt worse than anything else she’d experienced these past few weeks. Even with the small thought of it being the way Carmy decided to grieve made her stomach turn. He had no right to take it out on her.

As he put out his own cigarette, he wrapped his arms around Y/N, engulfing her in a hug she’d silently craved. The smell of the kitchen almost knocked her off her feet, the overwhelming aroma mixed in with whatever cologne he was wearing started to give her a slight headache, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from leaning into his warm embrace.

Only a few minutes passed before she leaned out of the hug, her crying subsided and her breathing only slightly hitched.

They both finally got to look into each other’s eyes for the first time in ages. His brown eyes stared at hers, pools of sorrow and regret calling out to her. He lips moved, as if he was about to mutter an apology or some sort of explanation, but the only thing that passed was a sigh.

He looked away, shame clearly coming across as his cheeks tinted a slight pink.

“I forgive you,” she said, leaning her head against the wall. “But I can’t act like you didn’t ditch me for New York.”

Carmy bit his lip. He clearly felt like an asshole.

“Y/N-“

“It’s okay. Apologize when you’re ready..just stay with me for a minute, okay?”

And so he did, the pair now sitting on the concrete of the alley way surrounded by trash and old cigarette butts. The Beef would be closing soon, and they were definitely needed in the kitchen to help be apart of the clean up crew. Y/N was sure she wouldn’t hear the end of it from Richie, dreading his shrill voice in her and Carmy’s ear later that night, but she didn’t care.

Y/N had Carmy, and Carmy had Y/N. I’m her mind, a small piece of her reality was back to normal. Even just for a night.