#especially women who are a little grungy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

2jaeh · 3 years ago

Text

ENTROPY | LEE TAEYONG

genre: smut

author: SIN!

word count: 3,5k

warnings: stripper!taeyong, stripper!reader, voyeurism, edging, sex!tapes, lots and lots of smut related tags ig

One of Taeyongs big paying customers wants to see something a little more extra tonight and Taeyong appoints you as his partner. The only problem is both of you want to do way more than the customers intended to pay for.

a/n: this is pure filth, I’ve lost my damn mind. Sorry @ God (I also didn’t proofread yet so if there’s mistakes sorry.)

———————————-————————————-

You stepped foot into Entropy, the club where you worked as an exotic dancer for a few months now. This wasn’t an ordinary grungy strip club where grimy men hung out, this club was the highlight of the elite nightlife area.

Club Entropy was a place where classy businessmen and women hung out to close their deals. There were supermodels from all around the world flying in just to do shoots in the club’s infamous mirror room. Just like the guests, the club's chef, bartenders, and especially the dancers were all world class. Now just because it was classy, it didn’t mean there was no nudity or provocative visuals all around, in fact you were pretty certain Entropy had more nudity and shock value than a usual strip club.

“I swear to God if they make me cage dance tonight I’m gonna fake a sickness” Kitty, one of the dancers and your friend yawned as the two of you got ready backstage.

“Ugh yeah, cage duty is the worst because you can’t leave until your shift is over '' you smacked your lips as you applied a second coat of gloss.

“The only fucked up thing about working here is they’d literally ask you to do something random five minutes before your shift” Your friend continued as she pulled her netted stockings over her thighs.

You hummed in agreement more invested in putting together your outfit than listening to her ramblings. Thanks to the wealth of the club and the crazy salary you were honored to receive, the extent of your wardrobe was out of this world.

“What do you think ?” You did a little spin, showing off your dazzling fit to your friend. Kitty inspected your outfit then gave her usual thumbs up approval before snapping a selfie with you.

“You look like the whore of fairytopia” Kitty smiled into the camera and you chuckled.

“Well that’s what I was going for.”

The two of you suddenly heard a knock on the door, interrupting your photoshoot and just from the hand that pushed the door open you knew exactly who it was.

Entropy’s number one male exotic dancer.

Lee Taeyong.

“Hey ladies” he grinned and allowed himself in, “you guys look as beautiful as ever.”

Taeyong sported a leather ensemble, but instead of a shirt under his jacket he was roped with harnesses. Taeyong was a fucking dream for men, women, genderfluid, every fucking type of being on this planet. The man just exuded sex appeal to the point of some of the straight male dancers questioning their sexuality on more than one occasion.

That being said you were definitely no exception. You only had the opportunity to dance with him once and it was enough to make you wish you were in his bed hours later. The way he moved, the way he delicately touched himself and the other dancers was hypnotic. It was no wonder he was the VIPs' favourite for two years now.

“What’s up Taeyong ? Please don’t tell me you’re here to give me cage duty” Kitty sighed and Taeyong just chuckled cutely.

“Nah I think you got the swing set tonight” Taeyong ran his fingers through his hair and then focused his attention on you. “Uhm y/n can I talk to you for a second ?”

You nodded and curiously followed him into the private room next door and took a seat on the plush pink sofa. Taeyong took a sip of water and pulled up a chair to sit in front of you, all his harnesses and chains rattling against each other as he made himself comfortable.

“I just got out of a meeting with the manager and we’re hosting a big fashion designer tonight” Taeyong explained and you listened intently. “They requested me for a performance but they’d like me to have a female partner to add a little more….sensuality.”

Taeyong bit down on his lip as he hoped you understood what he was getting at. Unfortunately for him you weren’t able to comprehend his tone.

“Sensuality ? Like what ? Just grinding on each other or something ?” You asked blankly.

“A little more than that” Taeyong crossed his leg over the other and frowned, “they want to see kissing, touching and foreplay, specifically edging.”

Your eyes widened and Taeyong nodded, fully understanding your reaction to the entire ordeal. It’s not that you were shy to do it, come on your tits and ass were out every weekend but being teased by Taeyong and trying to keep your composure was going to be a fucking task.

“Im going to be a fucking mess oh my God” you said, unaware that you shared your sentiments out loud.

“Me too” Taeyong shrugged and your eyes darted to him. “That’s why I chose you y/n, Its going to be difficult for me to not fuck you in front of everyone and I really do love a challenge” he licked his lips.

Your head was spinning.

You were chosen ? By him ?!

“Do you like or ever want to be filmed ?” Taeyong asked suddenly, snapping you back to reality.

“I don’t mind….but who will be watching exactly ?” You questioned and Taeyong pulled out his phone and showed you his infamous onlyfans account with the list of possibly the richest people that ever frequented the club.

“If we’re going through all this torture for this little event why not reward ourselves and film it to reward ourselves again with money” Taeyong smirked, satisfied with his smart business move.

“I get to fuck you and get paid on top of that, sounds like a win win situation” you held out your hand, “I’m in.”

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you sweetheart” Taeyong winked and shook your hand.

The club was starting to fill and it was just under an hour until showtime. You were ordered to keep hidden from the crowds just in case another person with way too much money demanded your attention and messed up your schedule. Taeyong told you he’d come get you after he greeted his customers and talk you through any changes or additions they’ve made.

You were about to take a seat when you spotted his pink locks bouncing toward you and your stomach fluttered with nerves when he grabbed your hand, leading you upstairs to the private rooms.

The room for tonight was the mirror room. Fucking great. You were already freaking out that you’d have to keep your composure but now you were going to see yourself get frustrated while Taeyong had his way with you.

“We’ll be in here,” Taeyong led you inside the cube where it was surrounded by one way mirrors. “They’re on the outside, sitting around the cube. They can see us but we can’t see them.”

“Can they hear us ?” You touched the leather chair that was placed in the middle of the cube. Taeyong closed the door of the cube and joined you in the middle.

“Nope, I’m pretty sure the music would be too loud for them to hear anything anyway” he smiled and your heart did a somersault.

You admired how calm and collected he was in all of these situations. He was professional but not pretentious. Anyone with his fame and popularity would become an egomaniac but Taeyong was absolutely humble and you loved that about him.

“Once the music starts, that’s our cue” Taeyong tossed his jacket aside and adjusted his harness on his chest. You nodded and decided it was time to match his professionalism. Not only did this give you a chance to learn from Taeyong but this little show could most likely boost your career at Entropy.

The music started to fill the room and Taeyong was already at your side, taking hold of your hips as you swayed along to the music. He smelled like cocoa butter and strawberries, making you intoxicated with just his aura. Taeyong’s plump lips trailed across your glittery skin, moving from your shoulders up to your jawline. You kept your grinding to a minimum for now, if the two of you needed to lead up to foreplay the least you could do was not rush Taeyong.

Taeyong placed his index finger under your chin and turned your face to meet his, giving your lips a small peck. The instant contact already made you want more but you were working on his movements. It was safer to follow him.

“Bend over the chair” Taeyong whispered into your ear and you abided, dancing your way down to the chair and placed your hips over the armrest.

Taeyong traced his hand down the curve of your back and met your Swarovski g-string that was covered by a thin layer of fabric. You bit down on your lip as he smacked your ass as he rubbed his crotch slowly against you, the action already making you wet.

What you didn’t expect was Taeyong’s tongue against your thigh, licking his way up to the curve of your ass and a bit too close to your heat. The motion signaled you to push yourself up and move behind your dance partner, shaking your hips down to the ground and moving your hand between his legs, cupping his member from behind.

“Fuck” Taeyong muttered and threw his head back as you stood up and placed your lips against his ear.

“Kiss me” you mused and you felt absolutely fucking powerful when Taeyong followed your order, turning around and pulling you into a tantilzing kiss.

His hands were on your ass as you swayed your hips, still giving your viewers a dance not just a make out session. Your tongues moved against each other and you unconsciously moaned at how good he made you feel.

Taeyong moved from your lips to your neck and chuckled lightly. “You’re fucking incredible.”

The small praise made you giddy, and for a second you forgot that there was most likely twenty people around this cube watching you right now.

The music slightly switched up, giving you indication of how much time was left and Taeyong took the opportunity to take a seat on the chair and pulled you to straddle his lap. The new position made you realize that Taeyong was much harder than what you had felt earlier and that alone excited you.

“You’re so fucking hot” you grabbed onto his hair and pushed your hips roughly against his while he let out a breathy moan.

“You’re killing me here baby, I just want to be inside you already” Taeyong whispered into your ear, making sure his onlookers don’t see your sneaky exchanges.

You pulled him into another sloppy kiss before turning your body around, your back pressed against his chest and your legs spread open for everyone to see.

“I’m ready” you gave him the go ahead and Taeyong unclipped your shimmering bra, letting your breasts hang free before cupping one in his hand and pushing his other hand down your panties.

You sucked in a deep breath as you got comfortable with his slender fingers rubbing your folds. You moved your hips on his lap, looking for the best angle for both you and him to gain some sort of friction.

The sensation of Taeyong playing with your nipple and him rubbing circles on your clit only to pull away every few seconds was driving you insane. But you knew Taeyong was going easy on you, if he really wanted to send you over the edge he’d have his fingers inside you until you were on the brink of orgasm and pull them out.

“That feels so good God” you bit down on your lip and arched your back into his touch. Taeyong hummed in response, concentrating more on how his boner was now pushing harshly against his pants and he couldn’t do anything about it. He tried focusing more on his fingers rather than his member that was now probably leaking with precum.

“We’re almost done, can I finger you for a bit baby ? I know you can take it” Taeyong tugged your ear with his teeth and you nodded desperately.

Could you take it ? You had no fucking idea. But having his fingers inside you right now ? Sounded like bliss.

Taeyong locked both your hands strongly across your chest and shifted forward in order to give his customers a better view of your soaked panties before pushing two fingers inside you.

“S-shit Taeyong” you moaned, throwing your head back as he bit into your shoulder, fingering you at the most agonizing pace you’ve ever experienced.

Scratch what you had thought earlier. He was not going easy on you. He was two fingers deep into your core and you had to concentrate on not orgasming to appease some rich weirdos.

Taeyong sped up his movements as you contorted your body in his touch, the speed building up an extremely high orgasm and the only thing you felt next was emptiness. A tear ran down your cheek from the missed orgasm while Taeyong stuck his soaked fingers into his mouth and ended his show.

“Baby you’re okay ?” He asked with concern as the cube light dimmed signaling that the viewers were now unable to see inside anymore.

“I think I just lost one of the best orgasms of my life” you sighed, trying to get to your feet while your legs trembled.

Taeyong snickered and helped you back into your bra and grabbed his jacket as the two of you exited the cube and walked down the hallway of VIP rooms.

“Nah babe, I’ll give you your best one tonight, trust me” he winked and led you into a room a few doors down and turned on the lights.

This room was way more comfortable. It was a velvet decorated room, very burlesque, with a circular bed placed in the very middle. You grabbed a pillow and lay on your stomach as you watched Taeyong set up his phone on a tripod.

“So do you do this often ?” You asked casually.

“Onlyfans content ?” Taeyong questioned back as he tried to find the perfect angle for his video.

“Bringing girls up here to fuck for your content” you replied and was surprised to hear him giggle.

“You’re the first one I’m fucking y/n” he made his way over to you and took a seat on the bed. You cocked your head to the side and frowned up at him.

“You expect me to believe that ?”

“Believe it or not but that’s the truth” Taeyong shrugged and moved a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I normally just do solo stuff, dances and what not. But after we danced together that one time the idea of a sex tape popped into my mind.”

You sat up and narrowed your eyes at him. His face was completely serious, and you couldn’t believe what he was telling you right now.

“…why me ?” You raised a brow.

“I know I’ll put on my best performance if it were you” Taeyong pushed you back down onto the bed and straddled your hips. “You’re just so addicting and if I have to say it out loud I may have a little crush.”

“You have a crush on me ??” You laughed and pulled one of his harnesses, “you could’ve told me the night we danced together, can you imagine how many times we would’ve fucked by now ?”

“Well here’s to night one” Taeyong leaned down and gave you a kiss, rougher than the one in the performance. You were glad he wasn’t as delicate as he was during his shows because you were not in the mood for more teasing.

Taeyong removed your bra and panties, throwing them aside before removing his pants and harness, this being the first time you’ve seen him down to his Calvin Klein boxers.

“I don’t think there’s any need for foreplay then huh?” Taeyong smirked as he pulled down his boxers and rubbed his hardened member.

“Fucking hell I can’t go through that shit again” you groaned, licking your lips as he stroked his member roughly and smacked your thighs to open up for him.

Taeyong pushed his member into your core and you arched your back in satisfaction, finally being fulfilled after thirty minutes of torture. He grabbed hold of your hips and slammed himself into you repeatedly, grunting every time his length disappeared inside you.

“All I ever want to do is…this” he moaned, leaning down and wrapped his hand around your throat as he mercilessly fucked you.

“No fuck I’m already so close” you whined, hating that your time with him might be short lived.

“Cum for me baby it’s okay, I’m still gonna fuck you until you cum again” Taeyong placed a kiss on your forehead and continued his pace.

You silently thanked him and allowed yourself to chase your orgasm while Taeyong aided you in rubbing circles on your clit.

“That’s right baby, cum all over me” Taeyong muttered dirty words as your eyes practically rolled back and your orgasm came in strong. You moaned his name so loud that anybody walking outside the room would be able to hear you.

Taeyong slowly pulled out of you and flipped you over, making you get on your knees, pushing your ass up in the air and your face buried into the pillow you were now clutching to.

You shivered when he rubbed the tip of his member against your folds, the sensitivity made you tremble with both tiredness and excitement.

“Good girl” he praised, pushing his length back into your dripping core and dug his nails into your ass, feeling out the new position.

Taeyong started moving his hips until he was back to his favourite pace, grabbing hold of your hair and slamming into you over and over again. He was an absolute wild card. How could he go from being so soft to fucking you in the most animalistic way ?

You already felt the second orgasm on the way and Taeyong felt his own quickly approach but he wasn’t ready to give in just yet.

“Taeyong fuck I’m gonna-“ your muffled voice was buried by the pillow and Taeyongs loud grunts.

“I think you deserve to come from my fingers right baby ?” Taeyong cooed, pulling his length out of you and replacing it with three of his fingers. You were already seeing stars but Taeyong decided to add his tongue to the mix and you swore you were on the verge of passing out.

“Hmmm you taste so good baby, come on be a good girl and cum for me” he hummed against your core while his fingers curled inside of you.

That was it. The way he spoke to you, the way he treated you like a fucking princess was enough for your orgasm to release and your legs to give out. You moaned his name for the 100th time that night and collapsed onto the bed, rolling onto the back completely forgetting that he still needed to cum.

Taeyong jumped off the bed and grabbed the camera, holding it above your fucked out body and smirked to himself.

“I treated my baby well didn’t I ?” He spoke to his audience and slowly rubbed his member.

“You didn’t cum though” you looked up at him and pouted.

“I was waiting for those pretty lips to get to work” he swiped your lip with his thumb and you smiled sweetly and got to your knees.

Taeyong focused the camera on your mouth around his length and threw his head back as soon as you took him in. You did your best in order to bring him to a satisfying orgasm as he did to you. Using your hands to stroke him and your tongue to stimulate his tip, a small twitch showing you that he was ready to release.

Taeyong tilted your head up to face the camera and stroked himself until he came all over your tongue and chest, licking his lips at the sight of you covered in his seed.

“Hmmm that’s my good girl” he praised once more and gave his audience a final look at you before switching off the camera.

Taeyong quickly fetched a clean towel and helped you clean up before joining you to relax on the bed.

“You know now that you’re mine I expect you to be in all my shows, at Entropy and onlyFans” Taeyong raised a brow and you rolled your eyes.

“I’m yours ? In what context ?” You narrowed your eyes.

Taeyong grinned and pulled you closer to his chest. “In the context of I’d like you to be my dance partner, my fuck partner, and my sexy girlfriend” he cheekily smiled.

You placed a kiss on his cheek. “Well I’m not one to say no, I hear what Lee Taeyong wants, Lee Taeyong gets.”

#Taeyong smut #nct smut #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct au #nct 127 #taeyong imagines #taeyong scenarios #kinktober #nct 127 smut

498 notes · View notes

inknopewetrust · 4 years ago

Text

In Another Universe (Marcus Moreno x Fem!Reader)

Summary: If Thanos’ destruction wasn’t enough, being blipped into another universe was worse. After finding yourself in the universe of We Can Be Heroes, you must maneuver your new life and relationships while trying not to dwell on the one you lost.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Fem!Reader (We Can Be Heroes)

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Some descriptions of violence, nothing extreme.

A/N: *Gif not mine.* Thanks so much for requesting this @jupitersmoon167 ! I just have to say—not only did I love writing this, but it’s like a whole ass fic in one. Request are currently OPEN, see request guidelines in bio for details!

In an instant, the world you once knew was gone.

The last thing you remembered was the sensation of fear. But it was ethereal, painless compared to anything you’d ever experienced before. Fighting with Nat was worse than the affects of Thanos’ snap, well, for you anyway.

It wasn’t until you woke up in a world that felt so incredibly familiar yet so incredibly foreign at the same time that you realized what ever event the snap set off, it wasn’t one that brought peace to anyone.

“Y/n! Come play with us!”

The moment of relapsing memory was broken by the sounds of children running and shrieking in the park. The sound was strangely comforting because it reminded you of home, of the little one you had to let go, and the found family you may never see again. But the little girl that screeched your name from across the park on the metal bridge reminded you that there was something good in this world, even if it wasn’t your own.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

The voice sounded beside you on the other side of the tree before you even managed to budge from your leaning stature against it. Nothing Missy ever did went over Marcus Moreno’s head. He watched her like a hawk, as if his eyes were glued to her every movement but you couldn’t blame him. Missy was his life. He did everything for her.

“Don’t approve?” You quirked your head to the side with a smirk that you knew Steve would have said it reminded him of Natasha. Natasha, Steve, Tony...

“Well she doesn’t know you like we do. I think it’s best if she keeps her distance. Not to mention for the safety of the other kids...” Marcus trailed off as his gaze tracked from your own to the playground and the group of Heroic children that littered the place. It was chaotic, but normal? You didn’t know what was normal or not anymore so in truth, you felt it didn’t even matter.

“I don’t hurt children. I would never hurt a child.”

“How are we supposed to know that? What have you done but lie to all of us to make us believe you wouldn’t kill us all right now?”

“Are you trying to make me angry, Marcus?”

Your eyes narrowed as you crossed your arms over your chest. You knew they didn’t trust you. You knew they had a hard time believing your story, even after a year but yet they continued to let you go on missions. They continued to invite you to group luncheons and trusted that you wouldn’t sell their secrets to their enemies.

“Testing your patience.”

“If you didn’t trust me with your daughter, why did you let her eat the food I brought? Why do you let her come to headquarters-”

“Because The Heroics are family. This whole thing-” He rose his hand and gestured to heroes and their children gathered and played around them.

“-is her life as much as it is mine. You came here from some “world” that we’ve never heard of that apparently looks a lot like this one. You are the stranger here, not her and especially not at headquarters.”

Marcus huffed in aggravation and stalked away from the tree and to Anita who had been set up at a picnic table not far from the playground. Anita watched her son make conversation with the newest Heroic and shook her head in a brief and tiny fashion as her son walked toward her with a plume of invisible smoke coming out of his ears.

“You shouldn’t be so rude, give the girl a break. She’s lost everything and everyone she’s ever know and I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a brilliant fighter. The training she could give all of you is worth more money than we spend in a year fighting aliens.” The look on Anita’s face was critical of Marcus. The son she knew, the one she raised was not cynical or mean. He was kind and loving and a father who would have wanted Missy to have strong women in her life.

“She doesn’t belong here. She isn’t a Heroic and she doesn’t need to talk to Missy any more than she does already.”

“But does she seek out Missy at headquarters or does Missy seek out her?” Marcus couldn’t recall if Missy’s interactions with you were brought on by his own kin. He found the girl hanging upside down on the monkey bars with Guppy below her jumping up to try and touch the long, black locks of his daughter. She looked so carefree, so full of joy until she flopped back onto her feet and turned her gaze toward the tree, almost ready to yell. Marcus followed her eyes only to notice you had gone, like a ghost, and Missy was seeking you out.

In The Heroic Headquarters, you often wandered the halls aimlessly, minding your own business as your thoughts were filled with the events that happened exactly one year before. It was already your one year anniversary in this new world. But my God, or to whatever God was out there, you missed your old life. Even if life wasn’t exactly the most glamorous before Thanos arrived, you had found a comfortable family in Natasha, Steve, and the others who stayed behind at the Avenger’s Facility in New York. Natasha was your sister in all things but blood and you would do anything to see her again. Steve had been the one to lean on when your memories of Russia, of that room, of the little one you had to give away, came flowing back in waves too ample to deal with alone. They were everything to you, everything.

And now you sat alone in an office you were sure was once a broom closet and lie in wait for the other heroes to come, visit, to extend a gracious hand to someone who is hurting but it never came. Every day that passed made that more clear. Even the materials they gave you were sub-par to the advanced ones that scattered the offices of the Heroics. You wondered how this world’s technology was so different from your own and no one knew of it. This multiverse, this time continuum that has taken place is far beyond any knowledge you claimed to have. It took nothing to image Tony or Bruce having an absolute field day with all of this.

“Ms. L/N?” A knock alerted you that a visitor had in fact found your small, grungy door in a vacant hallway.

“Come in!” Who were you to ignore a visitor when all you could think of was the family you’d never see?

Anita Moreno cracked the door open and popped her head in with a smile. She quietly closed the door behind her as she took a seat in the broken desk chair situated across from your desk. You wheeled as best as you could from behind the computer to give her a small, welcoming smile.

“What can I do for you Mrs. Moreno?”

“Please, it’s Anita. You’re a Heroic now, no need for the formality.”

“I’m not-” It wasn’t a chuckle that sounded with your denial. It was a stone-cold denial of being a Heroic because it erased what you really were, an Avenger.

“You are here. You are here.” Her tone wasn’t offended, but re-assuring in her proclamation. Anita could read people like books and you doubt you evaded her abilities by being from another universe. She was far too skilled to let people and their problems fall under a radar.

“I have a request for you, well two to be exact.” She looked up from her folded hands expectantly waiting for you to nod, allowing her to continue on.

“First, I have a mission for you with Ms. Vox and Marcus. It’s nothing too concerning but it needs to be taken care of. And for my other request, I’d like you to help train Missy.” You were sure if you had been drinking anything from water to vodka that it would have found itself all over Anita, but you managed to stay mum and concealed.

“And Marcus approves of this?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Going behind your son’s back and letting his precious daughter train with a woman he sees as a weapon? My, Anita. You have taken me by surprise, I must say.”

The elder woman smiled slyly as if she were getting away with a far more terrible crime. Missy was just as important to her as she was Marcus. Anita was not going to let Marcus’ prejudice against you prevent Missy from looking up to an accomplished and heroic woman as yourself.

“As long as Missy comes home with no scrapes or bruises, there should be no problem. You can use one of the rooms here and I’ll make sure his card can’t access it. I’ll bring Missy in when she’s done with school, leaving about an hour for her to work with you.”

Anita rose to her feet, preparing herself to leave the room but instead, she turned back around, looking you dead in the eyes and for once, looked like someone who cared.

“I don’t know what your world was like. I don’t know who you were there or the family you left behind, but this is your world as much as it is mine, Missy’s, or Marcus’. He shouldn’t be so cruel. I see how you look at the girl, like she’s special. She is. But I couldn’t help but think it was something more...” She trailed off her speech just as Marcus had that day at the park. Like mother like son you suppose.

“Did you have a family? A child—I mean?”

For the first time in your life you were speechless. Was it that obvious? The longing? You never spoke of the child, not even to Natasha or the others because it was far too painful to recall. The Red Room was traumatic enough and by barely escaping to save the life of a child you so desperately wanted only to give it away to protect its life was worse. You didn’t know where she was or who she lived with now. Her life was an illusion to you if you could craft one. That alone broke you, chilled you to the bone. You held her for two minutes before they took her from your arms to give to another and it would be the one thing you would always regret.

“You don’t have to answer-” Anita backed away from the question when she analyzed your reaction. But she was the only one who cared enough to get to know you and that opportunity for connection was slipping away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, I did. I don’t know her name or if she’s... if she’s alive anymore but I did. I had to give her away. She would be ten.”

“Oh I—I am sorry, I didn’t know.”

“No one does.”

Anita could only nod and attempt to leave again but was halted by your voice.

“Thank you for coming here.” She nodded, acknowledging the difficult transition she knew you were having.

“When is the mission?”

“Two weeks. I’ll, um, bring Missy tomorrow. I’ll send a message about the room later today.”

She left with a twist of the door handle, leaving you with the thoughts of the girl who you tried to, but never could forget. But Missy helped to fill that gaping, vacant hole in your heart. After the first week of pure hesitancy, Missy came running in every day after school with a wide smile, bragging about the grades she received, the friends she had, and the way her father always put her perfect grades on the fridge when she got home.

Missy let you into her life without you asking for it. Even with the distance you tried to give her in order to protect yourself from any kind of unintentional attachment with the girl, she melted it with a look in her kind, young brown eyes and her shining smile. Missy treated you like the adult and role model she wanted, not some foreign alien that the Heroes treated you as.

“How do you know how to do all this stuff?”

Missy was stretching on the red mat while you built an obstacle (of sorts) but only half of her attention was on the task you had instructed her to do. It was the second week of your daily training with Missy and she was disappointed to hear that tomorrow, you would be off on a mission, therefore her favorite after school activity would have to wait.

“I was a spy for many years and I had been in this academy of women fighters.” That’s the only explanation you could give her without truly telling her what happened to you in Russia. The horrible, wicked people who experimented and forced you to become a weapon on behalf of the state.

“And what about your old team? How did you meet them?” She sat up now on her knees in an anxious, excited inertia.

There was an initial hesitancy with that question, though you had to ask yourself why. Why, after a year of being in this new world, were you still not willing to be open and voice your story to someone who wanted, someone asking, for it. But what did you have to lose but divulging in this girl’s questions? Nothing. Heck, Nat would probably be proud that you let your guard down enough to make a connection in the first place.

“I met them through-”

You didn’t even get passed the fourth word when the door to the training room slid open and a very, very, angry Marcus charged in with Anita on his tail. She looked pleadingly at you as he grabbed his daughter off the mat on the floor and grabbed her bag from the highest stack of mats to his left.

“Marcus please!” Anita tried to plead with him but he did not listen.

“No! I told you I don’t want her anywhere near her and what did you do!?”

Marcus tossed the bag to Missy who barely caught it in her trembling hands. She had never seen her father break the cool façade he wore on the daily.

“Dad-”

“You go with her. I am not going to have this conversation with you now, but when I get home, you better believe that we will be having a long talk about this.”

Anita wrapped her arms protectively over Missy and practically dragged the girl out of the room while Marcus stood with his hands splayed on his hips in anger. Maybe if it were another universe you would have found it just a little adorable.

“I had my suspicions that this is where she was. Three days ago when my card denied me access to this room I knew someone was lying to me about it.”

“Marcus, you’re over-“

“I am NOT OVERREACTING!” He shouted with a blazing fury. His eyes were filled with nothing but a fatherly rage.

“I asked you to not go anywhere near my daughter and here she is training with you like some—some prodigy! She is my daughter!”

“You think I don’t know that!? Do you really think I am that stupid to not notice the girl is your daughter? She’s just like you!”

“If she was just like me, then she wouldn’t have run off every afternoon with a deadly stranger.”

You shook your head at him with petty laughter.

“You are the most ridiculous, most annoying, and most PRETENTIOUS PERSON I HAVE EVER MET!”

Rage continued to boil up his body like a pot of water. Had Marcus ever met someone he found as infuriating as you? No. Had he ever met someone like you? No. Had he ever been slightly curious about you? He wouldn’t answer that question. Besides, now he was playing protective dad and he never had been given a reason to trust you.

“If you had a child, I bet you would feel the same.”

You think he meant it as some sick burn but he had no idea, none of them did. So your brows lifted at him as a smirk graced your face knowingly.

“If you cared for a second to get to know me— you would know the answer to that question.”

More than a deadly spy, though none of them ever cared to know more than what your profession suggested.

You left the room in an abrupt haste following the confession. A part of your conscious still wasn’t sure whether or not telling everyone every little detail about your past was a good idea, let alone a safe idea. But every night you thought of the family you disappeared from; how you wished you could have told them everything about your past before they disintegrated into dust around you. If you couldn’t do it then, maybe you could do it now.

The next day happened to be the mission Anita had set up for Marcus, Ms. Vox, and yourself. While Marcus waited in uniform with the singing siren pacing the room, he was sure you weren’t going to walk through those doors. One side of him felt that you were the kind of person who ran away after exposing some deep secret, the other thought maybe you just quit. But when you waltzed in with your weapons and uniform perfectly pressed, he couldn’t make eye contact.

If it weren’t for Missy’s dotting on your character that previous evening, he probably would have still been angry. But there was little doubt in his mind that Missy would lie about someone she trusted, so maybe he could give you a chance. That belief quickly turned when you wouldn’t speak to him or even look him in the eye five hours into the mission that had you all stuck in a building across from an increasingly suspicious studio apartment. According to Anita, this is where technological weapons were being stored and the mission was to identify the weapons and alert headquarters so they could send an extraction team. Unfortunately the view was poor and between the three of you, only three pieces of equipment were identified.

“I think we should try and sneak in.” The suggestion came from Ms. Vox who appeared a bit eager to be on an incredibly serious mission. Marcus tried to look at you for an opinion but you gave him no audience.

“If we go in, someone needs to stay behind to keep guard.”

“Maybe I could keep guard and you both can go in?”

The proposition was most unwelcome. You and Marcus, together, on a mission that was possibly deadly, and you still wouldn’t look each other in the eye.

“Or I can go with one of you?” Ms. Vox’s voice was straining but she walked on egg shells to get an answer. Be the bigger person, be the bigger person.

“Marcus and I will go inside. Vox wait down the hall from the door and you need to press the call button on the watch if you see anyone. If we are not out of the apartment in five minutes, alert headquarters and let them bring in the team.” It was a demand and no questions were asked as Ms. Vox rose first to leave the room, followed by you, then a concerned but unquestioning Marcus.

To the building across the street and down the hall, no words were exchanged between the two of you. You both kept quiet as the room came closer and all weapons were drawn in protection.

“You take the left and I’ll go right.” Again, he didn’t question it but he did nod, meet your eyes in understanding.

For starters, the apartment was entirely open concept. The floor was lined with rows of computers; all had been wired to one another and their screens were a blinding blue. You looked up at Marcus as he rounded the row nearly three yards in front of you. The look he returned was unsettled by the scene.

“What do you think they’re doing here?”

“Beats me. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” And it was true—he truly hadn’t. Most of the time missions were against some alien breed, certainly not old junkie computers from his childhood. You lowered your gun for a brief moment, pressing a key on the closest keyboard and all the computers went black. The light from two sets of comms were the only light in the room until a stream of three, then four, then five lines of green invaded from the window. Slowly they crept on the floor until the met a black boot and trailed up the targets body.

It took no time for you to realize what it was.

“Get down! Marcus get down!”

You practically barreled into him as fast as you could, wrapping your arms around his torso as his swords went flying in the opposite direction. Gunfire erupted around you both as you scrambled to drag his body with yours to a corner away from the windows.

“Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

All you could illicit was a nod in combination with a panic gaze. It would take four minutes for the rest of the Heroes to arrive and find the two of you. But whatever happened in Marcus’ brain the moment he saw you tumbled towards him in his moment of peril, changed the dynamic.

It first began as complete acceptance into the team. No one questioned your actions and your abilities were praised just as much as the others. Marcus didn’t keep his distance, but also allowed Missy to continue lessons after school because he trusted you. You saved his life and if it weren’t for you, he would have never seen Missy again.

After about a year of acceptance, Marcus attempted friendship. He would ask you to do things, outside of work, especially when they involved Missy. Bowling, Pizza nights, ice cream runs, game nights; they all became normal after the first few times of pure hesitancy. Although you weren’t entirely comfortable with the idea because of how he treated you in the past, you could tell it was an honest effort. You also would be lying if you said you didn’t have any fun doing those things.

In your fourth year in this new universe something else happened—something unexpected. Instead of what had become a usual game night, Marcus asked you on a date. Your initial reaction was to say no, laugh at the attempt, and return to the monopoly game (yes, you did find it strange that this universe had many similarities to the other). But the “what if” question lingered after minutes of contemplation so you said yes. And you would be lying again if you said anything other than it was “the best date you had ever been on.”

And somewhere in that fifth year of living, Marcus asked you to move in with Missy and himself, and you said yes. Finally, a family of your own that wouldn’t disappear at the snap of a finger. Every day you thought of what Natasha would say to you if she knew about this. One part of you wanted to believe that she would be surprised but proud, while the other believed she would laugh and call you soft. In reality she would have responded both ways.

Every morning you woke up to a man who looked at you as if you held the world in your hand. How you went from enemies to lovers was beyond your comprehension but you didn’t want to question it further. The way he would hold your hand on difficult days, smile at you from across the table, kiss you goodnight, love you until you believed you couldn’t be loved anymore. It was those things you didn’t have in that other world that you just held onto with a tight grip now.

As Marcus readied lunch in the Kitchen, you helped stack new books on Missy’s bookshelf with her. The girl had grown so much over the years and was making her way into becoming the leader Marcus, and Anita, wanted her to be.

“I left a box out in the hall, do you think you could get it?” Missy asked as she admired the cover of a fantasy book in front of her. She looked up with her big brown eyes that reminded you so much of the man in the other room that you couldn’t deny her anything.

“Sure. Be right back.”

But you never came back.

Because you woke up with a jolt on the dirt ground of a forest you hadn’t seen in years.

Wakanda.

273 notes · View notes

femme-rats · 2 years ago

Note

for the lesbian asks: 1 (and what it means to you), 4, 17 💘💘

Hi and thank you!

1) Femme or butch? (And what it means to you)

I'm femme! And to me that means that I first and foremost prioritize other women, especially GNC women (and nonbinary people who feel some form of connection to womanhood), in all parts of my life. As a femme I feel being a safe space especially for GNC women and nonbinary people is very important in how I comport myself, and how I relate to everyone I come in contact with. Being femme also means that I consider myself "feminine" and I perform femininity, but also that my femininity is interpreted/built around the desire to be attractive to myself and to other women - whether that aligns with mainstream feminity or not.

And for me being femme is also inextricably tied to my attraction to butches. I am femme because I want them to desire me, and to know that I desire them (so it's lots of flagging, one day I will own a crop top that says butch bait and I will never take it off).

4) Describe your style

Lazy/grungy 😂 usually I'm just in leggings and a Tshirt or oversize sweater. But when I'm feeling up to it I like to dress a little punk, a little goth, and a little like a preschool teacher. Poofy skirts, wide sleeves, and belts that highlight my waist are some of my favorites. I also tend to wear *a lot* of eyeliner, usually with big showy wings! And I spend an inordinate amount of money on my nails these days, a new design every 2-3 weeks 😅

17) If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?

Okay I had to really think about this one because I actually really love living in the PNW, it's the cost of living that makes me want to move 😅 so I'd either stay on the west coast but move to coastal Oregon, or if I was feeling adventurous move to Scotland or Ireland (and I could get an Irish Irish wolfhound then!)

#ask #sapphic-soviet-kitsch

2 notes · View notes

bartenderpuck · 2 years ago

Text

Introducing Puck

Name: Puck Age / D.O.B.: 26 2.29.1992 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: gender apathetic (genderqueer femme if academic, genderfucker if not) they/she, Lesbian Hometown: New York City Affiliation: Civilian Job position: Bartender at the Gentille Fille Education: GED Relationship status: allergic to attachment Children: absolutely not Positive traits: adventurous, generous, confident, perceptive, versatile Negative traits: impatient, hedonistic, facetious, licentious, self-indulgent

�� BIOGRAPHY

tw. teenage pregnancy

Basic outline, more to come

Pucks mother Luanne got pregnant on accident, but in her defense she didn’t know how people got pregnant. She thought a husband and wife laid in bed next to each other and prayed, and if they prayed enough then an Angel would come down and give them a baby. An overly Naïve view for a sixteen year old, but she was homeschooled without any thought of sex-ed. By the time she realized she was pregnant she couldn’t hide it, and went crying to her father to learn how it could have happened. He was disgusted, and physically threw her out of the house. She went to her boyfriend for help but he abandoned her as well.

She chose to keep the baby, even without any support from her boyfriend or family. She had no support system and ended up living in a home for pregnant and parenting teens where she received prenatal care and support. A few months after Puck was born she started dancing and found that she loved it, not only because of the monetary benefit but the empowerment she got from it. She was taken under the wing of a few senior dancers who pooled resources to buy a home and create a safe living space. Puck was raised by this village.

Puck moved out shortly before their 18th birthday and got a little apartment over a bodega where they got a job working 2nd shift. She started dancing at 18 to bring in extra money, taking the occasional sugar baby gig as they went.

Gender had always been a point of ambivalence for Puck. This especially came to light once they started dancing and working in clubs. At the bodega and on the typical day to day she could be found in grungy torn jeans and a cut muscle-t, their presentation being pretty masculine. But at night working the clubs they performed femininity, and gender quickly became viewed as more of a tool than anything else.

Puck has been working at the Gentille Fille for a few years now as a bartender, though they have been known to hop on stage occasionally if a girl needs coverage and can’t dance on short notice.

- Puck’s a bit of a showboat fuckboi, and their lifestyle reflects that. They have a flashy black sports car with LED under lights, and a number of motorcycles. But despite their peacocking and partying her mother instilled strong values. She never drives intoxicated, she’s got a small collection of Penny boards for that. You can’t get a dui or run over anyone on a skateboard.

- They were given ample opportunity to live a life different then Luanne’s. An ample college fund was set up for them, and they were encouraged to chase their passion and explore. The only problem is they genuinely like the club life. They have chased other passions, a semester at cosmetology school, working in a mechanics shop, tattoo school. They are happy bartending for now, but have been playing their hand at making custom mixes for dancers in their spare time.

- Luanne made Puck wait until they were 18 to start getting inked, and they haven’t stopped getting any sense. Most of their work is done in black and gray, with selective color.

- Puck puts a lot of effort into their physical appearance, has firm muscle tone and has been known to throw troublesome patrons out along with the bouncers but at their heart they are a golden retriever boi who chugs respects women juice.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

- half siblings

Her dad abandoned her mom after he got her pregnant and Puck has never met him but he’s out there somewhere. Anywhere from 21-30, totally open feel free to message if you want to plot.

- Hookups

Puck is (historically) allergic to monogamy, but enjoys a good time. This could change in the future, but she has been known to leave a string of broken hearts behind. They try and be upfront about this but are not always the most effective communicator.

- Past Mentors

Puck has had more than a few false starts on a host of different careers making them a jack of all trades, but along the way, they had to have mentors. They could still be on good terms, or maybe the mentor resents Puck for abandoning the chosen career. Open to pretty much anything!

Please throw any and all ideas you have my way! I will be filling this out more as Puck gets better seated in and plots get established.

#c: puck #wb.intro

1 note · View note

improvidence318 · 4 years ago

Text

i said screw it so here it is

howdy howdy, this is the anon with the 20’s lingo sheet. i don’t have a tumblr (though i wish i do tbh) and realized that i don’t know how to work shit on tumblr, so i’m just sending in the sheet through a text post. i am highly aware of the amount of power i’m bestowing upon you and honestly couldn’t give a damn

ab-so-lute-ly: affirmative all wet: incorrect And how!: I strongly agree! ankle: to walk, i.e.. “Let’s ankle!” apple sauce: flattery, nonsense, i.e.. “Aw, applesauce!” Attaboy!: well done!; also, Attagirl!

baby: sweetheart. Also denotes something of high value or respect. baby grand: heavily built man baby vamp: an attractive or popular female, student. balled up: confused, messed up. baloney: Nonsense! Bank’s closed.: no kissing or making out ie. “Sorry, mac, bank’s closed.” bearcat: a hot-blooded or fiery girl beat it: scram, get lost. beat one’s gums: idle chatter bee’s knee’s: terrific; a fad expression. Dozens of “animal anatomy” variations existed: elephant’s eyebrows, gnat’s whistle, eel’s hips, etc. beef: a complaint or to complain. beeswax: business, i.e. “None of your beeswax.” Student. bell bottom: a sailor bent: drunk berries: (1) perfect (2) money big cheese: important person big six: a strong man; from auto advertising, for the new and powerful six cylinder engines. bimbo: a tough guy bird: general term for a man or woman, sometimes meaning “odd,” i.e. “What a funny old bird.” blotto (1930 at the latest): drunk, especially to an extreme bootleg: illeagal liquor breezer (1925): a convertable car bug-eyed Betty (1927): an unattractive girl, student. bull: (1) a policeman or law-enforcement official, including FBI. (2) nonesense (3) to chat idly, to exaggerate bump off: to kill bum’s rush, the: ejection by force from an establishment bunny (1925): a term of endearment applied to the lost, confused, etc. Often coupled with “poor little.” bus: any old or worn out car.

cake-eater: a lady’s man caper: a criminal act or robbery. cat’s meow: great, also “cat’s pajamas” and “cat’s whiskers” cash: a kiss Cash or check?: Do we kiss now or later? cast a kitten: to have a fit. Used in both humorous and serious situations. i.e. “Stop tickling me or I’ll cast a kitten!” Also, “have kittens.” cheaters: eye glasses check: Kiss me later. chewing gum: double-speak, or ambiguous talk. choice bit of calico: attractive female, student. chopper: a Thompson Sub-Machine Gun, due to the damage its heavy .45 caliber rounds did to the human body. chunk of lead: an unnattractive female, student. clam: a dollar coffin varnish: bootleg liquor, often poisonous. copacetic: excellent crasher: a person who attends a party uninvited crush: infatuation cuddler: one who likes to make out

daddy: a young woman’s boyfriend or lover, especially if he’s rich. daddy-o: a term of address dame: a female. Did not gain widespread use until the 1930’s. dapper: a Flapper’s dad darb: a great person or thing. “That movie was darb.” dead soldier: an empty beer bottle. deb: a debutant. dewdropper: a young man who sleeps all day and doesn’t have a job. dogs: feet doll: an attractive woman. dolled up: dressed up don’t know from nothing: doesn’t have any information don’t take any wooden nickels: don’t do anything stupid. doublecross: to cheat, stab in the back. dough: money drugstore cowboy: A well-dressed man who loiters in public areas trying to pick up women. dry up: shut up, get lost ducky: very good dumb Dora: an absolute idiot, a dumbbell, especially a woman; flapper.

earful: enough egg: a person who lives the big life

face stretcher: an old woman trying to look young fella: fellow. As common in its day as “man,” “dude,” or “guy” is today. “That John sure is a swell fella.” fire extinguisher: a chaperone fish: (1) a college freshman (2) a first timer in prison flat tire: a bore flivver: a Model T; after 1928, also could mean any broken down car. floorflusher: an insatiable dancer flour lover: a girl with too much face powder fly boy: a glamorous term for an aviator For crying out loud!: same usage as today four-flusher: a person who feigns wealth while mooching off others.

gams (1930): legs gatecrasher: see “crasher” get-up (1930): an outfit. get a wiggle on: get a move on, get going get in a lather: get worked up, angry giggle water: booze gimp: cripple; one who walks with a limp. Gangster Dion O’Bannion was called Gimpy due to his noticeable limp. gin mill: a seller of hard liquor; a cheap speakeasy glad rags: “going out on the town” clothes go chase yourself: get lost, scram. gold-digger (1925): a woman who pursues men for their money. goods, the: (1) the right material, or a person who has it (2) the facts, the truth, i.e. “Make sure the cops don’t get the goods on you.” goof: (1) a stupid or bumbling person, (2) a boyfriend, flapper. goofy: in love grummy: depressed grungy: envious

handcuff: engagement ring hard-boiled: tough, as in, a tough guy, ie: “he sure is hard-boiled!” hayburner: (1) a gas guzzling car (2) a horse one loses money on heavy sugar (1929): a lot of money heebie-jeebies (1926): “the shakes,” named after a hit song. heeler: a poor dancer high hat: a snob. hip to the jive: cool, trendy hit on all sixes: to perform 100 per cent; as “hitting on all six cylinders”; perhaps a more common variation in these days of four cylinder engines was “hit on all fours”. See “big six”. hood (late 20s): hoodlum hooey: nonsense. Very popular from 1925 to 1930, used somewhat thereafter. hop: a teen party or dance Hot dawg!: Great!; also: “Hot socks!" Rarely spelled as shown outside of flapper circles until popularized by 1940s comic strips. hot sketch: a card or cut-up

"I have to go see a man about a dog.”: “I’ve got to leave now,” often meaning to go buy whiskey. icy mitt: rejection insured: engaged iron (1925): a motorcycle, among motorcycle enthusiasts iron one’s shoelaces: to go to the restroom ish kabibble (1925): a retort meaning “I should care." Was the name of a musician in the Kay Kayser Orchestra of the 1930s.

jack: money Jake: great, ie. "Everything’s Jake.” Jalopy: a dumpy old car Jane: any female java: coffee jeepers creepers: a term of exclamation jitney: a car employed as a private bus. Fare was usually five-cents; also called a “nickel.” joe: coffee Joe Brooks: a perfectly dressed person; student. john: a toilet joint: establishment juice joint: a speakeasy

kale: money keen: appealing killjoy: a solemn person knock up: to make pregnant know one’s onions: to know one’s business or what one is talking about

lay off: cut the crap left holding the bag: (1) to be cheated out of one’s fair share (2) to be blamed for something let George do it: a work evading phrase level with me: be honest limey: a British soldier or citizen, from World War I line: a false story, as in “to feed one a line.” live wire: a lively person lollapalooza (1930): a humdinger lollygagger: (1) a young man who enjoys making out (2) an idle person

manacle: wedding ring mazuma: money milquetoast (1924): a very timid person; from the comic book character Casper mind your potatoes: mind your own business. mooch: to leave moonshine: homemade whiskey mop: a handkerchief munitions: face powder

neck: to kiss passionately necker: a girl who wraps her arms around her boyfriend’s neck. nifty: great, excellent noodle juice: tea Not so good!: I personally disapprove. “Now you’re on the trolley!”: Now you’ve got it, now you’re right.

off one’s nuts: crazy Oh yeah!: I doubt it! old boy: a male term of address, used in conversation with other males. Denoted acceptance in a social environment. Also “old man” “old fruit.” “How’s everything old boy?” Oliver Twist: a skilled dancer on a toot: a drinking binge on the lam: fleeing from police on the level: legitimate, honest on the up and up: on the level orchid: an expensive item ossified: drunk owl: a person who’s out late

palooka: (1) a below-average or average boxer (2) a social outsider, from the comic strip character Joe Palooka, who came from humble ethnic roots panic: to produce a big reaction from one’s audience percolate: (1) to boil over (2) As of 1925, to run smoothly; “perk” pet: necking, only more; making out petting pantry: movie theater piffle: baloney piker: (1) a cheapskate (2) a coward pill: (1) a teacher (2) an unlikable person pinch: to arrest. Pinched: to be arrested. pinko: liberal pipe down: stop talking prom-trotter: a student who attends all school social functions pos-i-lute-ly: affirmative, also “pos-i-tive-ly” punch the bag: small talk putting on the ritz: after the Ritz Hotel in Paris (and its namesake Caesar Ritz); doing something in high style. Also “ritzy.”

rag-a-muffin: a dirty or disheveled individual rain pitchforks: a downpour razz: to make fun of Real McCoy: a genuine item regular: normal, typical, average; “Regular fella.” Reuben: an unsophisticated country bumpkin. Also “rube” Rhatz!: How disappointing! rub: a student dance party rubes: money or dollars rummy: a drunken bum

sap: a fool, an idiot. Very common term in the 20s. says you: a reaction of disbelief scratch: money screaming meemies: the shakes screw: get lost, get out, etc. Occasionally, in pre 1930 talkies (such as The Broadway Melody) screw is used to tell a character to leave. One film features the line “Go on, go on – screw!" screwy: crazy; "You’re screwy!” sheba: one’s girlfriend sheik: one’s boyfriend simolean: a dollar sinker: a doughnut sitting pretty: in a prime position skirt: an attractive female smarty: a cute flapper smudger: a close dancer sockdollager: an action having a great impact so’s your old man: a reply of irritation speakeasy: a bar selling illeagal liquor spill: to talk spoon: to neck, or at least talk of love static: (1) empty talk (2) conflicting opinion stilts: legs struggle: modern dance stuck on: in love, student. sugar daddy: older boyfriend who showers girlfriend with gifts swanky: (1) good (2) elegant swell: (1) good (2) a high class person

take someone for a ride: to take someone to a deserted location and murder them. tasty: appealing teenager: not a common term until 1930; before then, the term was “young adults.” tell it to Sweeney: tell it to someone who’ll believe it. tight: attractive Tin Pan Alley: the music industry in New York, located between 48th and 52nd Streets tomato: a “ripe” female torpedo: a hired thug or hitman

unreal: special upchuck: to vomit upstage: snobby

vamp: (1) a seducer of men, an aggressive flirt (2) to seduce voot: money

water-proof: a face that doesn’t require make-up wet blanket: see Killjoy wife: dorm roomate, student. What’s eating you?: What’s wrong? whoopee: wild fun Woof! Woof!: ridicule

You slay me!: That’s funny!

zozzled: drunk

have fun.

#it's the 20s slang list #thanks dude #submission

268 notes · View notes

neon-junkie · 4 years ago

Note

Can I get some music related H/Cs for a modern Van der Linde Gang? Who can sing? Who can't? Who's willing to sing in front of others, and who's too shy to? What kind of music do they all like?

Who can sing and will sing in front of others: Javier, Trelawny, Karen, and Molly. Who can't sing but sings in front of others anyway: Sean, and Pearson. Who can sing but is too shy: Mary-Beth, Tilly, Kieran, and Charles. Arthur, Kieran, and Hosea love their classic and cliché country. They prefer softer music, acoustics, piano covers, those kinds of genres.

John, Pearson, Bill, and Micah love all kinds of metal. Pearson, Bill, and Micah prefer classic metal, whereas John loves grungy emo stuff. Dutch, Susan, Strauss, and Trelawny love classical music. They're saps for musicals and orchestral pieces. Sean loves dance music, EDM, house, anything he can rave to. He also tries his best at making his own songs with his funky little keyboard and crappy laptop. Molly and Karen enjoy pop, especially women-empowering songs. If the music makes them feel powerful, they're all over it. Javier, Lenny, Charles, Swanson, Tilly, and Abigail will literally listen to everything as long as it's not too much. So, no dance music or heavy metal, they prefer calmer melodies but are happy with most genres.

Mary-Beth will give any genre a try at least once, and doesn't mind what people put on. But when she's in charge of the music, she also prefers softer melodies, a lot of acoustic or pop. Jack also enjoys a bit of everything, but adult Jack is like John and loves his sad emo classics.

#i love music but i know nothing about genres so sorry i cant be specific xD #rdrwriting #rdrheadcanon #VDL gang #van der linde gang #music #modern au #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #Anonymous

45 notes · View notes

insomniac-dot-ink · 4 years ago

Text

The Long Bus Ride

Genre: supernatural horror

Words: 5.6k

Summary: When her late night bus stops in the middle of a rolling fog cloud Frieda starts to worry. Then she starts seeing words being written in the condensation on her window and she truly gets unnerved.

A group of strangers must now try to get through the night as something seems to be outside.

content warning: body horror

---------

The bus was mostly empty that evening. That was typical with rising fares and the fact most people would have tried to be home hours ago. It was too early for the late night party crowd and too late for the normal working crowd.

The bus driver was a big guy named Ted, I knew him by his portly size and baby-smooth clean shaven face. He had youthful thick brown hair grown a little long probably for vanity’s sake and a large pot belly that sagged over the shiny tight black belt around his waist.

He always nodded at me when I got on and always stopped for people when they were running to catch the 431. He wasn’t always on time like the other bus driver-- Nory, but he also honked his horn a little less than him too.

I flashed my bus pass at Ted that evening with our usual nod and a lingering achy bitterness settling in my core. Deirdre’s daughter had come to visit again that afternoon and there was always too much nasty energy in the house on those days. I liked to keep things neat, both personally and professionally. I kept my purse organized into tiny pockets and my clothes sorted in bins by season and I never mentioned anything personal at my job.

Everything had its place, but it was harder to be politely indifferent to the household when they were throwing barbed words at each and asking my opinion. It bothered me to have to be anything other than “day nurse Frieda” to them. It blurred our relationship when they turned to me and said “tell my mother she needs to finalize her will” and so on.

Of course, Deirdre should and did need to finalize her will, but expressing that broke far too many boundaries in a messy way.

I was ready to be home an hour ago by the time I walked to the bus stop with the sun already carefully nestled behind the city skyline. The purple of a gloomy summer night was heavy across the horizon and I didn’t even both to check my phone watch. I knew my Friday night was almost already over.

My feet ached as I turned to walk down the aisle of the 431 bus headed to Oakland. My chin was sinking toward my chest like a balloon tug insistently downward by a toddler. An older man sat near the front.

He was a skinny, wiry man with a thick mustache and clothes with spots of what I hoped was motor oil on his patterned button-up and workman pants. He wore heavy boots and watched me with small eyes under enormous eyebrows that could have probably watched me as well for the sheer size of them. He had no bags or anything with him and he sat like there was a drill sergeant ready to bark at him if he so much as slouched a little.

No one else sat in the seats near the front designated for the elderly and pregnant. The seats themselves were blue and yellow with party designs on them like you might see at a tacky bowling alley. It was an older bus that hadn’t even been upgraded to “green” standards yet and rumbled like a thunder storm wherever it went.

In the middle seats was a mother and child. She was a middle-aged black woman with long beaded braids tied back in a ponytail and wore a bright pink shirt and a slouchy pair of comfortable looking jeans. Her daughter looked around 9 or 10 and had her hair pulled back in a tight bun at the top of her head. She wore a hoodie over what looked like leggings and carried a sports bag with her.

The mother was probably picking her up from something like ballet practice. The daughter was leaning on the mom while she absently stroked her head and looked out the window. Something about the easy intimacy of it made me look away quickly.

One seat up and across from the mother and daughter was a gently snoring man. He had a wild beard, knit cap, and fingerless gloves. I could tell by the smell alone that he was homeless and had probably been sleeping on the bus for hours now. However, I had smelled worse and his jacket and jeans weren’t as grungy or disheveled as they could have been.

Two other people sat in the back, but luckily neither of them had claimed the final spot in the corner of the bus near the window. A young woman was one chair ahead of my seat, a short white girl who looked around college age. I wrinkled my nose at her because she was holding a paper cup with what I assumed was coffee and her hands were shaking.

She had on a long skirt with mud splotches at the bottom and a pale blue shirt with a mustard stain on the front. Her long auburn hair was tied back into a ratty knot at the back of her neck. She had on huge glasses dangerously close to the edge of her nose and she was staring out the window with the look of someone trying to count the yellow street lines and failing.

Across from her in the other corner of the bus was a high-school aged looking young man with a huge bag blocking the seat next to him. He was Asian with ink-black hair that he had spiked, and wore all black with dark ripped jeans and a band t-shirt. His ears were covered by silver earrings draped over the lobes like angry criss-crossing Christmas decorations.

He had a tattoo of what appeared to be a wing on his neck and smeared eyeliner around his indifferent gaze. He was wearing small earbuds and listening to something with an audible thrumming base.

I ignored both the messy girl and the punk boy as I took my seat and got out my book for the forty minute ride home. It was another pirate romance story-- which my sister recommended because she assumed she knew my taste. The action scenes were fine, but the actual tension between the main couple was blase at best.

I had to make sure no one sat behind me during my bus rides home though because I didn’t need anyone looking over my shoulder and finding the words “he touched my wet throbbing womanhood.” To say the least, the erotic parts of the novels were not that good either.

It was better than scrolling my phone right then though. I hated work emails more than I hated mud trailed onto the carpet in my house or slow-walkers on the sidewalk.

I peeked out the windows sometimes to get a look at the city as the street lights and building lights and headlights erupted one by one in a pale cascade. We were getting closer to the Oakland Bay bridge and the lights threaded along the beams like spiderwebs of frantic energy all captured and blooming at once. I had an affection for the city despite being trapped there.

I hadn’t actually come to California to be a geriatric nurse again. I already spent ten years working as one in Louisiana when an old college friend had called me up and asked if I wanted to join his startup. It sounded like a fairy tale: join an up and coming tech company and watch as you get boosted past “middle class” into something glamorous and decadent. Kitt knew me and knew I was good with people and offered to let me run the PR department.

Of course, I hadn’t joined for the money or the fact I was that interested in PR. I had been working in a nursing home for almost a decade by then and it had started to wear on me. I liked listening to people, especially people who were made of stories, and the job had originally suited me fine. But there was this… shadow over it all that started to eat at me.

A shadow of loss, of empty words, empty places where a sharp mind used to be, empty reassurances that meant nothing, brief glimpses of grief so intense that it split people in two. That shadow loomed larger and larger the longer I stayed. It chased me as my favorite grandma’s hands started to shake and my favorite patient stopped being able to play piano. I saw it in how some of them stopped meeting my eyes when the months dragged on and their time was coming. I saw in the way they stopped remembering my name or their own.

No. I didn’t want to work as an elderly care nurse any longer.

Of course, I was also 33 and single, and a change sounded good. So I moved all the way across the country, got the smallest apartment I had ever lived in, and dared to be a little bold. I wore brighter colors, spoke out more in meetings, cooked spicier foods, I went on dates with women for the first time.

But all good things come to an end. Most startups don’t make it, no matter how many twitter algorithms you try to “hack.”

I looked out the window and ignored my phone as it buzzed. There were other reasons I didn’t check my phone on the bus as well. Cynthia still wanted to meet now and then-- to see if we could make it work after all. I ignored the buzz.

I was lost to the erotic adventures of a very loud and very incompetent heroine when I heard a soft gasp come from in front of me. I usually had a rule of ignoring everyone else on public transport, but there was something about the sharp surprised sound that made me look up.

We were on the bridge now and it was damp and dark out. I blinked a couple times as I noticed a thick cloud seeming to descend. Fog was all but normal in San Francisco so I decided to go back to reading my book.

A small murmur passed between the daughter and mother in the middle of the bus, “it’s alright…”

I looked up again and the cloud was quickly eating up the view and making the road ahead look shrouded and strange. Cars around us had already turned on their headlights and I could almost feel the bus slowing down as visibility ahead quickly disappeared.

I wrinkled my brow. I didn’t know much about weather, but we usually only saw fog like this in the mornings. I looked to the other side of the road and noticed that I didn’t see any cars coming toward us.

“Look mom,” I heard a small voice say and the little girl was pointing out toward the ocean. I tried to look out the window and make out the sea too, but only saw that same thick white. It was dense and shapeless around us and the bus was slowing down further.

“Where are the lights?” I snapped my head around and the punk kid had taken his earbuds out. His face was even more stony than before and his eyes were narrowed toward where the bridge would be.

I set my jaw as I realized I didn’t see any of the glowing yellow lights that should be at least breaking through parts of the fog. Even worse, I checked ahead of us and behind, I had never known the Oakland bridge to ever be empty.

There were no more cars on either side of us.

I gulped. The bus was almost at a standstill.

“Hey!” The messy college girl holding the coffee called up from the back. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, what’s the meaning of this? We’ve all got places to be.” The working class man stood up at the front.

Ted the driver didn’t turn around and there was something about his figure that sat wrong.

“Where the fuck are the lights?” The punk kid was standing up now and craning his neck to look outside.

“Excuse me, sir, is there a problem?” The mother had dragged her daughter into her lap and the little girl was looking directly out the window at something with the utmost focus.

I shifted uncomfortably in place and watched the scene unfold. Something cold was trailing down my spine. I liked to keep things neat, and this felt like it was about to pick up my wardrobe and dump it outside onto my muddy lawn.

A couple voices kept demanding to know why we had stopped, and the homeless man somehow kept dozing. “Ooh,” the little girl touched the window and suddenly my eyes were drawn back to my own window.

The fog was dense to the point of nothingness, and beyond the fog seemed to be an even thicker night. I furrowed my brow and drew back into myself. Condensation was gathering on the other side of the window-- the type you might see when your warm breath touches glass.

A thin layer of white was spreading across the window and then I saw what the young girl was “oohing” at.

“Everyone, step back from the windows.” I heard myself saying, reasonably, in as a controlled manner as I could.

Little droplets had now formed on the other side of the glass and the white haze was thick and tangible. That’s not why I jumped back though. A perfectly formed fingerprint was pressed into the condensation there. A clear oval that was dragging down, down, down the window and creating one long, straight line.

There was nothing behind that finger. There was no body or hand or anything attached at all. Only the imprint that was meticulously drawing downward.

“What the fuck?!” The punk kid scrambled back from his window as well.

“What’s going on?” The college student said in a panic as more little finger tips pressed against the glass. Hands, but not hands. My heart squeezed in my chest and a flurry of possibilities went through my head: I was in a coma, I was asleep, I was asleep in a coma. I was dead.

I was dead and hell is a bus ride.

“Ah!” I jerked my head around again and saw the old man in heavy work pants standing by the front with his mouth wide and eyes as round as silver dollars. He was staring at the bus driver in the way one stares at their parents declaring a divorce.

“Ted…” I muttered and forced myself forward. I wrapped my hands around the bus poles with each step and the metal was almost freezing at each touch. I stumbled across the long space.

“Mommy, what is it?” The window next to the little ballerina was absolutely covered in those floating strokes carefully applied by invisible fingers. They were drawing spirals and zig-zags and something that I dearly hoped wasn’t a letter of the alphabet.

I made my way past the sleeping homeless man who still managed not to wake and all the way to the front of the bus where the old man was staring at Ted.

“He’s-He’s--” He stuttered at me and fell back against a metal pole next to the door.

“It’s alright, I’m a nurse.” I took a deep steadying breath. I had seen corpses plenty of times in my life and I knew how to keep myself focused on the tasks in front of me. Ted was slumped over and unmoving.

I reached for his arm first and picked up his limp wrist. I exhaled the second I reached his pulse and felt a faint thrum there. His skin was clammy and far too cold, but he was breathing. “Don’t look at the eyes.” The old man grabbed my shoulder. “Don’t look!”

I was never very good at averting my eyes when facing car crashes or jump scares in horror movies. He had a pulse. I needed to check for head injuries. I glanced at his face. Something was dripping down his cheeks in a steady flow.

I reached and tipped his chin up. I swallowed my scream before it could escape. His eyes were gummed shut with something black and bubbling. It was like tar that held both of his eyelids clamped closed and water was leaking out of the seams.

Droplets beaded down his cheeks and when I let his head fall again it leaked like rain down upon his lap. I stopped myself from heaving at the sight and looked downward. His foot was still on the gas, but we weren’t moving forward.

“Let’s go.” I ushered the old man away from Ted’s body. Something told me we shouldn’t touch it or be too close to it. We retreated back toward the other seats.

“E,” the little girl was tracing a letter in the condensation. Something outside was writing the letter E and then another letter next to it. “N.”

I walked down the center of the bus in a daze and the others looked at me. The disheveled college student stumbled toward us. “Is the driver alright?” I just shook my head and couldn’t find the words to explain that one of us was surely dreaming up a nightmare.

The punk kid was sitting in the center of the back seats clutching his bag to his chest and his earbuds were back in.

“Little girl.” A voice barked. I turned and suddenly I noticed that the homeless man had sat up and his clear blue eyes were darting around the space frantically. “Don’t touch the windows.” His voice was deep and smoke-beaten. “Again, again, again.” He repeated, “Don’t touch. Again.”

I looked back to the shapes being drawn in the window panes.

They were impossibly strange, but no sounds came from the drag of their fingers. In fact, I didn’t pick up any noises from the city at all: no honking, no sirens, no hums of life. I groped for the right words to try to make sense of this.

“Little girl!” The homeless man said sharply and he looked toward the closest window. “Don’t.” “Sheryl…” Her mother warned, but the little girl, Sheryl, kept tracing the letters the Things were drawing.

I watched in a trance, “T.” She said softly. “E.” I was watching the tip of her finger move when I caught the first glimpse.

My whole body froze like a jolt of ice pouring down my spine. Just beyond the invisible hand was a face submerged in the fog-- faint and shifting. It was hard to make out, but two black eyes drooped like runny eggs down it’s sunken cheeks and a mouth grotesquely frozen in a scream took shape for just a moment.

I grabbed for the mother, “everyone!” I found the energy to fill my words with urgency, “get away from the windows!” They all looked to me and I mustered every bit of my authority, “NOW!”

Reluctant shuffling followed. “Wait!” Sheryl protested as her mom picked her up and carried her to the center of the bus. “Wait!” She repeated, “it wasn’t finished.”

The fingers outside became more frantic as we retreated into the center of the bus as far away from the windows as we could get. They clawed and dragged and I could make out more and more faces, some with three fingers and some with seven. Faint outlines of the hands and faces morphed and danced just out in the darkness.

They never stood still or seemed to stop shifting and twisting as if unnaturally alive.

A shudder went through the small group as we huddled together like penguins being accosted by the arctic breeze. The punk boy was the last to reach us as he clung to his huge bag and entered the loose circle we created.

The old man was shifty-eyed and looked the most on edge. I kept an eye on him, as well as the homeless man who was hunched over into himself. ��Again,” he muttered to himself. “Again.” The moments after we gathered were long and strained before anyone dared to speak and break the ghastly immense silence. “Something was wrong with the driver,” the old man finally announced as he looked to the fingers, “something is wrong here.” “Very wrong.” The college student echoed.

“Duh,” The pink kid said back with his teeth clenched.

“Perhaps it will be over soon.” I added softly, mostly speaking to myself.

“What’s everyone’s names?” I looked up as the homeless man finally broke himself upright again.

“What? Why?” The old man practically growled.

“Everyone here has got to have a name.” The homeless man’s blue eyes were still frantic and traveling faster than I thought they should back and forth across the space. “Got to have a name.”

“How do we know that will--” “Angela.” The mother spoke up. “And this is Sheryl. Have you seen this before?” She looked to him as if he must often see buses descend into hell before.

“I’m Rick.” He said without hesitating, “Angela, Sheryl,” he pointed to the college student as if to pose a question.

“Laura.” She said softly. Her hands were still shaking, but probably for different reasons now.

“Angela, Sheryl, Laura,” Rick almost sang and then prompted the old man to speak.

“I’m Drew.” The old man said hesitantly after a moment.

“And I’m Frieda.” I added as the punk kid spoke as well.

“I’m Jinu.”

A silence spread and I didnt know what I expected to happen from swapping names with a group of strangers. Sheryl was frowning deeply. She whispered, “We shouldn’t have left where they can see us.”

That made me look back to the people I was stuck with and I opened my mouth to ask Sheryl if she was alright.

Bring

We jumped as one when a sudden and angry sound crackled and shook the space.

Bring, bring

It was like the sound of an old phone back from the 90s. A classic, angry noise that ate up the whole area with its loud buzzing undertone.

Bring!

I felt my pocket and felt something vibrating there.

“It’s our phones…” Jinu said in a hush.

My phone was ringing. And I knew we were being hailed.

Bring, bring, bring

I felt sick.

Laura was the first to dig out her phone from her bright yellow purse and hold it in her hands.

Bring, bring

The iphone vibrated and almost shook its way out of her hands. It’s screen was completely black and something, something was making it ring. “What’s,” I couldn’t contain the question any longer. “What’s causing this?” No one answered me. Drew took out his phone next, a first generation android it looked like with a cracked screen that was just as black as the last one. Slowly, everyone except for Rick, extracted our phones and watched as they made the same cry together over and over again: bring, bring, bring, bring, bring.

I stared into the shiny black surface of mine. It was perfectly smooth and almost… too dark. A dark I had never seen before and reflected nothing back. It felt like it was eating the light up.

“Maybe,” Laura spoke up. “Maybe we could call the police.”

“It’s a little late for that honey.” Angela said with a forlorn sigh.

“Why are they ringing?” I asked dumbly.

“We shouldn’t answer.” Jinu growled and tossed his phone all the way to the other side of the bus.

Rick nodded, “Do. Not. Answer.” “But…” I frowned deeply. “We can’t stay here.” “We can’t answer either.” Rick said in his same husky, withered tone. Drew nodded and threw his phone away, I followed suit mostly to stop looking at the shiny blackness of the screen. Angela seemed to almost break hers as she chucked it away as well, and Laura was the last one. She gripped it tightly and looked up.

“What do you think those are?” She finally voiced our fears and looked back to the fingers and morphed faces. “Are they… are they what’s calling us?” I shrugged, “does it matter?” I glared, “we can’t risk it. Throw it away.” “What happened to the driver?” Laura whispered and I just shook my head. She threw her phone away.

We all looked at each other carefully, and then we waited.

--------

Time ticked by with an anonymous meaningless face. On some level I think most of us expected to wake up soon, or for the sun to rise or to have God yelled “pranked!” from somewhere up in the sky. At least, that’s what I was waiting for.

The bus was still, just as cold and faceless as before, immobile as it had ever been. Alone in the middle of the bridge and alone in no place at all. I had a switch knife I carried around that I now held in my clenched fists and the world stood still.

Empty, except for the constant, unending sound of the phones: bring, bring, bring. They chorused and buzzed on the other side of the bus as we huddled in the center. It was endless. People did what they could to distract themselves from their impossible voices.

Jinu put his headphones back in and turned them all the way up. Laura covered her ears with both hands and rocked back and forth in a ball. Rick gazed unseeingly up at the ceiling with a deep frown on his face. Drew was drawing something on his palm as if doing math equations on his skin.

I distracted myself by talking to the mother and daughter. “You want to be a prima ballerina when you grow up?” I asked softly as I watched Sheryl’s small face. Angela was still stroking her daughter’s head and holding her close as the minutes ticked by.

Bring, bring

“I want to dance in The Swan Lake,” she said factually. “I’m not good enough yet, but I will be.” I beamed. “I believe you.”

Bring, bring

“What do you do?” Angela asked and there was something forced about it.

“Nurse.” I said simply. “Though I came here for an app startup of all things.”

“Oh?”

Bring, bring, bring I wasn’t usually one for idle-chit-chat, but a damp coldness was working its way through my chest. I had already noticed that Laura was shivering fiercely.

“Yeah, we were going to change the world or something he said,” I rolled my eyes, “but it didn’t turn out that way of course.”

“What kind of app was it?” Sheryl was still looking to her window, but she seemed present enough.

“Oh, a ride sharing one. It was supposed to be a public minded service called ‘Democracy Bus.’ It was meant to help people get to the polls on voting days for free or get to civil rally's or debate parties,” I shook my head. “It never got off the ground.” Angela opened her mouth to respond, but seemed to be drained of some force within her.

Bring, bring

“That settles it.” Drew stood up with a hardened look on his face. “If I run I might make it to the other side of the bridge in a few minutes.” He nodded, “we were more than halfway to the other side by the time we stopped.”

We openly stared at the old man. Jinu took his headphones out, and Laura uncurled herself. Rick kept looking at the ceiling.

Bring, bring, bring

My mouth became a hard line, “We don’t want to let any of those things in here…” I whispered.

Drew dusted himself off, “I only need someone to pull the door open for a second. And beside,” his lips curled up, “we can’t exactly stay here and starve.” My skin prickled and I didn’t mention the fact I hadn’t felt hungry since the moment we stopped. I hadn’t felt thirsty either, or anything at all. Just cold. And damp.

“We’re not going out there.” Angela hissed first. “It’s too much of a risk.” She held her daughter tighter to her.

“Does anyone else have any ideas then?” Drew seethed. We were quiet.

Bring, bring

“Maybe we should answer one.” Laura said again, “just to see what happens.” She cocked her head to the side, “maybe they’ll let us go.”

“That sounds like an even worse idea than his.” Jinu said flatly.

“Don’t. Answer. The. Phones.” Rick finally joined the conversation and haltingly declared.

“Why not?” Drew narrowed his eyes icily, “What do you know?” Rick looked back up to the ceiling and set his jaw. Drew took a menacing step toward him, “What does he know?!”

“Oh,” Sheryl pointed, “Look. They’re trying again... E.” I looked up just in time to see the fingers all in one motion write the letter “E” over and over again on each window. I swallowed thickly. “We should all cover our eyes.” I announced, “We need to wait this out.”

Bring, bring, bring! Drew shook his head. “We just gotta open the door for a moment. I’ll go get help.” Angela looked like she was ready to pounce on him. “I told you! It’s too risky, there’s children aboard.”

“A child who keeps trying to communicate with them!”

The fingers were now writing “N” over and over again on every surface of the windows that there were. “N” She read softly.

“Guys,” I repeated and my voice rose, “I think we should cover our eyes.” “T,” Sheryl muttered and I dove for her first.

“Cover your eyes!” I screeched and slapped a hand over her gaze so that she couldn’t read it anymore.

Bring, bring!

“This is crazy!” Jinu started stumbling backward away from the group.

“Don’t leave us!” I reached for him as well.

“No!” Rick shouted, “I told you not to!”

I turned just on time to see Laura crawling toward her phone. She pressed on the screen with one finger and brought it to her face, “hello?” “E.” Sheryl said as my fingers slipped and the whole world came crashing down around us.

“Get back! Get away from her!” Rick pushed the three of us he could reach toward the back of the bus. Jinu let out a wordless scream and Drew reached for Laura.

“Young lady?” Laura’s face was completely contorted as she stood up. Her mouth opened in a grotesque snarl as her jaw jutted out awkwardly to the side. Her eyes were lifeless and started to leak drips of water down her cheeks.

She moved all at once-- like strings were unevenly tied to her knees. She took one jerky, tin step forward and then another.

“Drew,” I hissed and reached for him. “Get back.” “She’s so young,” he muttered. “She’s so young. Can you hear me?” The water was running down Laura’s cheeks like a faucet now and I couldn’t look away as her eyes sunk into their sockets. The white disappeared first into some unseen blackness. I pulled Drew back with all my physical strength and Laura took another step forward.

Could we fight her? Could we fight these things?

I took my knife out and slashed the air in front of us as she took her unpleasant, rigid steps forward. Her eyes had all but sunken into her head and her hanging mouth was now dripping water that smelled of something like mold and damp earth.

“Stay back,” I hissed and slashed the air again. “I’ll kill you.” To my surprise she turned. She faced one of the windows, the one that Sheryl has been sitting at only hours before back in the sunlight world. She touched the glass tentatively and the fingers repeated their last letter over and over again. Sheryl said a final ringing letter, “R.” ENTER.

I hugged myself and held my breath, bracing for the worst.

The windows did not break open though and the distorted faces did not slither inward. Laura got up onto the seat and started pressing into the window. Her eyes were completely gone and her ears and mouth and eyes were all steadily running over with streams of water.

It was wrong. It was hard to watch as she hands pressed gradually through the glass in an impossible manner.

It was a slow and painful process as she joined the mist. Hands grabbed her and pulled at her, her hair came loose and fell down her shoulders, and one of the people beside me started sobbing.

“It’s taking her…”

Someone started humming, Jinu I think. It was a sad and reluctant song that carried soberingly through the space. He hummed a funeral march just as she was tugged through the window and off into the white expanse with no name.

Our phones stopped ringing all at once and the fog began to lift as if in a dream. The next procession was mechanical and done in complete silence. We picked up our cracked phones and returned to our seats.

I didn’t know what compelled us, but I knew it had to be done. I knew we had to return to our exact same spots.

I took my seat at the back of the bus with my head bowed downward and Jinu sat across from me with his eyes focused on the skyline. Angela and Sheryl sat close and fixed in place. Rick went back to sleep. Drew sat closest to the driver and watched Ted sit up again.

Lights appeared beside us. Sounds of cars and bikers and voices reappeared. Headlights blinked on the other side of the road. Ted started the engine again. And we drove.

The bus rumbled onward through the beautiful dark night and city.

The only sign that we had ever been trapped in some place beyond here was the fact that my face was wet with tears and that there was an empty seat in front of me. I couldn’t remember her name though.

I looked down at my phone and I had 127 missed calls from “UNKNOWN” and a very brief text message from the same number. All it read was “again” and “enter.”

I closed my eyes and figured maybe it was time to move back home.

#writeblr #horror #writers on tumblr #supernatural #short story #original story #my work #creepy story #cw: body horror

85 notes · View notes

amphtaminedreams · 5 years ago

Text

Paris Haute Couture Week S/S 2020 Plus a Little Jacquemus: Okay, Dior DID Suck (Part 2/2)

Hi to anyone reading,

First of all, thank you! I have never had a post do as well as the part 1 of my haute couture week review did and I am so overwhelmed with the positive feedback. This is probably funny to read for those of you getting thousands of reblogs on your posts, me acting like I won an academy award because I got a couple of hundred, but honestly I don’t expect any traction when I write on here (it’s basically just me word vomiting everything I’m thinking as if people want to hear it aka. mouthing off into what I thought was the void) so if you did read it, thank you! I do spend a long-ass time on these so it means a lot:-)

I’ll leave the self-indulgent ramble there though as it’s probably not what you came for and jump straight into part 2 of my thoughts, starting with Jacquemus. Yeah, I knew what I was doing when I tagged that in my last post. Simon Porte Jacquemus is the man of the *fashion* people right now; I’ve even found myself coming round to the Le Chiquito bag despite my original thought being “well, that’s fucking useless”. I know, I know, technically it’s not haute couture; it was part of Men’s Fashion Week, but it happened around the same time and everyone was talking about it on Twitter, so I feel like I have to include it.

In a way, it kind of reminds me of Bottega Veneta’s last RTW show, in that, especially with the women’s outfits, we seem to be sticking with simple, fitted garments and chunky, more statement jewellery. I’ve got to say I like the styling here a lot more though, and in general I’m a fan of this collection. The collared tops with cut outs underneath blazers are cool and I can’t wait until it gets warm enough for me to not feel dumb wearing my headscarfs like this; there’s a LOT of summer outfit inspiration. It’s not a mind-blowing collection or anything but it is effortlessly sexy and that’s something I wish I could say about myself. Most of us can only hope to look half as good as these models do whilst making the effort but at least Jacquemus is aspirational, lol.

I also fucking adore this colour palette. I’m sick of neutrals literally just meaning brown and white; the navy, sand and muted khaki is a fresh edition to what is usually interpreted as the colours you’d seen worn by Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff and only Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff. And I mean, come on-what is more neutral than typical English school carpet blue.

Next for the whole reason I had to make this haute couture week review 2 separate posts: Jean Paul Gaultier’s final show.

In the best way possible, it’s a lot. I don’t even really know where to start, except to say that I guess this is a fitting last show; a celebration of everything campy, messy, weird, performative, and punk is the perfect send off for a brand whose best known perfume of the last few years is called Scandal. More than anything, the final show represented the range of characters and cultures that have influenced JPG throughout his half-a-decade-long career, the lines that supposedly separate what is “masculine” and “feminine”, “old” and “young” and ultimately art and fashion blurred in the most exaggerated way possible. Sure, there are some looks which are individually a bit messy here but the way they were grouped into almost chapter-like segments meant that when you see them all together, they work. Nods to the patterns and structures that recurred from season to season were sprinkled throughout, from sailor stripes to corsets to the expected whirlwinds of colour. I’ll even allow the wellies in that one outfit; if I can get over bucket hats in Peter fucking Pilotto’s last RTW show, I can get over some questionable shoes here. Middle aged fishermen and boys who liked to pose with monster carp in their Tinder pictures as some weird display of masculinity everywhere rejoice.

Now onto a show that I personally found slightly disappointing: Margiela.

I think this one is a bit TOO weird for me. Like if you’re gonna go avant-garde, go all out. Chiffon gimp masks (I don’t know if that’s the intention here but that’s what I’m getting, sorry Maison) are something I’m not particularly fond of and I’ve never been a fan of the Tabi boots in the first place, let alone when they’ve seemingly been blown up to Michelin man style proportions. I didn’t find the show to be a total lost cause-I enjoyed the colour palette and I’ve always liked that contrast stitching detail, plus the bowler hats are interesting-but on the whole considering how much I liked the last RTW show, this is a bit of a let down.

The looks I included are salvageable but (I feel mean saying this) there were genuinely a lot of pieces that did just resemble bits of fabric draped over each over with no discernible rhyme or reason, so much so that they reminded me of some of the monstrosities I saw at a Drag Race pub quiz this one time where we had 5 mins to make some garms out of loo roll and then have a team member model them for points down a makeshift runway.

Ralph and Russo was alright. There were a few pieces that I really liked but again, I can’t help but compare this collection to the last, where it felt like the fussy details of bows and sequins and feathers and the Barbie Dreamhouse palette were utilised with a direction in mind. Here, I don’t get that. As ever, the gowns are gorgeous and I’d pay good money just to try one on for five minutes but as an overall collection I’d say there was a lack of higher vision, which is probably the snobbiest sentence I’ve ever written so forgive me.

As for Ronald Van Der Kemp, I could’ve done without including it to be honest, if it weren’t for the few pieces I’m in love with: the velvet cape, fur trimmed jacket and blue satin dress are probably my favourite pieces here.

So onto a collection I liked a lot more: Schiaparelli.

The influence of nature from flowers in bloom to insects to the organic structure of the human skeleton is as present as ever, though this collection includes a lot more delicate symbolism than usual. Honestly, the details make it for me; the brooches, earrings and facial jewellery are other-worldly touches to outfits that could otherwise be simple fashion magazine editor on-the-go. That’s not in itself a bad thing! The suits are gorgeous. I mean, I’m talking fashion editor in New York in a power suit yelling orders down the phone while she rushes along with a coffee. A Miranda Priestley in the making type woman. THAT’S a modern take on the divine feminine that Maria Grazia should’ve been going for; our goddesses aren’t women who sit around looking pretty (though that helps too) and place curses on mere mortals anymore, they’re women who get shit done.

With regards to Valentino, which was also a delight, let me start by saying this colour palette is EVERYTHING. It’s ugly sisters in Cinderella fantastic, and we know those 2 were the real fashion icons really. Other than that, I adore the Old Hollywood silhouettes from the gloves to the Liz Taylor-in-Cleopatra-level-dramatic earrings. Everything is opulent and expensive-looking and pretty much what we’ve all come to expect from Valentino. A strong 8/10.

For me personally, Viktor and Rolf was a standout and one of my favourite collections of haute couture week. It’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea and I know it’s at the complete opposite end of the spectrum to what was probably my other favourite collection, Elie Saab, but this is just my style down to a T, the perfect balance of grungy and cutesy that I want to achieve.

There’s probably going to be a lot of objections to the temporary face tattoos and I get that, but I think they’re fucking sick. I obviously wouldn’t get a permanent one lest my mother murder me in cold blood however if I did, you bet I would be pairing them with frilly-ass babydoll dresses that you could pick up in Camden Market like this.

And last but not least (that would be Dior), there’s Zuhair Murad.

Sigh.

IDK, man. Seeing Zuhair Murad dresses on Tumblr and WeHeartIt (remember that site? It still exists!) as a 14 year old was one of the things that got me into fashion, so it sucks that almost every time a new collection comes around, I feel underwhelmed. Disappointingly, the brand hasn’t really progressed all that much since 2013. It goes without saying that the stoning and the embroidery and sequins are stunning and would make anyone feel like a princess but from a critical point of view, I’m just not seeing anything new here. Whereas I feel like Elie Saab, for example, reflected the growing fascination with East Asian fashion and recognition of the supremacy of the region’s street style in his haute couture last collection, Zuhair Murad seems to be stuck designing the same dresses he was 6 years ago.

To pick one example, the rounded stoned necklines are so outdated that they’ve been making their way onto department store prom dresses for years. I get that it’s supposed to be a reference to Ancient Egyptian style and I respect that, I was one of those 8 year old that was obsessed with mummies and the “Curse of Tutankhamun”, but couldn’t it be done in a more interesting way? It’s Maria Grazia’s spin on Ancient Greece all over again. Now I get how how the I imagine very niche subsection of people who are into fashion and Julius Caesar (okay, so I don’t even know if they still believed in mythology and all that malarky at that point in history but just roll with my comparison here) might’ve felt going through Vogue Runway. Anyway, I hate to end on a critical note and so be clear, these are still absolutely magnificent dresses. If we ignore those ugly round necklines, that is.

So that’s it for this post! If you read part 1 and 2, I hope you enjoyed it! As always, let me know your opinions and feel free to disagree. I’m literally just about to start trawling through all the A/W 2020 RTW collections though I imagine that’s gonna take me way longer to do than this, so I wouldn’t expect that for a month or two. In the meantime, I’m trying to fit shooting a Euphoria-inspired lookbook into my days off work which is looking atm like it’s going to be the end of March, so look out for that, and also a review of the red carpet fashion from this season’s award shows.

As ever, thank you so much for reading and again, thank you for the reception on part 1 if you were one of the people that read it. It makes staying up til 3am with the jitters seem worthwhile, lol!

Lauren x

136 notes · View notes

comicdiego · 4 years ago

Text

Hotshot.

WARNINGS: sex mentions, flirting, alcohol mentions, strippers, cussing.

PAIRING: light diego hargreeves x oc, though vague, more of a first meet.

UNIVERSE: the umbrella academy comics.

CHARACTERS: diego hargreeves, tua oc mello walker.

Mello found him rather quickly. He sat at the bar, though he wasn't drinking. His singer of a sister had seemingly ran off earlier on during all the commotion- she didn't look like she was much of a fighter- but his demons were probably what kept him here. He wears an eyepatch, and as she's walking towards him from that side, she can't see the look in his eyes, but his eyebrows are furrowed in frustration, and there's a bruise on his jaw. His arm's in a sling too. But it seems like someone just slid a shot of whiskey in front of him and hoped for the best. He hasn't even so much as touched it. Despite the grungy, bad boy rockstar look, he didn't drink. That was interesting.

Carefully, she takes the seat beside him, crossing one bare leg over the other. "Hey, Blondie." A nod towards his lengthening blonde hair, shaggy with strands messily hanging in his eye, across the eyepatch, brushing the tip of his nose. The stubble across his jaw made him look messy, but maybe that was the look he was going for. "Look at me, will you? I'll help you out a bit." "I don't need sex." Blunt and dismissive. That only made her want to talk to him more, especially when he sharply turned his gaze in the opposite direction of her. "Great, neither do I." Gently, she lifts the iced drink that he'd been given, delicately placing each ice cube in a napkin, folding them in. Then, she lightly taps the side of his jaw furthest from her, the roughness of his growing beard against her fingertips. Huffing quietly, he turns his head a little, but still pointedly glaring at the bottles behind the bar, as if he wanted to shatter each and every one of them. If looks could kill, everyone would be dead with a glance. She sets the napkin upon the bruise, and he doesn't so much as flinch. Either he's been in a lot of fights, or he was trying to seem cool. "But you do need to get patched up, don't you?" He doesn't reply, though he doesn't pull away. Instead, he finally takes a look at her, and keeps his gaze on her face, which is surprising. She only wore lingerie and a sheer robe, though it wasn't doing much for covering the black lace she wore underneath, nor her deep brown skin, with a golden tint to it. But she knows her face is pretty, even if it's not what most people look at. Dark, long eyelashes that revealed her soft emerald green eyes inherited from who knows where, because overall, she was an Indian woman. Hair black as a starless night falling over her shoulders, silky to the touch and easy to wrap around a finger. Her lips painted a deep shade of purple, whereas most women wouldn't dare, because it was a bold color. He, however, isn't what most would call attractive, but she would. Shaggy blond hair that he was clearly attempting to grow out to his shoulders, his eye a deep shade of blue, skin pale in the lights of the bar. He was built, though, as if he worked out, and fought. The hairs across his jaw growing, but he would also be just as quick to cut them if they got too long. He wore a ripped sweater that seemed more like a crop top to her, and that was a bold statement in itself- most people would call it feminine. Mello would call it daring. Or punk. Maybe both. Leather pants that clung to his legs like spandex. And the eyepatch he wore- she couldn't decide if it was for show or if something had actually happened, but it'd be rude to ask. A strange contrast, the pair of them, like night and day. Or night triumphant and her stars eternal. And yet here they were, seated, a white man and an Indian immigrant from Israel, not fighting or harassing each other. Quite the blue moon. "Well," she says, her voice smooth and delicate like honey, her tilting her head to one side as she looked at him. "Your band did well. I mean, I think so. Most of them were probably grumpy about your fashion choices and your sister's hair." He rolls his eyes at that, but she continues. "The crop top was a bold choice, but I like it. Better to be comfortable in your masculinity enough to wear what most people would claim is feminine than to not have the balls to." "Who are you?" he says finally, with a voice that comes right from the streets. Brooklyn or the Bronx, she isn't sure, but it is distinctly New Yorkian either way. There's a difference between each county in New York, and Mello hasn't learned them masterfully, but she knew them well enough. "Mello Walker. Who are you, hot shot?" Another eye roll. But he was tolerating her, even with his dickhead attitude, so it was something, wasn't it? "Diego Hargreeves." "Ah, that explains the whole 'Fuck the Umbrella Academy!' shouting at your concert." Her fingers brush across the bruise, and he watches her fingertips carefully, as if he thought she would try something. Like her fingertips were poisonous and lethal. Maybe he was just scared. "Rude, considering you're what, seventeen?" He gives a tiny nod. "We share a birthday." She comments lightly, humming as she put the ice against his skin again. She didn't want to accidently give him an ice burn, so she had to be careful. "But I'm not in the spotlight like you all are. Not sure I want to be." "No." he agrees, shaking his head. She doesn't comment on that, and maybe she's waiting for him to speak again. She likes hearing him talk, even if he didn't talk much. She liked his voice, the way his light accent laces his words and ties them together in a bow. But she knows it's a hopeless cause- he doesn't seem to like to talk first. So instead, she lets the pair of them sit in silence, until quietly, she says, "I'm not a prostitute, you know." He looks her up, then down, then returns that gaze to her face again. Not saying a word. "I'm just a stripper." She motions her free hand to the stage, where one of her friends was working. "I didn't have much of a choice. I mean, not only am I some Indian chick who isn't all perfect and white-" she then waves her hand between her arm and his, showing the variation in skin tones. "-but I'm an immigrant. From Israel." "Places the accent." He says. Calmly. He wasn't judging her, which surprised her. Normally, most people would pull away upon the word immigrant. She doesn't know why she even wanted to tell him. She was telling him too much, and the C.I.A wouldn't like that. "Why are you here?" "Foster care." What the hell, she was sure he could hold his own. "A nunnery kicked me out, and I was in Israel for a while before coming to America. Can't say I like it all. Men get too handsy, women wrinkle their noses because occupation is such an issue, and then the racists." She sighs. "It's... Not as bad as down south, I guess. I don't know." He snorts at that. "I wouldn't know what that's like." He pauses a moment, brow furrowing. "I don't know where I was born, just who I was raised by." "Does it bother you?" He shakes his head. "I have other things to worry about." "Like not dying saving the world." She lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, brushing a strand of hair from his face. He doesn't stop her until after her hand starts to fall away, and he catches her wrist, brow furrowing a little. "What?" "You're not an asshole." He says bluntly, which has her eyebrows shooting up. "Well, no, I don't think so. I'm glad someone else doesn't think so either." "No, I mean-" he sighs, stopping. "You aren't trying to get close to me for your own benefit." "Did you think I was?" He doesn't reply, which is an answer all in itself. Which isn't entirely surprising. Most people would think the same thing. Mello's a stripper, so she must always have some agenda. Money, sex, a boyfriend, a way to get out of this hellhole and live elsewhere. But most people also don't realize that she's a genuine human being underneath and not some sex doll they can jack off to later on in the day. She lets her hand drop back into her lap. "I'm just lonely, is all." She admits quietly. "It's nice to talk to people who don't see me as an object all the time. Or violent." "Violent?" "Knocked a guy on his ass for getting too handsy a few times." He laughs. Laughs. Diego Hargreeves, the Kraken, Number Two, whatever it was you wanted to call him, was laughing, and her heart was melting. His laughter was short-lived, but it was nice to hear, and she hadn't known she needed it until it happened. Normally, though, after laughing, people would take a moment to catch their breath, but... he doesn't. Huh. No, instead, he turns to her and says, "So you can fight, hotshot?" "I can." Slowly, he rises to his feet, taking the melting ice from her palm and setting it in the whiskey that had been given to him earlier on. "If you ever get lonely doing this shit, feel free to come find me. Then we'll see if you can actually fight." With that, he turns, which seems to be his goodbye, and starts walking out the door. Her gaze follows him, a slight smile on her face, her heart beating in her chest. This was a first, but she was glad for it. Glad for the fact that she now had a friend- even if he was an asshole superhero who apparently had a kinder heart than she would have thought.

#diego hargreeves x oc #diego hargreeves #comic diego #tua comics #comic tua #tua oc #the umbrella academy

4 notes · View notes

crimsxndesire · 4 years ago

Text

Location: Oxford

SELF PARA

Callum’s brain was turning to mush now as he stared at the index card Tristan was holding up, “Uhm, ketone?” He asked, unsure of the answer as he started at the chemical formula on the card. “Mate, you know it’s an alcohol.” His friend sighed, putting down the card, “You are number one in our class, how can you not remember?” Callum had a lot on his mind at the moment. It was coming time to declare his major and although he came into Oxford with the mindset that he was going to become a doctor, he had doubts. Sighing, “Yeah, I’m just nervous.” He had his father pressuring him to make a decision and it meant that he had to choose a meaningful pathway for the rest of his life. The two had set up all their organic chemistry books in between the stacks of the library, just trying to find a quiet place to study for their midterms that were tomorrow.

“I’m going to fail.” Callum sighed, closing his books as he sat against the stacks of books. Organic chemistry was made to weed out the people who didn’t want to do medicine and he was scared that he was one of those who couldn’t hack it. “You have the highest grade in the class. You’re going to be fine.” Tristan smirked as he sat across from him. "You're funny." Callum said sarcastically. He worked really hard to make sure his grades were good enough because his father was a professor, who could find out his grade at any point. He wanted to go to Oxford, but he disliked the fact that his father was still watching him with hawk eyes. "You don't know my father."

He was stressed about his future, and what he was supposed to do with the rest of his life. "You really gotta give yourself more credit mate." Tristan smirked at him as he placed his hand on Callum's thigh and in that moment Callum felt a lump in his throat. All a sudden, an unfamiliar feeling shot through his body. It was something Callum had thought about these types of things ever since he arrived at uni. He had always thought his future would include wife and kids, but being exposed to a new environment made him change that ideal vision of himself. Callum had never acted on any of those thoughts, but he had thought about it...

"Cut yourself some slack, mate. You are team captain of the football team, you volunteer and you've got the highest grade in our classes." Tristan slid over to the same side as he was sitting and Callum gave him a smile, "Thanks." Silence fell between the two as Callum smiled at his closest friend, his eyes landing on Tristan's lips. Shaking his head, pushing those thoughts out of his mind. He didn't want to ruin a perfectly good friendship over a maybe. "Listen Cal, I really like being your friend and tell me if I'm reading the signals wrong, but..." Tristan trailed off before pulling Callum into a kiss, catching him completely off guard. Callum was completely taken by surprise. He thought the crush he had was one sided, but it hadn't been.

Pulling away, he tried not to blush, but that wasn't happening. Shaking his head, "No, signals aren't wrong. I thought I was the only one." Leaning in to kiss his friend once more, he felt as if it was their secret, kissing between the stacks of the library. He had these thoughts for years, but that had been just thoughts, until now. Tristan pulled away, his eyes moved up behind him, "What?" Callum turned around, spotting his father standing behind him with a look that Callum couldn't decipher. "Father." His mouth went dry and his pulse increased rapidly as his father walked away silently. "I gotta go." Callum told Tristan hurriedly, "I'm sorry."

Running towards his dorm room, Callum knew there would be hell to pay for what his father just saw. The one person he never wanted to see that, showed up like fucking clockwork. He knew his father would be waiting for him in his dorm. “It’s not what it looked like Father.” Callum stuttered out, as he rushed into his dorm. He didn’t know how to explain to his father what he had saw. Callum was unsure of it too, not knowing how to explain his feelings towards Tristan. Callum was internally panicking. Sure, Callum caught the attention of many females on campus, and while he enjoyed it and enjoyed dating them, there was something else. He had felt the same attraction to the guys as well, especially Tristan. The two had similar backgrounds, similar aspirations and he had felt comfortable around him. So when the two shared that kiss, he felt something he hadn’t felt before and it fucking terrified him.

“Dad, it was nothing, really.” His voice wavered, as his father sat on his bed silently. “Dad. Say something." He started to pick at the skin around his nails, seeing the blood start to appear. His dad was silent, and Callum couldn’t decipher his reaction. His father gave no reaction, terrifying Callum, "Please." He pleaded. He was never expecting his father to see that, especially not the first time he kissed a man and his dad's silence was frightening. "Has anybody seen you like that?" His dad finally ended his silence. "No, that was the first time I've done anything like that." Callum quickly explained feeling the sweat droplets form at his hairline. "Good. That's the only time you'll be doing that, you hear me."

Stopping, "Dad," pausing, "I mean, I have these feelings... I'm not sure what they are, but-" His father stopped him, with a slam against the wall, "These feelings Callum?" His father yelled in his face, his hands tightening around Callum's throat, "My son isn't fag." Tears pricked at the edge of Callum's eyes, as his father spewed hateful rhetoric towards his only son. "Dad..." Callum wheezed out, trying to get his father to loosen his grip, "It's not just men, it's women too." He wanted to explain to his father, to talk to him, and tell him he was terrified of his feelings and ask for comfort, but this man was someone else.

His father pushed him to the ground, hovering over Callum, "There is no men Callum. My son will be with a woman, whom he will get married to and have children with, you hear me you little shit?" SLAM. He felt a fist connect with his jaw. His fathers. Callum's heart broke at those words and his actions. Sure he thought if he ever came out to his parents, there would be some resistance and difficulty, but this was something he had never expected. "Dad." He cried out, receiving a slap in the face. "Enough Callum! If I ever get wind of another incident of this shit, everything you love in this life, is over. Your sisters, your mother, gone. Do you understand me?" Callum swallowed, reluctantly nodding his head. He was afraid to say anything else, afraid of the punishment his father would give him. "Clean yourself up." Callum curled up into a ball, his eyes focused on the grungy green carpet to avoid eye contact with his father, "Remember this Callum." His father left without another word or care about his son on the floor. Tears silently fell down Callum's face as he tried to hold them back, but it was impossible.

#muse: callum #self para #tw: homophobia #tw homophobia #homophobia tw #tw: abuse #tw abuse #abuse tw

4 notes · View notes

solynaceawrites · 4 years ago

Text

Wires [7]: Gebunden

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” —Jane Austen

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The diner Dante takes her to is the standard cop hangout. Every city has at least one, with an interior that hasn’t been updated since the 1950s, a cook who knows everyone by name, and food and coffee that are remarkably good considering the otherwise outdated, somewhat grungy appearance the place has. Sitting in one of the corner booths that overlooks the busy street outside, Lir picks at her omelette, only half-interested in it and the crisp hashbrowns accompanying it. Some sort of jazz plays from a jukebox by the door, soft enough that conversations can be held easily yet loud enough that eavesdropping would be difficult. It reminds her of Sunday afternoons when her father was alive, how he and her mother would dance on the worn living room rug to Frank Sinatra or Billie Holiday or Duke Ellington, but that leads her back to her dream the night before, which is quite effective at dampening her already non-existent appetite.

In a lull while the record switches, Dante sets down his fork and reaches for his coffee, studying her over the rim. “Hate to say it, but you look like hell. Rough night?”

“Something like that,” she replies. When he opens his mouth, she shakes her head. “I don’t want to get into it. Just bad dreams, nothing more than that.”

He gives an idle shrug. “Suit yourself. You gonna eat that?”

With a grimace, she pushes her plate over to him, and he swaps it for his own empty one before setting in on the omelette, which he slathers with ketchup. It makes her wince, but to each their own is what she tries to tell herself, taking a sip from her own coffee. Both of them have been beating around the bush since he picked her up—Miller, her behavior yesterday—and she decides to put an end to it. “How much shit am I in?”

Dante chews thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. “With Morrison? No more than you should be. Job’s safe, and he’s not looking to put any marks on your record. Apparently the D.A. said that, even without the confession, there’s enough evidence to nail Miller.” He pauses, then gives her a grin. “Honestly, I think Morrison’s glad someone ripped into that sorry sack of shit.”

“You think?” She tries to picture the gruff Chief being pleased about anything and finds that she can’t.

“Sure. Hell, he did himself when he was a detective, from what I heard.” He chuckles. “Might not seem like it now, but he used to be pretty wild, back in the day. Didn’t really settle until he started climbing the ranks, and that’s probably only because you can’t let those higher-up pricks get under your skin.”

She supposes that it makes sense. Relaxing, Lir leans back in her seat, watching as he devours the rest of their breakfast at a speed that leaves her surprised he doesn’t choke on it. “Thanks.”

“Huh?”

“For sticking up for me. I appreciate it.”

He looks a bit embarrassed as he rubs the tip of his nose. “Ah, no thanks needed. We’re partners, right? Gotta look out for each other. Besides, I wanted to throttle the guy myself. Your tongue-lashing just beat me to it.” She smiles, but the expression fades when he asks, “You do that in Fortuna?”

“No,” she says shortly.

Dante gives her a curious look. “You know, I never did ask what led you to comin’ here.” At her frown, he adds, “Don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just askin’.”

Lir mulls over the best way to answer, trying to figure out the short version of her life. “My dad was a cop. Never really made it higher than a beat cop, but he liked his job and what he did. It got him killed eventually.”

“Shit, Lir, I’m sorry.”

She waves it off. “Guess that’s what drove me to join the force, too. Thought I could make a difference, you know?” He nods. “Anyway, Fortuna was nice. But there was a lot of whispering about how a woman made detective, a lot of insinuations, a lot of . . . I dunno. It’s a pretty old-school place. Women raise families, men work. I wanted to get out before I wound up dead-locked with people I couldn’t stand.”

“Why Red Grave?”

“My father was here a long time ago. We moved to Fortuna when I was . . . I must have been around six, I think.” Lir toys with her coffee mug. “Other than that, I don’t have a real reason other than I liked the look of it the most.” Looking up at him, she asks, “What about you?”

“Me? Been here my whole life, born and raised.” He smiles, but it seems a little haunted, a little bitter. “My ol’ man was a real piece of shit. Joined the force to stop people like him.”

She opens her mouth to ask him how awful his father was. Wife beater? Drunk? Absent? Then she realizes that it’s, quite frankly, not her place, particularly as he’d done her the courtesy of not prying into her past, and she swallows the questions, feeling them burning in the back of her throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

Like her, he waves it off. “Doesn’t matter now. ‘Bout the only thing I got from him was my good looks, anyway.” Lir huffs a laugh without meaning to, and he winks at her before sobering up. “Anyway, Miller might be taken care of, but we’re still at a dead-end on Marsons. Got any ideas?”

“Did we get anything from the DMV?”

“No, and it’s not lookin’ like we will. You know about their feud with the police?” She shakes her head. “Ah, well. Lotta immigrants go there to get a license or permit or anythin’ that helps ‘em out, especially the ones who didn’t go through legal channels. DMV wanted law enforcement to agree not to send info to the feds, our city’s commissioner wouldn’t agree, now we’re stuck.”

Lir swears loudly enough that a nearby table gives her disgruntled glares. “Perfect. Guess we need to set up a tip line.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” She slumps down. It’s a necessary step to take, and Lir knows that it is, but tip lines are the bane of almost all investigations. Once they’re open, everyone calls in, some with information that’s actually relevant, some who just want to nose around, some who want their fifteen seconds of fame, others with nothing more to offer than a conspiracy theory or a completely fabricated story that winds up wasting precious time and resources. Add in the sheer manpower needed to run them, and they move from being a hassle to a nuisance. “Guess I’ll bring it up to Morrison when we go in.”

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Having to wear a suit ranks fairly high on Lir’s list of uncomfortable experiences. Even tailored well—which hers is, something that had cost her a pretty penny due to her short stature—it is stiff, itchy, and the tie at her throat feels choking. Her only solace is that Dante looks equally put out, though she’s got a suspicion that it has more to do with the cameras, as she’s never seen him in casual clothes. At the podium is Morrison, telling the city that there is a killer, that caution must be exercised in all things, and that they are opening up a tip line for anyone who might have seen something or knows someone who has. Lir had insisted that they not ask for people who saw the perpetrator; it’s too hard, she had argued, for someone to view their neighbor as a potential murderer. But a witness? They could spin that story all day, and they were more likely to get relevant information from it.

“In short,” Morrison says, “we have found ourselves, in the wake of this tragedy, seeking any information that will aid us. Please call the number at the bottom of your screens if you think that you know something, no matter how big or small it might be.” He takes a deep breath. “We’ll take your questions now.”

A reporter at the front sticks up his hand. “Does this have any relation to the Devil’s Knight case?”

Dante tenses, and Lir looks at him curiously as Morrison replies, “We’ve found nothing to lead us to believe so, no.”

“But wasn’t there religious paraphernalia found with the victim?” the reporter persists.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” When the reporter opens his mouth again, Morrison smiles thinly. “The Devil’s Knight case, as you called it, occurred twenty years ago, and the perpetrator of those crimes died while incarcerated. We can’t rule out a copycat, if that’s what you’re implying, but we’ve found no evidence to support that theory.”

A woman lifts her arm. “I have a question for Detective Thorne.” Lir blinks, but steps up to the podium when Morrison beckons her forward, a dull wariness throbbing behind her temples. “Detective, witnesses saw you chasing a man across Fifth Street and Broad Avenue. Is he a suspect in this case?”

Lir clears her throat. “It’s possible, yes.”

“Are any efforts being made to find him?”

“As Chief Morrison explained, we—”

“Because it seems to me,” the woman continues, “as though the Red Grave police have no leads, no evidence, no suspects, and no hope of finding Sophie Marsons’ killer before he strikes again.”

Anger throbs behind her temples, yet Lir does her best to keep her face and voice neutral. “The perpetrator in this crime was meticulous, but it doesn’t mean he’s infallible. Someone out there knows him, or has seen him, or can help us build a better picture of Marsons’ life. That’s why we’re asking for your help.”

(“Make it personal,” Morrison says, lighting a cigar. “They’ll single you out, Thorne, because you’re a woman. When they do, you keep the focus on Marsons. You plead for information. Make them want to help.”)

Lir takes a deep breath. “What happened to Sophie was a tragedy,” she declares. “It was senseless, it was violent, it was deplorable. She was, from what little we know of her, a bright, friendly young woman with her entire life ahead of her, someone who liked frozen margaritas with salt on the rim, who was interested in law. And all of that was brutally taken away.” Morrison touches her elbow, a sign to close her statement. “We . . . No, I want to catch the one who did this. I don’t want to see another victim. So, please, if you knew Sophie, if you saw her that night, call us. Or come in to speak with us. Thank you.”

She steps away, ignoring the clamoring of the press as she returns to her original spot next to Dante. As Morrison brings the press conference to a close, Dante leans closer to murmur, “Good speech.”

“Thanks,” she mutters back.

By the time the press has dispersed and she’s been allowed to change back into more comfortable clothing, the phones in the precinct are ringing off the hook. Dante spots her coming out of the locker room and grimaces, one pressed to his ear. Simmons is fumbling reassurances to someone on a different line. Everywhere, cops are speaking, passing notes, scrawling hurriedly to catch whatever information they can before moving on to the next tip. Lir takes in the chaos and the undercurrent of tension in the air, and then she heads to her desk, on which the phone rings shrilly. She answers, cradling the headset against her shoulder as she hunts for a pad of paper and a pen. “Detective Thorne.”

“Did you enjoy the spotlight, Detective?”

The voice, distorted as it is by some sort of device, sends a shiver down her spine. Her heart pounds in her chest as she stares blankly into a drawer, the bitter taste of fear coating her throat. She doesn’t know how, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is their killer, that he, like so many others, now wants to make himself known. She grabs blindly and tosses what turns out to be a pack of staples at Dante, who startles and glares at her, only for his eyes to widen when she gestures to the phone and mouths wordlessly, it’s him.

“You seemed . . . uncomfortable,” the man on the other end of the line continues. “Quite unlike your father. He loved the spotlight.”

Dante rushes into Morrison’s office, and the two emerge after a quick conversation, Morrison gesturing for everyone else to stop talking. An eerie silence descends over the precinct as Lir asks, “My father?”

Morrison presses the speaker button, and that garbled voice fills the room. “Yes,” he replies. “I knew him, though, perhaps, not as well as you.” There’s a pause, and then a grisly noise: wet and visceral, it sounds not unlike a butcher carving meat from a bone, and there’s a hopeless sort of despair in her that she sees on Dante’s face, along with fury, because it is the sound of another victim being claimed. “Tick tock, Detective,” the man intones, and then the line clicks and the phone goes dead in her hand.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Morrison sends her home with an escort that remains parked on the curb outside of her apartment. Having someone babysit her is irritating at best and infuriating at worst—Dante is also equally at risk, but no one is batting an eye over his safety—but Lir understands the need for it. The killer had called her, had mentioned knowing her father, and her face had just been broadcast on live television. So, the idea that he might choose to come after her next isn't entirely unfounded. Still, as she opens the curtains and peers out, watching one of the officers lean on the door of his cruiser and smoke, she wishes that she had some true peace.

Yet she doesn't want to be alone, either.

Moving to her sofa, she grabs her phone from a cushion and scrolls through her scarce contact list. Joan's number sits comfortable below Dante's and above Morrison's, and Lir dials it, listening to the beeping and waiting for an answer. It comes just before the call would have gone to voicemail. "Hello?"

"Hi. Joan?" Lir clears her throat. "This is Detective Thorne."

There's a pause. Then, "I remember you! You came in asking about Sophie. Sorry, sugar, as pretty as your face is, I've seen a lot since then. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if your offer for company still stands?" She winces as the words leave her mouth. They're too stilted, too formal, and she's too out of practice for this.

To her relief, Joan's reply this time is immediate. "Of course! Are you comin' to the bar?"

"No, I, uh . . ." She glances at the window. "I'm under surveillance right now. Because of the press conference. But I can give you my address?"

"Sure. Just let me find a pen."

Lir waits for the go ahead to rattle it off, along with instructions for which buzzer to press and what to say to the officers if they try to stop her. With that done, she calls the officers next, letting them know she has a guest coming over and what Joan looks like, agreeing when they tell her they'll still have to check her I.D. and frisk her as a precaution. Then there is nothing else to do but wait.

She tidies up her apartment, washing her few dishes and sweeping and making the bed, and she finds two bottles of wine and the meat and cheese tray the department had given her as a house-warming present a few days ago. Lir has just gotten the cellophane off when her buzzer goes off, and she hurries to let Joan inside.

The bartender arrives dressed like a knock-out, which is strange considering how casual her clothes are. From her dark turtle-neck sweater to her lightly distressed jeans, they imply comfort, but on her they look better than they ever would on the runway. Lir stumbles over her greeting as Joan hangs up her coat, and her nerves don't lessen until Joan leans over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you called," she says, smiling warmly. "I was starting to think you never would."

"I'm sorry. Between work and unpacking . . ." Lir starts to say, but Joan merely shakes her head, so she changes the topic. "I have wine. Why don't you settle in and I'll get us glasses? Do you prefer red or white?"

"White, please." Joan sits on the couch while Lir heads to the kitchen, looking around curiously. "Gotta say, this is the first apartment I've been in that belongs to a detective. It's nice."

"Thanks."

Lir locates the corkscrew hiding in one of the drawers and carries the bottle of moscato and two glasses to Joan. She takes one, holding it out as Lir fills it, and while Lir prepares her own, she says, "I saw the conference. The press are some miserable bastards, huh?"

"I suppose so," Lir agrees.

"And to bring up the Devil’s Knight case," Joan continues. "It's like they want the whole city on edge. Probably do, now that I think about it. How else will they sell papers?"

"What was that case, anyway?"

Joan gives her a look of pure surprise. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean, I've heard of it, I think, but . . ."

"Well." Joan takes a long drink of her wine. "Where to begin? You have to understand, I was a kid when it all went down, so you'll have to find the file to know more, but there was this guy who thought he was the modern day Jack the Ripper. Went around murdering women, leaving them in alleys like trash. Usually there'd be some sort of . . . Bible verse or somethin' similar with the bodies when they were found."

"That's horrible," Lir murmurs.

Joan nods her agreement. "It was. Women didn't go anywhere alone, 'cause he wasn't picky, other than them all being blondes. I think. Anyway, eventually he got caught and went to jail, where I guess he died. It's sort of become this . . . trademark of Red Grave, I guess. Not on any tours, but people still talk, and there's a vigil held every year for the victims."

"What was his name?" Lir leans forward, propping her head on the back of the couch. "The guy."

"I dunno. He had surviving family, so the name was kept outta the papers, even during the trial. Kids, I think."

"Mm." Lir closes her eyes, her brows pinched. Something about this feels familiar, but she can't put her finger on why. Had someone said something to her during her academy days? Or had she simply read about it at some point and tucked it away with all of the other things she doesn't need?

A hand on her thigh breaks her from her thoughts, and she blinks her eyes open to see Joan leaning towards her, her lips curled in a little smile. "But I say enough about murderers. Let's talk about us."

"Us?" Lir asks.

Then Joan kisses her, her mouth warm and tasting wine-sweet, and Lir lets thoughts of the case slip from her mind.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dmc oc #lirael thorne #lir #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #wires

6 notes · View notes

ericsonclan · 4 years ago

Text

Prisha’s Bio

I wanted to provide a bio for one of my main OCs, Prisha. Figured it would be helpful since she appears in so many of our stories. Enjoy!

Read on A03:

Name: Prisha Chakyar

Nickname: Prish (Preesh), but it’s infrequent and only used by close friends

Age: 13 (Season 1) / 15 (Season 2) / 17 (Season 3) / 21 (TFS)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Height: 1m70/ 5′7

Weight: 61kg (135 lbs)

Hair color: Black

Hair length: Down to middle of back

Typical hairstyle: Braid, usually slung in front of left shoulder

Eye color: Brown

Noticeable Features: Left arm is paralyzed due to nerve damage from a fall

Typical Clothing: Jeans, sneakers, grungy teal windbreaker (layers underneath)

Preferred Weapon: ice axe (straight shaft, ice pick blade)

Backstory: Prisha grew up in Chicago, IL. Her parents were first generation immigrants from India who had come to America in pursuit of the American dream for Prisha and her younger brother Sanjay. When Prisha was 13, the world fell apart during what seemed like a normal school day. She and her classmates tried to survive with the help of two teachers, fleeing into the countryside. Prisha never saw her family again.

During her time with her classmates, Prisha found her first love in an Irish American girl named Maren. They vowed to protect each other against all odds. One by one their classmates were picked off by walkers or heartless humans until they were the only two left. Maren was caught by a group of walkers and Prisha was unable to save her. Prisha was all alone at the age of 15. She remained that way for almost a year, constantly travelling and avoiding all other survivors.

Eventually, Prisha ran into a group called the Deliverance run by a woman named Francesca. Francesca convinced Prisha that she would have a home with the group and Prisha agreed to join, eventually entering a romantic relationship with the much older Francesca. While a member of the Deliverance, she worked as a spy, infiltrating other survivor communities and gaining information that could be used in raids.

A little over a year into her time with the Deliverance, Prisha was sent on a reconnaissance mission with another member. Both were captured and tortured for information. Prisha didn’t break, but her companion did, taking the enemy group to the Deliverance’s hideout. When they got there though, the place was empty and the opposing group gained word that their own base had been attacked. Prisha had been used as a pawn for the Deliverance to take over their greatest acquisition yet. She barely escaped execution at the hands of the opposing group, fleeing with only her life. She was almost 18.

It was a few months later that Prisha came across a group of survivors who were like her: betrayed and abandoned by past groups. They joined together to look out for each other when no one else would. The group constantly travelled, striving to avoid getting caught in the fallout of the community wars raging all along the East coast. Despite the struggles, Prisha found herself at peace with this group, slowly coming to trust each and every one of them completely. She remained with them for 3 years, making other temporary connections along the way, including the acquaintance of a group of young adults from a school called Ericson.

About 6 months after this, Prisha’s group was ambushed by raiders. The men were all killed and the women and children taken. In her attempts to escape, Prisha fell off a cliff into the river. Her left arm was crushed in the fall and she slipped in and out of consciousness as the river carried her downstream until she drifted ashore near the site of the Delta explosion. Violet and Willy came across her unconscious form. Recognizing Prisha, Violet decided to carry her back to Ericson where she recuperated and eventually became a member of their group.

Facts about Prisha: 1. Prisha loves musicals, especially old-timey ones like Music Man or My Fair Lady. 2. Prisha keeps her hair long as the one holdout from the old world, a preservation of her heritage and dignity. 3. Prisha has a fascination with practical invention (plumbing, solar panels, advanced weaponry), striving to improve efficiency and comfort at Ericson to improve everyone’s daily lives. 4. Prisha is a morning person, rising with the dawn. 5. Prisha takes great pride in all aspects of her identity, but is also haunted with the overwhelming fear that she will once more be abandoned or left alone by those she holds dear.

#twdg #twdg oc #thewalkingdeadgame #fanfic #twdg prisha

31 notes · View notes

beesramblings · 4 years ago

Text

You should see me in the crown modern!kylo x reader

ты должен увидеть меня в короне

Ch 1

“Ben Solo is a fucking dirty cop, and he’s working for Queen of the Damned, I know, it... it sounds crazy Rey. But please, please, believe me, we have to tell Captain Organa and Sergeant Solo.” Finn pleaded to Rey over the phone, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, both blending in the rain. He caught the dirty bastard in the middle of a drug exchange in the back alley of some bar, “Rey I saw him, with one of her girls, he spoke something to her, and then…he saw me... I don’t know how, but he did and I’m bleeding, I can’t tell if it’s a lot or a little, but that fucker is dirty Rey.” She sighed into the receiver, “Finn, you’ve been trying to get this guy on something for months if not years, but, Finn to go off something without evidence, you could be on desk duty for who knows how long or you could be fired, I just think it’s a bad idea, with you and Poe up for promotion this could derail everything.” Finn looked down at a puddle outside his cruiser, “I’ll get evidence somehow Rey. I swear to you.” He heard her hum in agreement, “I’ll see you later Finn, I have a report to write.” He nodded, knowing that Rey can’t see his actions through the phone, the line went dead. Finn leaned his head on the cool leather of his steering wheel. “Fuck, I can’t believe that fucker, he’s working for her, I know he is.”

Kylo saw through the visor, Finn was still there “What a little pest…” he seethed. ‘The Queen won’t be happy about our encounter. Be more careful next time Ren, or I will let her know.’ Those were the last words Phasma said to him before speeding off. How did that goodie two shoes follow him out here, he was boiling over, She would have his head or his body. Whichever one that would make Королева happy, Kylo was willing to give to her, even though he has never seen her, she has seen him, and she made sure Kylo knew. He jumped on his motorcycle and sped off in a different direction back to his hole of an apartment, he knew in the back of his head that she was going to send one of her “men” to rough up Finn and himself. He cursed under his breath, “какая чертова сука, она разрушит мою жизнь” As he pulled up to the apartment he took notice of a few fancier cars in the car park, “Fuck. Phasma told someone…” He quickly unclipped his gun from his holster, he had a feeling that something would go down in his apartment. He quickly ran up the stairs to his door, keeping his back close to the grungy walls, ‘God, this apartment is disgusting, I need to move soon, somewhere clean and orderly.’ He thought to himself. He saw that his door was unlocked, which sent a cold shock of anxiety through his body, his heart fell to his stomach. He slowly pointed his gun around the corner of the door. “Kylo you better get that thing away from me,” Automatically Kylo knew that voice from anywhere, “Hux what are you doing here,” Kylo growled menacingly, he hated his partner, both at the precinct and in the ring “you need to get out before I make you.” Kylo threatened while lowering his gun slightly. Hux removed his grey peacoat and discarded it onto Kylo’s black couch. “ You had a little колючка follow you to a drop location” Kylo grimaced “I didn’t know that he was following me, мышь I know he has an inkling of something-” Hux closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and hung his head “Idiot. Now he has proof of you meeting someone. And that someone is a known drug-runner for the biggest mafia and drug rings. How could you be so careless.” Hux scolded Kylo like a young child. Kylo felt the bubble of rage start to boil in the pit of his stomach, he clenched his jaw in anger trying to quell the urge to choke Hux, he craved to bring him close to the brink of death. Then Hux would know who is truly in charge of their operation. Hux’s voice kept droning on in the back of Kylo’s head until both of their phones chimed with an identical ringtone, both hands reached for their phones.

глупые парни перестают спорить, разрешают женщинам вызывать выстрелы. следующая капля 3:30 утра угол Итора и Тариса.

Hux’s green eyes fixed upon Kylo’s amber eyes, “She is calling you stupid.”

That was the final straw for Kylo, he grabbed Hux by his pristine grey colored collar and slammed him up against the drywall, “You don’t know SHIT, to what she is referring to you cretin. All I know is that you are forgetting to who you fucking report to. Both in uniform and out of uniform. “ Hux’s face was turning a slight shade of blue, ‘Delicious’ thought Kylo. Hux’s feet began thrashing and for one final act of humiliation, Kylo spat in the man’s face and then dropped him, Hux began sputtering trying to catch his breath. “ Get up you swine, and get out. You are so very lucky I didn’t kill you. It would be far too much paperwork and would cause quite a stir with the Lady.” Hux caught his breath and stood up, and grabbed his coat, “Fuck off Solo, and see you tomorrow.” He quickly ran out the door before Kylo could catch him. All the hairs on Kylo’s neck bristled when he heard his “real” last name, a name he had to use at work but had no real meaning to him. He quickly decided to pour himself a glass of whatever was left in his fridge while he waited to go out for the drop. His phone buzzed again, a call from his superior officer/ older drug kingpin.

“Hello, Snoke,” Kylo said through slightly bared teeth. “To what do I owe the honor of speaking to you.” Snoke chuckled over Kylo’s sarcastic, yet apprehensive comment. “Ren, I will be expecting you and Hux over at Neskar tonight. I know ‘Королева’ has a drop tonight and I expect that you and Hux will be getting me what I need. She took something very valuable from me, so we will be taking something of slightly… lesser value from her.” Kylo exhaled quickly, it was difficult being a triple agent of some sort; a cop, an underboss for Snoke, and a ‘brigadier’ or a бригадир for Королева. And she has been good to him since she came to power. “Of course Don Snoke. I am willing to do anything for the family.” He heard another bone-chilling chuckle. “Good, good. I will see you tonight.” Kylo hung up the phone after that, ‘God I can’t wait to get rid of the old fucking man.’ Kylo thought, ‘If Snoke died under mysterious circumstances in the precinct Kylo would be fully in charge and once Snoke fell as Don in the family he could take over and try and unite both mafia’s if Королева would have him.’ Tonight was going to be a long night for Kylo.

In your apartment, you were overseeing any possible attacks that would happen if Snoke tried to get his dominion back, which you would expect. “где, черт возьми, Хакс, моя сладкая фазма.” you cooed to your tall and silver-haired companion, though you two never were ever physically attracted to her, you were attracted to her power and the strategic mind she wielded. Her undying loyalty to you and her absolute brute force solidified her easily as your right-hand woman, in business and friendship. “Мой дорогой Hux went to go after the idiot Kylo.” Your eyes flicked up from the papers in front of you “What did he do.” Phasma looked over at you “Darling, it’s truly nothing to worry about, Hux and I will fix it.” You slammed your fists onto the desk “Tell me Phasma, as your Королева I demand it.” Phasma clenched her teeth, “He was tailed by someone, Kylo scared him off but not for long, it’s definitely someone who works for Solo and Organa.” Rage boiled in you, how dare that half-wit be fucking followed especially by a cop. “Hux assured me he would talk some sense into him.” You felt yourself stand up at your ornate table “Phasma, Kylo will not listen to anyone, especially that vermin Hux. Kylo could eat him alive.” Your partner took a deep breath in “ I know.” You screamed in anger “That fucker works under Snoke as a cop, and I know he is somehow involved in something, he must be stopped, and eliminate that thorn that followed Ren. We can’t have any chance.” You pushed the papers off the table. “Phasma, we were on the brink of an all-out war with Snoke, after I had the girls take his warehouses and help his ‘property’’ You practically spat out the last word, the idea of a man owning women and abusing them for other men’s pleasure was the reason you craved to bring him down. You needed to create a new order to this city and if that meant to take down the God-like man, with all officers either being too stupid to realize that Snoke was the puppet master, or most turned a blind eye to him. You knew that you were his Lucifer, and God willing you can bring him down one way or another. “ We will be in all-out war if the police, Snoke, or that Kylo Ren try anything tonight.” Phasma cupped your elbow, hoping it would bring you back from the brink of murdering anyone. “I have a good informant, they said that Hux and Ren have meaning to meet with Snoke at Neskar, before our drop.” Your jaw gritted together making your lips into a thin line, deep in thought “ We will be there tonight, I should meet one of my бригадир in the flesh. It would be nice to put a face and flesh to their names.” You felt your breathing slow to a more controlled and still slightly enraged, you closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose, “Phasma, I want them to all know who, they are dealing with. If that means we have to go all-in with how we dress and how I interact with all of the men, then so be it. But I cannot have any of them forget who we are, and what they are dealing with.” The storm was brewing inside you, as it was brewing again outside. Snoke’s family, the NYPD, Hux, and Kylo had no clue what was coming, and for now, they were in the eye of the storm.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo trash #modern!kylo #dirty cop! Kylo #drug lord! reader #mob boss! kylo and reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren slow burn #ben solo x reader

24 notes · View notes

the-queer-look · 4 years ago

Text

Perceive me as Art

Name: Jess Age: 23 Location: Rosebery Occupation: Administrator Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Gender: Non-Binary

I’m usually in long, black clothing. Something that accentuates the paleness of my skin and my tattoos, whatever makes me look as spooky as possible with as little colour as possible. I’m not a big colour person, I like to accentuate more with accessories and makeup than coloured fabric, not for any real reason, I just think that black is a lot more fun. I used to be more into very fitted clothing, but I’m not experimented with different shapes and cuts of things to see how they work on me. I used to try to fit into a very specific mould when I was younger, but now I’m experimenting with things that are more fun and edgy.

When I was thirteen I was enrolled into an all girls school and I realised pretty quickly that I didn’t think about boys the same way that others did. I wasn’t interested in them, I was more taken with how beautiful women were, and just just assumed that everyone had these thoughts. I thought I’d just grow out of it, but I never did, and eventually had to face the fact that I was definitely romantically, or at least sexually inclined towards women. It was something I’d never considered before, having come from a very conservative household; so being not straight made me feel like everything was going to fall apart if I came out to them, so I kept it quiet for a few years.

It took a long time between coming out and actually going to queer events, because I was so insecure about it. I didn’t want to be anything but straight; being straight felt like the easiest route through life – my parents were straight and had a safe, happy life – I was worried that by coming out as bisexual I was opening myself up to rejection from my peers. I was only once I started actively looking into queer culture and speaking to other people who identified as bisexual, or were also questioning their sexuality that I began to relax about it. It was nice to start not giving a shit about being conventionally attractive to straight people – being attractive to queer people is like a rebellion. I’m not going to be this perfect heterosexual person, I’m going to start dressing gay and acting gay because I’m tired of pretending to be this perfect caricature of a woman for someone to look at.

Once I came out I became much more vocal about being gay, and more firm in my stance of being bisexual. I realised that I didn’t not like men, I just wasn’t as attracted to them at the time as I was to women. I’ve come to appreciate men now but there’s a bit of “you’re either straight or you’re gay” no in between, especially when I was first coming out. I really wanted to feel that I belonged somewhere, but these people who were so supportive to hear that I was into women, would turn on a dime when I said that I was bisexual and just say that I was confused, or that bisexuality doesn’t exist. It was jarring to find the reactions that I expected from my parents to instead come from the queer community.

When I was still pretending to be straight I had very long hair, I wore very fitted clothing, deep plunge necklines, just accentuating the fact that I had boobs and a bum. I was always insecure about being so tall and muscular compared to my very petite friends, which had me feeling like a giantess, leaving me feeling very unattractive. Once I came out I started getting more bold, experimenting with makeup more, wearing bigger eyeliner, cutting my hair different and dressing more androgynously. I’m wearing boots, converse, pants, I’m prone to wearing a band tee and being an interesting and dynamic person to look at rather than something for someone to fuck. I want to be perceived as an art piece.

I’ve felt connected to androgyny a lot when I was younger – I never really liked girly things, I never vibed with princesses and ponies, I was instead into monsters and grungy things. I loved Baphomet as a kid because it was this frightening demon that wasn’t male or female, no human or beast, but something in between and I loved it. I started thinking about my gender and I’ve never felt that my body doesn’t fit me, but I felt that within myself I ma not fully female. I’m somewhere somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, mucking about with pronouns to see what fits. Whilst I like femininity, and I like performing it and am appreciative of feminine energy, I don’t feel that I am not fully connected with it. I’m a step removed from feminine.

Being queer, for me, is a way to express myself freely without feeling like I have to fit into a mould. When I was younger I was very focussed on being the straight down the middle, normal heterosexual girl. When I realised that I couldn’t be straight, and I couldn’t live my life in the closet I decided to embrace it. Luckily I had a very supportive family – I never actually came out to them properly, I just let it slip one day. Being queer is being fully yourself without the pressure to be or act a certain way. It’s a very low pressure, loving community as long as you are being communicative. Queer people seek to understand you rather than pressure you into being a certain way. I feel rescued by the queer community.

I was at a party recently and had only just come to the conclusion that I was non-binary, and let it slip to someone “Hey, I think I’m non-binary, but I don’t really know how to tell anyone.” They said “Babe, don’t even worry about it, you don’t need to tell anyone anything, you know who you are, you tell me what you want me to call you and I will do it because I know that whatever it is that you’re feeling you’ve thought about, you know in your heart and I want to support you.” - I was so touched by it because it was someone I’d never met before and she was so sweet to me.

While I love the queer community and partying with them, I don’t feel super involved. I feel very connected with the queer community though, the warmth and acceptance that you feel walking into a queer event is so invigorating.

full gallery on facebook

please contact us if you would like to take part

#lgbt #the queer look #lgbtqiaplus #photography #portrait #inter #view #culture #identity #bisexual #bivisibility #nonbinary #gender

1 note · View note