#i feel his murderous spirit coursing through my body

[twinknote]

not to be alarming but. i think i understand why BB did all that

[grugruel]

Sleeping With the Enemy

Pairings: Silco x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: You're a councillors daughter secretly working with the Eye of Zaun, fulfilling each other's needs.

Political needs, of course. It's purely business. They would never be stupid enough to start an affair . . . Unless?

Wordcount: ca 3.5k

Warnings: enemies AND lovers, hate-fucking, toxic, Silco being evil, angsty, pinv sex, rough sex, power imbalance, fighting for control, complicated feelings, twisted love, forbidden relationship, dacryphilia ish, cockwarming, blowjob, fingering, edging, overstimulation, choking, cum eating, creampie, petnames (girl, princess, devil, Sil)

AN: yet to be proofread. This might be one of my favourite works, he's insane . . . I need him.

"Let go off me," she snarls, yanking mirthlessly against the strong womans grip. "Release me Sevika, or-"

"Or what?" She cuts the girl off with a sneer, metallic fingers sinching around her bicep. Sevika holds her close enough to force the girl to stare up through her eyebrows if she wants to achieve any semblance of eye contact.

"Or she tells her precious father," the man cuts in, a nonchalant smile to his tone.

"He doesn't know I'm here," the girl snaps, defiantly locking eyes with the industrialist. Clad in shadow, he's a mere silhouette backlit by Zaun's streets. "He doesn't know anything."

Picking up a brand new cigar, he clips the end and flicks a lighter open, toying with the flame. All in due time, he's not rushing to spoil such a favored treat.

"Good," he says and gestures dismissively, signaling his trusty henchman to leave.

Sevika releases the girl with a displeased huff and slams the door behind her. The only thing she likes less than piltovians, is them wandering too far from their fabricated safety and ending up on her doorstep.

She watches the muscular woman leave, staring at the closed door in contemplation as she once again finds herself alone with the eye of Zaun.

Something clatters behind her, a lighter discarded on a desk. "You're late," he mutters, bringing the smoking cigar to his lips.

Anger begins to blaze inside her. That's it? That's all he has to say? "Six enforcers are dead," she snaps, nose scrunching. Disgusted by the mere thought of that demon's violence. "She's a loose canon, Silco. She blew them up for the hell of it."

From the dark, a red orb slips her way. He leans forward, having the rooms gloomy light illuminate his face only to throw the girl a disapproving look, barely deeming it worthy to look her in the eyes. "You forget yourself, girl."

Swallowing, she forces herself to calm down. Aggrivating such a volatile man never proved a good idea, and displaying anger against his daughter proved even worse.

Carefully, she ventures closer. Testing the waters and finding them thick as mud. The very air around him emenates danger, and her body slows down, relucant to put itself in such unpredictable environments. "You broke our deal," she announciates, finding it safer to put the blame on him rather than the blue haired demon he protects so ferociously.

"You disrupted our shipment," he repeats her ridiculous attempt. "It's simple business. Collateral," he shrugs and gestures toward her, vaguely implying the deaths should be on the girls consience. He doesn't say it outright because he doesn't need to, because he doesn't care if it hurts her feelings. Because, he doesn't care about the lost lives of a few topsiders, lives of enforcers even less. In true rebel spirit.

Massively unimpressed, he sizes her up when she places herself on the other side of the desk. Gripping the edge, the wood is tough beneath her fingers as she strains to keep herself in check. Blue and green light his back, lining the countours around his body. It softens him in some ways, as if the light hasn't completely shunned him yet.

Suddenly smirking, Silco's gaze drifts over her. Studying her tense disposition with spiteful glee as he enjoys the irony of a murderous piltovian. "Contemplating violence wont relieve you of this predicament."

"Killing you would."

"Threatening me so early in the morning?" He tsks, taking a deep drag of the cigar to then blow a ring of smoke in her direction. "Perhaps I should have approached your father instead, the councilor would've been easier to handle . . . More willing to please."

Keeping eye contact, she doesn't react, and a glint of cuiosity to sparks in his gaze. "He has nothing to do with this, and you know it," she tries again. "But Jin-"

Silco's smirk falls. "Hold your tongue, girl." Pinching the bridge of his tall nose, he releases a heavy sigh. "Lock the door," he orders, looking at her through his eyebrows.

Menacing, haunting. She could describe him with a hundred different horrific words. Yet, he doesn't scare her. They both know she's right.

Breathing relief, she does as she's told. When asking her to create a boundary between the world and this room, he shows her nothing has changed. Whatever they have remains within the confines of his office and her bedroom. It takes the edge off, and she lets the inhabiting worry slip away.

Upon her return, she softly stalks around the desk until sidled up against the short side. "Shoving clever words down my throat won't shut me up, Sil."

Rubbing his face, he looks at her through his fingers. Heavily disapproving of the nickname. "Dont tempt me," he warns. "I'll find other ways to shut you up."

She swallows, a single pulse throbs in her core. Moving around the desk, she slides a finger along it's edge and places herself infront of him, bathing her in the very same darkness that Silco finds himself in.

A small smirk flicker on his lips. But even though it dissolves, turning back into its usual serious mask, the satisfaction of the expression linger on his features.

"It cant happen again," he warns a third time, he must going soft on her. His hands move, trading the cigar for the the ability to touch her. One hand reaches for her thigh, sliding beneath her skirt. While the other reaches up, grabbing her chin to stare into her eyes. "The shipments are important." Silco applies just enough pressure on her chin to keep it stinging, just enough to understand that he didn't take the loss lightly. While the thumb beneath her skirt brushes lightly over her hipbone.

Inspite their predicaments, their relationship was business from the beginning and the majority still is. He tells her this through the contrasting touches.

She nods.

"Use your words, girl. Tell me you understand. This cant happen again."

But she won't concede, not yet. "No more attacks," she murmurs, placing her hands on his thighs. "No more deaths." The girl sinks to her knees, slowly, and making sure he keeps his gaze glued to hers. Being so close to him, she gets a whiff of his cologne. He smells of musk and wood, Smoke and whiskey. He smells of man.

They know what buttons to press when it comes to one another, and right now, she needs safety for her people in much the same way he needs independence for his. The difference laying within their methods of accomplishment. But looking at them now, it's clear they've got more in common than she's previously thought.

Silco spreads his legs further apart, welcoming her advancements. "I wonder what daddy dearest would say if he saw you now; that pretty princess of his . . . Negotiating on her knees." He slides a hand beneath hers, lacing their fingers together before leaning back in his chair to enjoy the show.

It's a small sign of fondness, one he confidently gives. Showing his inclination toward her means little, for they already know where they have each other. Unwilling to put it into words, they feel them silently.

Truth is, they enjoy the power imbalance, they enjoy the hatred their respective people share. Peculiarly, it unites them, and simultaneously fuel their polarity. They're a strange equation, two variables with a common sum.

Helping each other with free hands, they unbutton his pants. "Im sure he'd be proud of your devotion," he mocks, exhaling that infamous low chuckle.

Spitting into her hand, she reaches into his pants. "He'd share the pride with your people," she smiles and looks up at him innocently, pulling his member out. "–when they find out your working with a councilor's daughter . . . Fucking her no less." She leans in, teasing his tip with a slow circling lick, gathering the pre-cum on her tongue. With a corner curving upward, his lips part, and there's a silent intake of breath. Brushing his hand along her cheek, he collects stray hair covering her face and gathers it at her neck, twirling it around his fingers. "Go on," he urges.

And so, she finally closes the distance and takes him in her mouth.

With a hiss, he squeezes the hand laced with his. Slender fingertips dig into the back of her hand. "Little devil," he groans, hand burrying deeper into her hair and balling into a fist, coincidentally pulling on her scalp.

Clasping her still spit-wet hand around his shaft, she strokes him, adding on to the bobbing of her head.

"Yes," he moans, reclining his head against the back of the chair. "Carry on, girl."

Im sync with her hand, she works him until he's close to squirming, trying his very best to keep a semblance of composure. Never did she think such a powerful man would tremble beneath her touch or the pressure of her lips. But here he was, his usual neat combed back hair fallen over his forehead, beads of sweat gathering on his temples.

He'd started using his hand to guide her head, helping her find the perfect path toward his climax. Chest heaving and teeth bared, he chuckles breathlessly as the squelching of their actions reach his ears. Pushing her too far, she makes half-choking noises when she takes his entire length down her throat. Causing saliva to spill out of her mouth and roll down his length.

"Sloppy," he snarls, manicured nails digging into her hand. "-used to sucking cock."

She whines from the rare usage of crude words, making her core purr. His inches twitch in her mouth, sensing how close he is. "Please me," he supresses a groan, calling her name. "Swallow."

It happens quickly. His breathing turns rapid, his hips arching as he spills into her mouth. Tasting of rich salt as she swallows.

Smirking devilishly, he catches his breath. "Thats it . . . Well done." He brushes his thumb along her index finger.

Joy trickles into her heart at the praise, but there is little room as her body is already filled to the brim by need. With heavy eyes and glistening lips, she stands up on her knees. "Kiss me," she whispers.

Unlacing their fingers, he moves to slide a thumb across her lips, gathering some of the milky seed she'd yet to swallow. "Open up, princess." He pulls on her hair to tilt her head back.

Her lips part automatically, a knife slicing through her pride at the irony of the name. Silco slips his thumb into her mouth and wipes it clean on her tongue. He watches with fascination as her lips close around the digit, volunteering to suck it off as he pulls it out. "Kiss me," she repeats.

The fingers still burried in her hair twitches at the sight. Acting on impulse, they bunch her waves, pulling her close enough for their lips to play ghost. He tilts his head to the side, bringing them impossibly closer. "Tell me you understand," he murmurs, watching her reaction as the featherlight touch tickles her lips.

Her expectations for the night and the soft shell of intimacy around them shatters, but she'll never give him the satisfaction. The kiss was a wish from her own selfish needs, but giving him what he wants without the safety she require for her people is not. "No."

With a harrowing glance, he releases her. "I have work to do, you know where the door is," Silco says, nodding toward the exit. He then runs his hand through his hair, combing it back into place.

So quickly is the mood ruined and the rush of lust diminishes, settling her nerves. Instead it is the annoyance and the anger she arrived with that begins to rebuild.

The girl scoffs. "Petty, man-child," she mumbles, keeping her voice beneath her breath. But she wants something from him too, anything. She's derserves it, it just the matter of taking it.

Then, something just clicks in her mind and an irruption takes control of her body. Narrowing her eyes in quick to non-existent contemplation, she grabs his collar and pulls him in for a kiss. It only lasts for a second before she pushes herself away and stands up, not planning to stick around to deal with the consequences.

But before she gets a chance to move too far, a hand grabs her forearm and yanks her back. "You stubborn girl," he whispers in her ear, an arm slung around her torso as Silco holds her against his chest. She feels her panties being pulled to the side, and the head of his member lining up with her core. "Bleeding your integrity dry for those imperious, self-important cretins." He teases her entrance, sliding the tip up and down her folds.

"I am one of them, or do you forget?" She snaps.

Without warning, he lowers her onto his inches, fitting them inside her like they've been molded. The girl gasps at the feeling and Silco's fingers curl, releasing a groan as his fingers rouch the fabric at her ribs. "Even now?" He adjusts the girl in his lap. "Would they deign to descend from their thrones as you? Stooping to my level, manipulating on a whim to fullfill your needs." He pulls her closer, nudging her profile with his. All the while he's got his still hard member pushed up inside her, soft walls of flesh welcoming him eagerly. "Would they still accept you when found-out, or will they throw you to the wolves as the rumours spread? When they find out Zaun's villainous crime lord is fucking Piltover's princess," he laces the words with venom, hands slipping upward. One stops at her breast to squeeze while the other clasps around her throat. "When they whisper of the ways he uses her. How he puts her on her back, makes her kneel . . . How he bends her over," he murmurs, sending shivers down her spine.

She grows dizzy, a mix of worry and pleasure clouding her senses. His words hit home, drawing her lips into a thin line. "They are still my people," she breathes, voice close to breaking, sunding more like she's trying to convince herself.

"They will be your downfall." He puts pressure on her throat. "We've made sure of that, you and I."

"No . . . Silco, that's not true."

The hand holding her breast slips beneath her skirt. "We've made our beds-" slender fingers find her clit. "And we will sleep with the consequences."

Head lulling back against his shoulder, back arching, pleasure spikes as he stimulates her thrice fold. Circling her clit while throbbing inside her, and acting catalyst is the experienced hand around her throat. It limits the bloodflow and multiplies her pleasure. "Fuck," she whimpers, hips squirming, flesh randomly spasming around him.

Silco groans at the sensation, gaining his own pleasure from the whole ordeal. But that is not his goal. "Be still," he warns.

The collossall amounts of pleasure blinds her, it grabs hold of her senses and refuses to let go. Her nerves burn and fingers curl. Its all too much, yet not enough. Tears of gather in her eyes, slowly spilling over to roll down her face. "A-almost . . ."

Silco adjusts his grip around her throat so uses his thumb to tilt her face toward him, then watches how the tears streak her makeup, leaving watered down mascara in their wake. He places his lips on her skin, kissing the tears away while enjoying their salty taste. He studies her rosy cheeks and knitted expression, memorising the small whimpers she breathes.

The girl can no longer keep still and her back prepares to arch, limbs preparing to surge with blinding hot pleasure. "Im-- mhh, I-" She mewls, and the knot releases.

. . .

Until it isn't. She feels Silco retract his hands, causing oxygen flood her brain and irritation to anchor her mind. The knot in her stumach re-ties, loosely adjusting until the pressure completely dies down. "I see callousness runs in the family," she complains, almost in pain from the sudden lack of stimulation.

Silco circles an arm around her waist. "It's essential to survive," he says and stands up, still swollen member slipping out of her. Supporting the girl as her knees wobble, she's unable to stand on her own due to the afflictions he's caused her. Turning her around, he helps her onto the desk. Chest to chest, he braces against the wood, one hand on either side of her, effectively boxing her in.

She lays a finger beneath his chin, and he looks up at her through his eyebrows. Exhaling, he moves between her thighs. Silco reaches out to her, loosely cupping her face as his thumb smears the streaked mascara. "There is no white knight," he says, pushing reality on her, weather she's willing to listen or not.

She nods. "I know." Tainted by the impure air of Zaun, branded by the touch of it's Eye. If she ever is to be saved, it must be by her own hand. Her smile is faint as her eyes fall from his.

He grabs her face and squeezes her cheeks. "Look at me," he tells her with a gravely tone. Their eyes lock. Dissappering between them, his other hand lines himself up with her core.

Taking a gamble, she grabs his tie and pulls him in, properly locking lips for the first time. Because he doesn't pull away, and neither does she. Her bottom lips begins to tremble, surprised he ever let it go this far. Their initial moment passes, evolving into seconds until they realise neither is breathing and they tear apart for much needed air, not straying far. Their lips hover, ghosting as previously. "You steal whats not your's to take."

She nudged his nose with her own. "Does survival not apply here? I never took you for a hypocrite."

His top lip twitches, and she feels him bare his teeth in a silent snarl as his fingers apply pressure to her cheeks. "How clever," he murmurs, and pushes inside her once again, catching her off guard.

They share a reflexive gasp, and as he starts to move, every thrust exchanges breaths between them. The girl's lips curve, heavily enjoying the tiny sliver of emotional intimacy he's finally giving her.

Her legs circle around his hips as he grabs her waist one handed, adding further levrage as his fingers dent her flesh. Silco starts a heavy pace and their lips reconnect, mirroring their bodies, it reflects their feelings. The kiss growing needy and rough.

"Get on your back for me," he mocks and releases her face. "Prove them right."

She bites his lip, tugging on it as she lies back against the desk and pulls him with her.

Hand suddenly free, he hooks it beneath her knee and pulls it up against his side to gai better access. Slowing down the pace, he manages to take her deeper, harder. She groans, head lulling to the side as her climax begins to build. "Dont stop." Not again.

"Look at me," he breathes, warning in his tone as he's inclined to watch her topple over the edge. Her brows knit together, but her gaze finds his. The knot closing as his thrusts begin to grow erratic.

Pleasure burns her fingers and quickens her pulse. "Close, c-" she begins, but he cuts her off with another kiss, tongue slipping between their lips to explore her mouth.

And just like that, she bursts. Traveling through her from top to toe. Silco following short thereafter. "It's alright . . . Good, girl," he whispers.

Once they've caught up with their breaths, Silco straightens out, and rearranges his clothes before helping her to her feet.

-

"I understand," she says, halting by the door.

He looks up from his seat but is quick to stand, slowly stalking toward her. Stopping just short of her smaller frame, he reaches behind her back to grab the door handle. "I don't control her. She is my daughter like you are your father's," he says and meets her eyes. "But I will speak to Jinx." Leaning down, he kisses her cheek, catching her off guard. Affection is newly discovered territory between them, but from him to give it so freely after battling it out is a very big surprise. But as quick as ot started, it's over. His soft expression morphing into his usual stern disposition. "Dont be late again girl," he says and opens the door.

-

Somehow, they've become entangled. Silently sharing affection their respective people would deem unfit. Silco wont hurt her, if he can help it. But such is nature. They'll stand on opposite sides, prioritising their own families, cities. But not without a thought of the other, wishing it could be different. It probably never will be, for such is faith and such is time. If only it could rewind.

-

[matthew-gray-gublers-babygirl]

Safe - John Wick x Fem!Reader

Summary: John comes home from work and he is wounded, and as his worried wife, you help him.

Warnings: swearing, oral m!receiving, blood/gore, talk of violence, mainly fluff.

Enjoy!

You sit alone in your large kitchen, biting your nails and shaking your leg as you anxiously wait for your husband to come home.

His profession was extremely dangerous. Every time he went out you didn’t know if he was alive. Whenever you heard a car pass by your house, you wondered if it were the police coming to inform you that your husband had passed.

You knew that you had to make certain sacrifices that came with being married to The John Wick, the Boogie Man, as they call him.

You hear the door unlock, and your breath hitched. Running to the door, you are met with John. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding back tears as you nuzzle your face into the crook of us neck. “Oh, John…”

His hands weakily wrap around your waist. “Y/N…” he sighs, resting his chin atop your head.

Your hand trails down the chest of his suit. You find the red substance of blood on his white shirt. “You were shot?”

“Stabbed,” he says. “Not too bad. I’ve been though worse,”

You sigh. “Yeah, just stabbed.” You say sarcastically. “What if next time you get stabbed even worse, or shot, and you don’t make it through?” You question.

John gives you a saddened look. “I’m sorry, Y/N. You have a right to be mad, and worried.”

You give him an angered gaze, but it slowly fades as you hear the sincerity in his voice. You lean up to kiss him. “You’re right,” you say.

You take him to the kitchen where you strip him of his suit jacket and button up shirt. “This is going to sting,” you say. “I know,” he replies.

The wound was shallow, but it was still gushing a fair amount of blood. Once you were able to slow down the bleeding, you begin to clean it. John lightly hisses as you disinfect his wound.

You quickly bandage it neatly, then reward him with a warm kiss on his lips. “You have to stop this, John,”

“I know,” he says again. “I- I can retire, if you want.”

“Will you really do that for me?”

“Of course, baby. You are more important than work.”

You smile softly. “If you think it’s the best, then you can. I will support whatever you do,” you say. “Will you be safe?” You ask.

“We are safe. We will always be safe.”

“No, will you be safe?”

John pauses for a concerning amount of time. “I will be safe.” He says. “And if anybody comes after you, or me, I will kill them.”

“John,” you say like a disappointed mother. But, you couldn’t help but smile. You loved your mass murderer husband.

“That’s the spirit, love,” he smiles and gives you a kiss.

“You should go wash up,” you tell him. His face was cut, as well as his hair slicked back with sweat.

“Join me?”

“Very funny,” you laugh before sending him up to the bathroom to clean off the sins of the night. “Be mindful of your bandages,”

“Yes, ma’am,” John chuckled.

John finds his way to the master bathroom. He strips the rest of his clothes and got into the shower. His bandage inevitably got wet.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling as the heterogeneous mixture of sweat, styling gel and water ran down his back. It felt so releiving to wash himself of the stress and torment of his job.

He used a musky scented soap to wash off the sweat and grime he had accumulated through the night. He exited the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist before redressing his wound.

John left the bathroom, towel still lazily around his waist. You were in bed, reading a book as you awaited for your husband to join you.

You couldn’t help but look at his chiseled abs and cutting hip bones. Of course, you also couldn’t ignore his broad shoulders and tattoo covered back.

“Y/N. You’re starring,”

“Oh,” you say. “Sorry,” you laugh, and he smirks. “Is it such a crime to appreciate my husbands body?”

“No. Just funny to call you out on it,” he says. He grabs a pair of sweatpants and slipped them on.

“Come lay down, babe,” you pull back the comforter in the empty space for him to fill. He slowly lays down, and he groans as his aching back hits the bed.

“Are you really going to retire?” You ask as your hand gently rests on his chest. You slowly draw circles on his skin, avoiding any bruised areas.

“Anything for you,”

You smile, and he slowly leans in to connect your lips in a gently kiss. “I will love you forever…” he murmurs agaisnt your lips. “I will love you when I’m below the ground, and I will love you after the earth ceases to exist…”

You rest your forehead against his, shakily sighing. “I love you, too. Always and forever…”

John kisses you again, hungerly needing your touch and presence against his skin. He gently grips your hair as he hums against your soft, pillowy lips.

His hand reaches for your waist, pulling your laying body closer to his. He squeezes your flesh though your sleep shirt. You whine at the tight squeeze.

Johns lips trail off yours, adventuring down your jaw to suck hot sores on your neck. His hand on your waist moves up, dangerously close to your chest. He cups your breast with his sore and bruised hands through your shirt, gently massaging it in his palm. He knew just how to make you fold.

“John-“ you whisper.

“What, love?”

“Not tonight. You need to heal.” You tell him.

He rests his head on your shoulder, sighing softly. “You’re right,” he whispers. “It’s just so hard to keep my hands off you.” He glances down at his lap, seeing the tent growing in his sweatpants.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, baby?” You reply.

“I- um. I know you said I have to heal. But, what am I supposed to do about that?” He asks, moving away from the crook of your neck to show the erection in his pants.

You think for a moment, keeping your eyes fixated on his bulge. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t use my hands or my mouth on you,” you tell him, and he grins.

You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, slowly pulling them off his thighs. Johns cock springs out from his pants. He was hard and throbbing just by touching your breasts.

You grasp his length. His breath hitched at the sight of your hand around his dick. You slowly begin stroking him. You hover above him, letting a string of spit slowly dripping down onto his tip.

“Oh-“ he mumbled as the warm liquid touches his pulsating crown.

You gently kiss the tip, your hand still stroking his shaft slowly.

“Y/N…”

You whimper against his cock at the sound of his voice. You knew you had to resist him. You couldn’t risk opening his wound and causing him any pain. Hopefully an orgasm would help his aching body in some way.

You slowly take in his length. You suck the tip, humming at the salty taste of his pre-cum. You knew he wasn’t going to last too long. He never lasted long when you sucked him off.

“Just like that, baby,” he praised, “don’t stop- fuck. Don’t stop-“

You didn’t stop, and you weren’t going to stop until you pleasured him to your full ability.

You take in more of his cock. John shivered at the sight of his erection engulfed in your mouth.

“I’m close- shit. I’m gonna cum. Fuck.” He moans.

You began sucking him faster. You felt as your lips glided over the thriving veins on his cock, but always focusing on the tip. He loved it when you toyed with his tip.

His hips shudder, causing you to gag. “Sorry, baby,” he quickly says. You don’t reply, gagging again. You didn’t care if you gagged on his cock. You loved it, because you knew that you were doing good.

His hips jerk up again. He grips your hair, moaning your name as you quickly and steadily suck his cock. He began chasing his release.

“Fuck!” He moans. His eyes roll back, head hitting the pillow as his cum shoots into your mouth. You always loved the taste of his cum.

You finish him off with your hand, swallowing all his arousal as you did. Cum continued to shoot out, going all over your hand as he bucked his hips into your palm.

You happily licked it off, humming at the salty, yet at the same time, sweet taste.

“Fuck. Thank you, baby…” he whispers. The pleasure helped ease some of his pain.

“Anything for you,” you smile. You kiss him, and he tastes his own cum off your lips.

“Can I return the favour?” He asks, toying with the elastic band of your sleep shorts.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. You can in the morning once you have some rest,” you tell him. He frowns, but obeys.

“Okay,” John says. He fixes his sweatpants, and you grab a tissue off the night stand to wipe the spit and cum off your hand, and a bit of the white fluid that got on his stomach. John reachs over to turn off the bedside lamp, groaning as his body was strained to make the reach.

“Goodnight, baby…” you lay your head on his chest, yet again mindful of the bruises and cuts.

“Goodnight. I love you…” John whispers

“I love you too…”

[pedriache]

aaron… hotchner… you were always there for him, maybe one day he snaps? “listen, im sorry, but i don’t need you here.” and she’s like oh well girl shit okay, but she obliges of course and he just feels guilty and apologizes? (angst/comfort/fluff)

Night shift — Aaron Hotchner.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your husband was overworking himself, so you thought it would be a nice gesture to bake his favorite cookies and make him coffee to help relax him. Until that plan back fires and he snaps at you.

Word count: 602

Disclaimer/s: slight yelling, mentions of a child murder/abduction case, hurt to comfort. established relationship (married)

A/N: omg i haven’t written for cm since my emily fic hi!

Aaron was overdoing it, no doubt. He had only briefly explained some of the case details as he made his way towards his office. “Two kids abducted and murdered, now another body has been found.” That was all he said as the oak wood doors slammed behind him. Closing you off completely.

So, you’d decided making his favorite cookies and some coffee would help ease his spirits as it usually did. Throughout the few hours it took to make and prepare it all, you’d checked in on him every thirty minutes.

You simply received a few small, ‘i’m working’ or ‘not now’ every time you tried to talk. But you didn’t take it to heart, he got like this during particularly hard cases.

Once the cookies were finished, you grabbed his coffee in your free and and slowly made your way into his office with a warm smile.

“Hey, hon?” You say gently, trying to gain his attention. Placing the cookies down and holding out the coffee for him to take.

You’re only met with a, “hmm?” instead of actual words. Aaron doesn’t look up, he doesn’t do anything except for flip to the next page of the case file. His eyes scanning the paper trying so desperately to find a missed detail.

“Aaron.” You sigh, “I made you—“

“Listen, i’m sorry, but I don’t need your distractions right now.” His voice raises into his angry voice, his eyes only darting up to look at you for a second before looking back to the papers.

Flinching at his words, you nod shortly. “Oh. Okay.” Setting his coffee mug down on the desk, you take a few steps back. “Well, they are there is you want them.” And without another word, you make your way out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind you.

The second you leave, Aaron rubs his temples, guilt seeping into his every crevice. He was stressed and overworking himself, he didn’t have a right to take that out on you.

You were trying your best to make him feel better and all he did was snap at you. His eyes then flicker to the cookies at the end of the desk, then to the coffee, then to the door. Even in your anger and hurt, you’d still shut it gently.

Taking in a deep breath, the man stands from his seat and exits his office. You weren’t in the living room, and he had a clear view of the kitchen, which you also weren’t in.. next was the bedroom.

Walking down the hallway, past Jacks room, where he caught a peep of his sleeping son, then toward their bedroom. The second the door opened he caught sight of you sitting on the bed running a stressed hand through your hair, his eyes softened instantly.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs out, taking a few strides toward you. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” He finishes softly, the bed sinking down as he sits beside you.

“It’s fine.” You mumble, looking at your husband. His eyes were tired, his hair was a mess, his tie loosened around his neck. “You should get some rest.”

Aaron nodded, “okay. I will. Soon. I just need to—“

“No, Aaron. Now.” You say, this time more firmly. “Sleep, now.” Your hands reach forward to undo his tie, “I know child cases are hard on you, but you can’t do your job properly if you aren’t sleeping.”

The dark haired man’s lip turns upward ever so slightly, but you caught it. “Okay. Sleep it is.” He finally caves, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

DTS , @halfwayhearted !

[sky-scribbles]

Party Banter with Rook!Blackwall

Harding: You know, for a moment back there, I thought you might actually get through to Solas.

Thom: Regret’s something we have in common. I thought… if I reached out to him, told him I understood what guilt drives you to do…

Harding: But no. ‘Do not compare your regrets with mine, Thom Rainier!’

Thom: He’s right, though. He can at least say he did his crimes trying to stop tyrants. I did mine for coin.

Harding: Uh, yeah, and then you faced up to it and decided no one else was going to get hurt for it except you. Solas is right. He’s nothing like you.

—

Lucanis: Do we have a problem, Warden Rainier?

Thom: You kill people. For gold.

Lucanis: I do. Venatori. Blood mages. The political rivals of those who hired me.

Thom: And that’s enough for you? Someone flashes a purse, and you’re ready to murder over some nobles’ spat over which of them gets the bigger fancy house?

Lucanis: Depends on the size of the purse.

—

Bellara: Um, so, about the mayor of D'Meta's Crossing? I just… do you really want someone like that? In the Wardens, I mean.

Thom: I won’t defend him. But he wouldn’t be the first Warden who let innocent people die for gold, and got another chance from the Order.

Bellara: He doesn’t deserve it. Like, really, really doesn’t deserve it.

Thom: No. Neither did I.

—

Thom: Do you ever get people trying to bribe you? To look the other way, or drop a case, or...

Neve: It's Minrathous. If I took even half the bribes I've been offered, I could buy an estate in Hightown.

Thom: It takes a special kind of strength to resist that.

—

Thom: I got a letter from Sera the other day. Don’t ask me how she got it to the Lighthouse.

Harding: ‘Friends’, I bet. And hey - she dealt with the Fade for you! So what'd she say?

Thom: Well, there was a lot of calling Solas a shite-faced arseknuckle. And then she told me not to get killed, or she’d yank my beard ‘til my head came off.

Harding: Aw.

—

Lucanis: Rainier, I do not knife civilians. Everyone I have killed has been embedded in politics. Their hands are never clean.

Thom: And you're sure you’ve never made a mistake? Never got a passer-by or a child caught in all the blades and arrows? Never gone in without knowing everything, and got someone hurt?

Lucanis: Of course not. I’m a professional.

Thom: You’re a mercenary with a cape.

—

Thom: You could’ve left Dock Town. A mage. Talented. You could’ve gone anywhere, chased a better life.

Neve: If I left, I’d be abandoning people who never got that choice. I’m good where I’m at.

Thom: I hope you know how admirable that makes you.

Neve: Not that admirable. If I got that estate in Hightown? Too far to walk to Hal’s fish stand.

Thom: (laughs) Good priorities.

—

Davrin: So, Rainier. Heard a lot of rumours about how you joined the Wardens.

Thom: (uneasy noise) You know, Warden Blackwall told me your past gets forgotten after the Joining.

Davrin: A nice ideal, but it never stands up to the gossip. But you’ve shown your worth.

Thom: Enough for me to have one of those griffons when we rescue them, d’you reckon?

Davrin: (laughs) We’ll see.

—

Thom: I knew someone like Manfred once. He was a spirit, but he sort of… grew his own body.

Emmrich: Oh! A spontaneous incarnation! Do you happen to know what kind of spirit he was?

Thom: Uh… the kind that looks like a young man, but reads minds and flits about trying to make everyone feel better about themselves?

Emmrich: Ah, Compassion! A rather more advanced emotion than Curiosity, and therefore capable of manifesting a physical body, rather than needing to adopt a vacant one.

Thom: More advanced? Right. That explains why Cole used to talk to me about living with the weight of regret, and Manfred spent ten minutes yesterday poking my face to see if my beard came off.

—

Neve: So, you know Dorian?

Thom: Does anyone who’s been in the same room as him for thirty seconds get a choice about knowing Dorian?

Neve: And didn’t always get along, I take it.

Thom: He’s… he’s not so bad. We might’ve judged each other by first impressions back when we met.

Neve: And what’s your impression now?

Blackwall: Still too fancy for his own good. But it says exactly who he is that he’s fighting against slavers and blood mages. I think I got the better deal with the darkspawn.

—

Taash: I heard the Inquisitor turned into a dragon.

Thom: No, she… didn’t. But she did get one to fight with us once.

Taash: She did? What kind? How’d she do it?

Thom: Sort of… gold? And she drank from this pool of elven magic, and… that somehow let her ask it to help us. I think.

Taash: Did she ride it into battle?

Thom: Uh… No.

Taash: Oh. I would’ve ridden it into battle.

—

Thom: Emmrich, do you know what those demons were the other day? The ones that wouldn’t leave me alone?

Emmrich: Ah. Those were manifestations of Shame. A variant of the Despair spirit.

Thom: Right. Don’t know what I expected.

Emmrich: If it’s any consolation, I find that one can tell much more about a person from the more benign spirits that gather around them. I catch glimpses of them about you often. Valour. Fortitude. Honour.

Thom: I hope to be worthy of them.

—

Thom: Lucanis, have you ever regretted any of your kills?

Lucanis: Not so far.

Thom: So this is what you’re fine with being? A man who takes nobles’ money and lives in luxury with your bloodied hands? That's the life you chose?

Lucanis: Not ‘chose’, exactly. It is what I was trained to be since my childhood.

Thom: Wait. You were – who trains a child to be an assassin?

Lucanis: You met my grandmother.

—

Davrin: You held up pretty well in the last fight, Rainier. For an old man.

Thom: Whelp like you’d better watch what he says around a senior Warden.

Davrin: Why? You’ll tell me to do the fifty press-ups that your creaky bones can’t handle?

Thom (laughs) I’ll stop letting you borrow my best chisel.

—

Bellara: Hey, um, Thom? You know that little rocking griffon you made? Could you make, I don’t know, a bigger one? Like… adult… person-sized?

Thom: (chuckles) You never have a rocking griffon growing up?

Bellara: No! They’re not a Dalish thing! Because you can’t really rock. When the aravel’s moving, I mean. So… no, it’s a dumb idea. Forget I said anything.

Thom: You want me to make it a rocking halla?

Bellara: Yes please thank you.

—

Emmrich: How far you must have travelled, with both the Inquisition and the Wardens!

Thom: I like being on the road. Keeps a man honest.

Emmrich: I rather envy your fearlessness of the wider world. It’s so recent that the end of the Circles allowed me to travel freely outside the Necropolis.

Thom: Must have been freeing. Having the whole world suddenly open to you.

Emmrich: And rather overwhelming, I must admit. When I compare myself to you – a brave Warden, combatting the Blight across all of Thedas…

Thom: Trust me: compare the two of us, and that’s the only way I’ll come out better from it.

—

Thom: We fought quite a few dragons in the Inquisition. Almost got eaten once by some pissed-off beast in the Hinterlands. Kept throwing its dragonlings at us.

Taash: Fereldan Frostbacks are crappy mothers. First sign of trouble, and it’s ‘here! Take my children!’

Thom: (laughs) The worst was the lightning-spitter off the Storm Coast. Spent twenty minutes hacking away at its scales, rest of my team unconscious on the ground.

Taash: Wait - you what? That's not how you fight dragons. You can't just stand there and hit them. That's stupid. And boring.

—

Lucanis: It’s how the Crow Houses work. Children of the House lineage are trained from our infancy.

Thom: Andraste’s fucking tits.

Lucanis: It’s necessary. If Illario and I had been coddled… Caterina pushed us hard and young, because she wanted us to survive.

Thom: I don’t… (sighs) The things people do to children.

—

Harding: I never thought to ask - how come Varric changed your nickname?

Thom: I asked him to go with something else. 'Hero'... that was a name he gave to Blackwall.

Harding: Well, he chose the right name. You know, 'cause Rooks move in straight lines. And you charge right in there, don't mess around with fancy words, just hit things til they drop. You could say you're -

Thom: Don't do it, Lace.

Harding: Straightforward.

Thom: (chuckles) You're as bad as Sera.

—

Emmrich: Master Rainier, I wanted to say – I hope you know that you’re the only person here who looks at you with any harshness.

Thom: I – (sighs) You don’t know everything about me.

Emmrich: I would never claim to. But I know that you place yourself before your allies and the defenceless without hesitation and with utter selflessness. I know you understand your Warden oath better than many of your superiors. I know that you are a good man.

Thom: … I wish I knew what it was like to be you. Seeing the good in everyone, living or dead.

Emmrich: Then I hope you’ll permit me continue to see the good in you – until you can see yourself as I do.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Depictions of injuries, blood, gore, abductions, death, talks about bike crashes, violence, guns, intended harm, past toxic relationship, murder, protective!Simon, suggestive content, (1) dirty joke, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember the long nights when you would sit in the empty bar and wonder why you’d never left. Why you couldn’t up and disappear like you wanted to—a bird taking flight and choosing any direction at all to travel, just as long as you didn’t stay on this branch. It wouldn’t have been hard. There wasn’t anything here that mattered to you. 

This invisible string was holding you back, waiting; tying you to something that you would never understand for as long as you lived. You had dreams and aspirations. 

So why hadn’t you grabbed them by the throat and dragged them along with you?

Maybe there were larger powers in that old town, a mischievous spirit that played a game of chess with the lives of its inhabitants. It certainly felt like it.

Especially when you’re flying through the air, the rain falling in slow motion as hands slash past wind to grab at your body. You recall flashes of that day. Snippets. 

Even now, you feel like you see it in the third person, your form getting tossed by the momentum of the flipping motorcycle and cutting the storm—Simon’s hands reaching out and grasping you. He had dragged you into his chest, his back taking the force of the ground as you slid along the wet streets, pained grunts echoing into your soul as your panic resulted in a shocked muteness. His hands had been gripping you so tight that veins had burst, the view of the sky above you as your back conformed to his chest. 

And then you’d both tumbled, rolled over and over as the screech of metal grated your ringing eardrums and pain flared like fire. Your head slammed into the front of the helmet with a smack, and nothing else is recalled. 

Until now, of course. 

You try to move your fingers, the tight hold of a cast over the entirety of your left forearm—the action brings a wave of weakness with it, making you grit your teeth. You’d woken up in the hospital with black dots in your vision, your body so unresponsive your mind had panicked thinking you wouldn’t be able to move at all. 

And Simon? 

Where was Simon? You’d been so loud with your hoarse calling that the nurses had rushed in and had to put you back under, letting you drift and brushing their hands over your head as you babbled on failing breath. Never once had your brain left you void of the mechanic’s brown eyes—his hands grabbing you, keeping you safe at the risk of his own flesh. 

He hadn’t been wearing a helmet.

But now…now you were fully conscious. 

“Where is he?” Your face is perhaps one of the few parts of you that was unscathed. Your legs were skinned—wrapped so tightly you couldn’t move them. While Simon’s leather jacket had saved your arms, they were still battered and bulging with blisters as big as your hand. Your forearm was broken.

The nurse shushed you, and your voice snapped. “Loralie, I’ve known you since middle school,” she pauses, lips thinning as she messes with your IV drip. “You’re going to tell me where the hell he is, or I’m going to scream that you made Braylan Holt forge your high school diploma.”

Sizzling eyes meet yours, but not even that will deter you—your heart is heard, rapid on the screen to your left.

“You’re a damn horror, Bartender.”

“You’re acting like I give a shit,” you growl and the nurse slightly moves back, never hearing that venom from you before to such a degree. “Where the fuck is Simon before I get up myself.”

It’s like a dog with fear aggression—you can’t comprehend the man you’d formed such a bond with hurt, much less here in this hospital with you and…and…

Your heart rate increases even more. 

He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“That’s not gonna happen, Sweetheart,” Loralie grits out. “You won’t be walkin’ for another week, at least. Not with all that damage—your legs were so bloody the EMTs couldn’t tell where the hell the blood was even comin’ from.”

Your working hand curls into a tight fist, teeth snapping together as you restrain a flinch. You don’t want to think about that right now. 

“Simon,” you grunt, shaking. 

The woman stares for a moment before sighing. 

“You’re something strange, Girl. How the hell you managed to be stuck here is some mystery I can’t fathom. Fine,” she glares before a fast whisper. “But you best forget about that stint with Holt, alright? You never mention that again—”

“Already forgotten,” you grind out, impatient. Even the muddled agony from under the sheen of the pain meds couldn’t stop you. “Speak.”

“The man’s in rough shape. Hasn’t woken up yet.” Your jaw clenches tight, blood pumping like a river. A finger is leveled at you, moving in an accusing motion. “He’s lucky he didn’t die, by all accounts the shape he was in he should have. Had to go into surgery to get the bike shrapnel out of his legs.”

“Surgery?” Your eyes go wide, your voice frantic. “W-what about his head—did he hit it, or…or is he—”

“His brain waves are active.” The nurse tidies the blankets at the end of your bed. “Can’t say that about his body.” 

Your throat sinches violently, and you have to look away to hide your tears. Moments later, the woman lets out an aggressive sigh, her hands moving to cross over her chest. 

“That man must fucking love you,” you blank, blinking quickly as you sniffle and try to shift your expression back to fake anger.

“What…?” You ask, your tone defeated.

Loralie stares, her eyes moving to the IV only to waft back when she can gather her thoughts. 

“If he hadn’t grabbed you, you would have gone right off the edge of the road into the rocks.” In the bed, your body goes as still as possible, your ears twitching at the confession. “In the middle of getting road-burned to all hell, he still grabbed you. If you would have gone over, we’d only be having one of our intensive care rooms filled up…you hear?”

You can’t say anything, only watch as the nurse finishes up her work and exits with one last look of exasperation. 

Alone, your brain finally tries to comprehend what you’d just been told. 

“...Simon,” you whisper to dead air long minutes later, the machines all around you beeping. 

The tears come easily.

—

When your legs finally started working again, it didn’t bring you any comfort. Only Simon could do that, and seeing the looks from the other staff, they knew it as well. You couldn’t keep your full weight on your limbs, only bend the toes and knees in small intervals. 

The doctor said it was a fantastic start, but you felt helpless. 

You wanted to see him, yet first came the interview with the Sheriff to explain what had happened. After the details started coming back, a larger picture was formed, and when you had been able to get ahold of a phone—your own shattered and little more than a box—you’d heard a case had already been opened. 

Simon’s bike had been tampered with. 

After you’d given your statement, you had been surprised to find three mechanics at your door, walking in quickly and throwing over concerned looks at your busted forearm and hidden legs. 

“Christ,” Soap says, a flash of anger crossing like lightning over his eyes. “You don’t hurt much, do you?”

“No,” you lie easily. “Could be worse,” your words were whispered. 

John sends you an indiserable look as Gaz sips off his hat and keeps it in his grip as he frowns. 

“We’re happy you’re alright, Love. Scared us half to death when we heard the news—thought the worst,” Kyle commented, the Brit’s hand running over his neck slowly. 

They could all tell that you weren’t in the right mindset. 

“He’s alive,” you look over to Price sharply. Those blue eyes don’t waver. “That’s all that matters. He’s alive.”

“Aye,” Johnny agrees, nodding his head and crossing his arms. A stubborn expression was on his face. “Never known someone like Simon. The man’ll push through without a doubt—just needs time to rest up.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to go out,” you mutter, rubbing at your cheek, thinking about a man with a mangled body and skinned bones. Jesus, he needed to be alright. He had to be. 

“No one could have thought that would happen,” Kyle comes over and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. “Hey, c’mon,” you look at him with a guilty face; fear under your tiny pupils. The man smiles, but it’s shaky at best. “We all know who to blame for this, yeah? Don’t go taking that from the person who needs to carry it.”

“We’ve been keeping up with it,” Soap adds, frowning. “Still no trace.”

“They haven't found him yet?” Your brows turn in with concern, a sudden paranoia entering your head—if they hadn’t found Graham, what’s to stop him from doing something like this again? Hell, if he was unhinged enough to commit attempted murder, what was stopping him from pushing those boundaries now that he’s already gone through with the former?  

“We’re not going anywhere,” John seems to sense this. You look at him quickly. The man grunts, lips moving as he speaks. “Not until he’s found.”

A piece of your heart eases at that, thankfulness flooding your veins.

“...Do,” your voice pauses, and you swallow down saliva slowly before you continue. “Do you know when they’ll let me see him?”

Soap and Gaz share a glance, the Scot going to ease into the chair on the other side of the room with a low sigh. 

“They’re not letting anyone in,” Kyle utters. “Not until his condition improves a bit. We tried.” 

“Two weeks,” John nods to you. “They’re only giving estimates.” 

Fingers twitching, you look down at your lap, the hospital bed hard under you. The words come out, and you find they’re met with a hard certainty from the men around you.

“What if they don’t find Graham?”

“...Then we will.”

—

The mechanics had all looked over their bikes for any tampering and had found none when they reported back to you—the bolts had been loosened only on Simon’s. Soap was the one who had mentioned that you might have never been the target at all, and that Graham had been a spiteful man who just wanted to make a point about his past relationships’ new attraction. The thought didn’t settle you.

All of them were undeniably worried about their friend.

You’d tried to get what you could out of the other nurses—any signs of waking or getting better, but there were only stiff looks as if it was taboo to talk about him. Like an inside joke with the devil. 

The staff had finally said they would tell you themselves if there was any change in Simon’s health. It didn’t stop you from asking, though. It currently didn’t stop you from sneaking out in the middle of the night after visiting hours, either. 

Your legs were still weak, sometimes going numb entirely as you dragged them over the floor. Inside your eyes, black dots swirled as you effectively dodged the front desk by taking the far back hallway; the lights above your head were too bright and too loud. 

Your arm burned something awful.

Eyes blinking rapidly, you pant as you go from room to room, not stopping even to breathe before room fourteen makes your soul pull in on itself like a crow holding a bell. The bit of metal jingles, attached to a red string that flutters in the wind—reaching back to the wreath it was stolen from. 

Not understanding the instinctual feeling, you grasp the handle and push open the door with more force than you’re able to push out of you; your working arm quivering violently. 

But the sight behind the door is something you would cross mountains for. 

Simon lies still on the bed, attached to so many machines he seems more like a cyborg than a man. Over his face, an oxygen mask takes the place of a balaclava, and the right side of flesh is patched with so many bandages the bulk makes your stomach drop. 

“Simon,” you whisper, stuttering as your blood falls internally to pool at your feet. 

Walking over as quickly as you’re able, you pause at the side of his bed, nearly falling over as your knees buckle. You lean your weight on the frame and take a deep breath. 

This man saved your life. 

You look at him, unable to say anything—unable to utter a sarcastic quip. Your hand stutters in its course through the sterile air, but at the very end of it, your skin settles over Simon’s hand; the limb on his chest. 

“Simon,” you say again, licking your lips, fingers squeezing his tattoos as if to bring the images to life. “Can you hear me, Brown-Eyes?” 

You needed him to wake up—needed to speak to him, see that October gaze lock so numbly with yours. Dead eyes had never meant so much to you than when the man that wore them wasn’t blinking so softly. Where had he gone?

“Simon,” you plead, getting choked up when nothing happens beyond the flicking of the light on the ceiling. The beeping of his pulse didn’t change, not even when you intertwined your fingers together to lock them like a knot—a promise. “I need you to be okay,” your voice stutters. 

“We have to get through this together…I…” Tears splatter his tattoos, his lovely, beautiful, tattoos, you hiccup. “We need each other.”

Maybe it was cliche, two people who relied on one another in a town of nobodies, but it didn’t make it untrue. And maybe it was a partial lie—after all, you didn’t know what Simon thought of you exactly, but the way he looked at you, how he cast his shadow above yours, was a well enough guess in the right direction. But you needed to say it, and your heart ached to see him like this.

Simon doesn’t move, his hand is cold and his lashes stuck to his cheeks.

“Simon,” you hiss, sniffling. 

The hours pass, and you stay there for as long as you’re able before your body is about to give out on you. You reluctantly kiss his forehead and leave with a crushing weight on your shoulders, so much so that the flashes of broken metal and rain don’t even bother you at this point.

A rage grows in your breast.

But when you sneak back to your room, you don’t go to bed. You can’t. The smell in the space is something that leaves your eyes stuck wide until your legs actually do buckle. Your eyes stare at the far wall blankly.

Cigarette smoke lingers in the air.

—

“He woke up last night.” Your blank eyes stare, expression stuck firm. Loralie gives you your lunch, setting it down on the bed tray. “Around three. Said your name and then passed out again.” 

“Why didn’t you get me?” You’re already pushing off the bed, your lips letting loose a grunt. The boys had to be at work today—a Thursday—so that left you alone and bored until they took a break and walked over to keep an eye on things. 

Wincing when your feet touch down, you’re quickly, and very easily, pushed back into bed with a scoff. 

“Loralie,” you growl, venom in your throat like a rampaging bull. 

“Sit down and let me finish.” The both of you glare before she rolls her eyes and points to the food. “Acting like a damn teenager. Eat.” She doesn’t start until you pick up the fork just to shove a single piece of the lunch into your mouth to spite her, slowly chewing it with a scowl. Loralie rubs at her temple. “He’s getting better, but it’s still a long road. Activity’s peaking every now and again—fingers been twitching, too. Some of the bandages have been able to come off.”

“Thank the fucking lord,” you breathe, running both hands over your face as you sigh out slowly. “Any estimate on when he might fully wake up.”

“God knows,” the nurse huffs. “He had brain bleed. Man was all kinds of messed-up.”

Your chest tightens, but you say nothing. You’d suddenly lost your appetite. 

As the afternoon rolls around, you take down your pain medicine and fight the blurriness of your eyes. Healing was a very long and very tiring process—it seemed like no matter how much sleep you got you still woke up tired. And you suppose that was why you fell into an uncomfortable nap and woke up to the window still open, the moonlight rays like sheer fabric cascading down to the tile floors. 

Groaning, your head lifts from the pillow; your first thoughts are always of Simon and how he’s doing. It was time to see him again. 

Your TV-static mind reruns how he looks over and over again—the bloody bandages, the wrappings around his face. Even the machines now seemed to sneer at you as your guilt grew harder to ignore. He’d saved you at the cost of himself…without even hesitating. 

Why would he do that?

“You really had to go and make me love you, huh?” You ask into the cold air, a breeze shifting through as you slowly sit up on one arm. “Simon, if I’d known you would have gone and done this, I would have never looked at that sold sign. At least then you’d be okay.”

“You love him?” Your body twists up, large patches of gauze pulling at dried blood and mixed plasma as your body keeps itself upright. The shadow in the corner of the room moves as your fatigued brain wakes itself back up in no time at all. 

Graham. 

Eyes stuck to the far corner, the phantom of your Ex stands tall—his eyes beady. Your entire being freezes as your lips part in horror, yet, you can’t make a sound. 

He’s disheveled looking, but those eyes of his have never been more rageful. Like walking through the hospital and coming face-to-face with a grizzly bear of all things. It’s strange, but your thoughts immediately go to Simon as he steps forward, sneering at you. 

“The first man that comes into town and you love him? I didn’t think you were so easy, but I guess I was wrong.”

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is hushed, panicked—adrenaline spikes in your veins. 

If you screamed, who’s to say he wouldn’t just pounce on you? 

Graham runs a hand over his hair, his scent taking up your nostrils until you feel the need to nearly gag at ash and tobacco. “I needed to see you—explain,” he stutters, emotions swiftly flicking from anger to fake remorse. 

Your hand slowly inches to the nurse-call button attached to the wall near the bed, the cord leaking out like a snake as your fingertip catches against it. 

“You weren’t supposed to be on that bike, okay? Celina fucking messed it up—she was supposed to keep you workin’ until he went out on his own.” He’s coming closer, and you push back up the mattress in distress. 

He doesn’t stop.

“What the fuck, Graham,” your voice rises slightly, cracking in the middle. 

The man growls. “It wasn’t my fault! J-just forget about it, okay? You’re fine now, it all worked out.”

“You tried to kill us!” You shout, and Graham’s instant hiss makes you flinch back and scamper as you slam the wall behind you. 

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Do not…do that. Keep your damn voice down!” 

“And if I scream?” You tilt your head, shaking violently. “What then, huh? You lousy son of a bitch.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t pay that Simon of yours a visit, yeah?” Your lungs tighten, a wheezing inhale stuck in your throat. 

“You wouldn’t, Graham,” you whisper hastily. “Not with all of this shit you’ve gotten yourself into—turn yourself in and fix this.” 

The man spays his hands and your hand shifts to the bulk of the nurse’s button, running over the top until you find the correct one to press. 

It moves in with a slight pop of plastic, the darkness of the room giving you extra coverage as you slowly drop it back down. 

“It’s too late for that.” Graham shakes his head, and his stench overtakes you as you gag lightly, casted hand coming up to hide your nose. He pauses near the side of the bed, and you push to the opposite side and hear your feet slap the ground. The size of your makeshift barrier doesn’t fill you with confidence. “You need to come with me.”

“What,” you laugh in exasperation; fear coating the hoarse noise. “No! Leave!”

It was obvious that your usual sarcastic tone had slipped to a fearful one, your heart making your voice palpitate with every thump of the veins in your neck. 

The door opens and Graham’s hand darts to the back of his pants. 

Loralie’s body comes into view. “What’s happened now—”

A great ear-shattering boom leaves you screaming as blood splatters into the air.

—

Simon woke up to the world spinning. 

He grunts heavily, the oxygen mask over his face tight before he can slap a weak hand to the plastic and pull it back. The man coughs, spine curling before a bone-deep pain makes him stop with a firm inhale. 

Blinking sluggishly, he grinds his teeth together and lets the mask slip to his cheek. Movement at his slide makes Simon pause—trying to gather his bearings.

What was going on?

“Simon, easy with it.” Scottish. Johnny. “Christ…how am I going to explain this?” More shuffling and fast feet over to the side of the bed. 

“Johnny,” Simon grunts, vocal cords tight. He needed water. 

“One second, just wait. Let me…” A pause before a sloshing of water. Above the man in the bed, the ceiling moves and swirls—dancing. Simon remembers water…the bike…

“Can you hold it, then?” He doesn’t answer the Scot, instead slapping out a hand to curl the body of the glass, bringing it to his lips and downing the liquid as it slips from the side and dribbles down the side of his face. 

Johnny grumbles, “Alright.”

You. 

Simon choked on the drink, moving it back before his arms slammed to the bed, the glass bouncing off and shattering against the floor. 

“Fucking hell!” Johnny shouts, rushing forward to put a stiff hand on Simon’s chest, trying to push him back down and avoid the glass that now litters the tile. “Stop it, you’ll destroy all the damn work they did, ya idiot!”

“Where is she?” Simon garbles out, glaring forward even as his body screams and peels back healed flesh. 

“Stay the fuck down and I will!” Blue eyes sear downward, meeting brown as they battle for a moment. 

Simon clenches his hands, but compiles, top half moving back to collapse to the pillows once more. Not once do his eyes stray from the Scot, ordering him mutely to continue as his heart pounds in his breast. He remembers grabbing you and then nothing else—the scream of sirens in his ears like a distant call from a dream. But his body ached far too much for this to be a dream. 

“Where,” Simon forces out through his accent, throat like gravel. His chest was filled with dread at the nervous sheen over Johnny’s face.

“Ah…” The Scot begins. “She’s fine, Simon. She’s alive.”

That didn’t give him any reassurance. 

Simon hisses, quickly trying to get back up again and succeeding in straining his body enough to sit halfway upward. All of the wires and cords attached to him rip and pop off, frantic beeping emanating from the room. 

“Take me to ‘er. Now.”

“I can’t do that!” Johnny hisses, hands out and failing to keep him stationary. “Would you just calm down?” 

The man doesn’t answer, not until the nurses rush into the room due to the noise and tell him false words to try and get him to lay back down. Simon knew something was wrong—instincts going haywire. 

Were you…dead? No, you couldn’t be. That wouldn't be possible. Johnny knew better than to lie to him. 

“Johnny!” Simon shouts as loud as he’s able; raw authority in his mouth. Even the nurses freeze at that. 

The mohawked man’s twisted face is wracked with guilt, and there calls to the fact that Gaz and Price are nowhere to be seen. 

Simon says it slowly, wounds bleeding and his face opening the long scrapes of road-burn on his left side. It burns like a fire—itching like no other. But it’s secondary to the pure adrenaline keeping him awake. 

“Where.”

Even Johnny can’t fight that tone. 

“Graham has ‘er.”

—

This was a hunting shed, you knew. One out in the middle of the trees—about three miles from town with its rot-infected walls and a chipping wood fireplace. The floor is nearly covered in cigarette butts. 

You stay stuck in the far corner—hands and feet zip-tied together. Your head had been covered by a bag that you had grabbed and ripped off when the world stopped jostling from the trunk of a car. From then, you had been dragged at gunpoint through the hell portal of the front door. 

Graham is watching from the single chair across the room, itching at his scalp with the barrel of a .44 Magnum and using his other hand to rub along his thigh. 

“Shit,” he mutters as you watch, silent and as still as a stake in the ground. “Shit, shit, shit.” Loralie’s blood is still splattered along your face. 

He’d shot her through the stomach. You’d seen her body drop: dead in an instant.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Graham stands suddenly, and your body recoils with a slam of your shoulder into the wall. The frame shakes. The man quivers as he glares at you. “It wasn’t my fault she came in through the fucking door!” 

You only nod tinily in frantic agreement, looking around the room in search of anything that might help you. But there’s only so much you can do against a man holding a gun—a man who finds himself wanted for a slough of crimes which now just got incredibly long.

You had heard the sirens bouncing over the hills hours prior, but no one knew you were out here unless they happened to be the best-trained tracker of all time.

It should be morning now, but the threat of rain outside obscures the tiny slivers of light that try to pierce the leaves of the forest. 

“Fuck!” Graham screams, foot kicking out to connect with the chair and sending it flying backward before it splinters and clatters—all termite-eaten legs and cracked seat. 

Your mouth releases a squeak, panting breath a sharp gasp. 

You needed to figure something out. Quickly. 

The single window is smashed in, glass sprinkling the ground in large shards, and you don’t care if it’s the result of some teenagers smashing property or anything else for that matter—you had to snap these bonds. 

It wasn’t like the termites could help. 

“Graham.” You’d never call yourself stupid, and heaven help anyone else who tried to. You didn’t work at a bar without learning more and more about the human psyche than all the years in school and adult life combined. Everyone had games they played inside of their head, a series of tic-tac-toe boards or grandiose plots of fanatical sagas; it just so happened that Graham fashioned himself the hero of every single one of them. Every line was his chicken scratch signature. 

“Graham,” you raise your voice and say again, forcing past the quiver in your tone to a lake’s calm waters.

The man’s panicking—restless as he paces the front door, guarding it from you. It wasn’t too far-fetched to believe he could kill you now to put an end to this shit-show. He’d always taken the easy way out, after all. 

But his eyes snap to yours regardless, and you have to not scream at him as he does. 

“What?” He hisses, motioning to you with the gun with a limp arm. “You wanna weigh in, then? I did this for you and you went and ruined it!” 

“I know I did, baby,” you breathe, alarm bells blaring. “I’m sorry—I just wasn’t thinking. I wanted you to fight for me.”

Your throat simmers with bile.

What were you saying? You had no idea, but it played into Graham’s weaknesses. Maybe Simon had rubbed his casual strength over to subjugate your brash sarcasm and brutish aggression. 

Simon.

God, thinking about him made you want to cry. 

“What are you talkin’ about?” Graham intently listens, the gun shaking. “Don’t….Don’t fucking play with me right now,” he warns, growling. 

“I’m not playing,” you raise your hands up, the cast protecting one wrist, but the other had the harsh plastic suffocating your veins like it was a supple neck under a cougar’s jaw. “I’m not. I got with Simon because I wanted to make you jealous—at that party?” You suck down a fast breath. “I wanted you to swing on him, yeah? I know you could have made an example out of him.”

“Course I would have,” Graham mutters, pushing his hand up over his face to clear it of the sweat and crimson droplets. “Lousy no good mechanic with a shitty bike.” 

“Graham, can you cut off the zip-ties, please?” He laughs and shakes his head immediately.

“I’m not that stupid there, Sweetness.” Your jaw clenches, anger spiking. 

“I never said that you were,” you snapped desperately, hospital gown all dirty and your bandages hanging off of you like you were a mummy trapped in a tomb. It didn’t sound that far out of place. “You’re hurting me.”

The floors creak as you shuffle, moving your body forward trying to stand on bound ankles. It doesn’t work. Your ears twitch above the rumble from the clouds far above, past the hole-filled roof, to the sound of an exasperated scoff. 

“You’ll live. Now be quiet and let me think—you’ve made a mess of everything.” Adrenaline gives everyone a high like no other. It happens fast and can start up from the adrenal glands in mere moments when under stress or danger; when it leaves, it can result in lightheadedness, and trembling. Go long enough to where you can get it out of you entirely, it can even lead to tiredness. 

Three hours pass, and it’s storming outside as Graham is sleeping near the door. Curled like a wolf, the silver glint of the magnum is still clutched in his hand, fingers loose like worms as his face twitches. You had waited the past hour to see if he would wake up. 

Now it was time to act.

As you slowly hobble to your elbows and knees, dragging yourself along the cigarette-coated floor, you collect dust like the knick-knacks in your home. Taking small and quick breaths, your eyes lock with a sharp piece of glass as your agonizing injuries pull and break open. Blood is so heavy in the air that it’s able to be tasted on your tongue—coated so thick even the deluge of rain can’t get rid of the stain. 

Graham mutters in his sleep, and your heart beats far into your mouth; body locking up as your gaze flashes over to the twitching shadow. Lightning flashes outside as you slowly start back up again—one eye always to the side and the pupils smaller than a spec of dirt. 

You lick your lips, creeping onward until you can reach out your fingers and slice them on the side of the glass. Your lips hold tight a whine of pain, hand clenched over the material as you twist it around and line the edge up with the zip-tie. 

Your breath is all you can hear—loud inside of your head before the sawing motion makes the cuts over your hands grow deeper the more you press into the plastic. Welts had burst by now, puss seeping to the ground as the zip-tie around your wrists popped with a snap of hard material. 

A yell of achievement is kept inside of your sputtering chest as you shove your leaking palms to the wood, rolling to your back and bending your knees to bring your ankles upward. 

The second tie snaps just like the last, and your limbs roll themselves in circles to get the circulation back as quickly as possible, gaze jerking back and forth to Graham as your pulse roars. 

Run. Run. Run. 

Every rush of your blood sings the same order. 

Lose him in the storm. 

Your legs wobble as you shove yourself up, the glass still held in your hand—an infectious thought entering your body as you stare at the magnum. Stumbling, your bare feet steady themselves as your shoulder knocks the back wall, face contorted inwards. 

How hard would it be to steal it? He was sleeping. 

Blinking away the black fireworks in your vision, you look from the broken window to the door, remembering the bike crash as the rain seeps in from the roof. Water splashes as the minutes spread like crimson pools. 

Graham’s troubled face shifts as he groans, and you’re already out of the window with a slide of glass and a slap of wet grass. 

You’re running through the forest as if a deer, crashing through undergrowth and slipping down ravines. The gown and the trailing bandages have long been soaked, heavy in their own right—a second skin hanging off as your blood gets washed away by the rain. You don’t know when you started crying, but the sky’s tears bled with your own exceptionally well. 

There were multiple times when you swore there were footsteps behind you—right on your tail as your blurry vision finds phantoms in the bushes and the leaves as they fly up behind you at a kick of your mud-covered feet. 

You didn’t have a destination, and as far as you cared, you could die in these woods happily as long as Graham never had the chance to make a decision. In the end, his own ability to fuck himself over never had the chance to change—thank God.

A hand slams on your shoulder. 

Half a scream is stifled, as another is leveled to your mouth—your body is yanked to the side. Dragged behind the bark of a tree, lightning flares overhead as if as shocked as you were, arms and legs kicking out. 

There’s a stiff grunt, and large biceps that curl your waist. Words are about to be uttered into your ear canal before your teeth chomp down on the thick material of padded gloves, eyes wide with blurry panic. 

“Sunshine!” You don’t listen over your muffled curses, nails clawing into a forearm as your casted limb aches. 

Whirled around, your spine finds a trunk, and you snarl before, once more, “Bloody hell, Sunshine, it’s me!” 

Finally able to see who was keeping you hostage, your struggling halts with a knee halfway up and ready to send full force into a crotch. You blink multiple times, panting into the palm before the hand drops entirely and you can take down fragmented breaths.

A skeleton-painted balaclava is only a glimpse before those October eyes suck you in. 

Simon and you stare at one another as the storm rages on.

He was in all black—straps and holsters clipped onto his thighs and chest above a combat vest that you’d seen in military documentaries on TV; a compression shirt under a water-resistant covering rolled up to his elbows. And guns.

Guns at his thighs, a rifle at his chest, a knife at his belt. 

Simon Riley was dressed for war. 

You stutter, eyes beady as you open and close your mouth. 

Wasn’t he supposed to be in the hospital? How did he find you?

“How…” You blink as the man’s concerned eyes scan you over, rage shimmering in his expression as water saturates his mask. His gloved hands settle at your shoulders and squeeze before they move once more. “How did you…?”

“Let me look,” he mutters, touching your wrist and bringing it up. Your mouth shuts tight, flinching. Simon halts and quickly glances back up with a simmering gaze. He doesn’t move, and when he blinks, whatever anger that was mounting is re-hidden back behind the void of his irises. You stare as his browns melt. 

“Can I touch you, Love?” Water slaps your head but the barrier of trees helps slightly. The question was one of the most important he could have asked. 

You nod, but he still waits. 

“Yes,” your voice pushes out. Simon’s large hand recaptures your flesh like a precious object, twisting it around. 

He tenses at the blood, and, just like the realization outside of the vandalized shop, he tells you quietly, “You’re shaking.”

“Simon,” your lips wobble, sniffling. 

Your body is shielded in an instant. 

“It’s alright.” He breathes into your scalp—you feel his pulse, his hard surety; this wasn’t a hold that was quick to leave. “I’m ‘ere, I’ve got you. We’ll be alright. Focus on me, Sunshine. Focus.” 

It wasn’t soon after that those arms separated for a moment, the velcro of a vest in your ears before a rain jacket is carefully, yet quickly, pulled through your arms and zipped up. The rifle is leaning against a rock as the hood is pulled to protect your visage from the downpour. But the rain is the last thing on your mind. 

Screaming echoes out over the night and you gasp, head jerking up to the trees as the yowls vaguely take the incorporeal shape of your name on the battling wind. 

Simon growls, hand coming up to rest beside your skull on the trunk as he leans over you, gazing off into the night. 

“Stay still,” he utters into your ear, the compression shirt tight enough to make the bulk of bandages easily visible all along his arms and shoulders. A pistol is held loosely from his free hand—his fingers twitching around it as numb eyes move along the open spaces of forest. 

Not about to muster a response, your fatigued and addled mind begins to blank of all else but the scent of muddled oil and metal; tattoo ink. 

Simon grips you closer to his chest as the wrathful calls bounce on air-waves like arrows right to his building fury. The man’s jaw clenched tightly—body shaking not from the chill but from restraint. 

He’d broken out of the hospital with one goal: track you down and get you back. Anything else was an added pleasure that the veteran had mulled over as he busted out his old gear and strapped himself with whatever he might need. 

Everyone’s only concern was with how he was still shaky on his feet after the crash, but in reality, Simon barely noticed. The minute he’d heard you were gone, all bets were off. 

No one had clung to military life more than him, not even Price. 

No one messed with someone he cared about and got off scot-free, even if it ended in a life sentence in jail. Eating a meal was too good for Graham Whitaker—breathing was too good.

But before all of that dark work, first came you. 

Nothing else was touching you. Ever. 

So the rushing feet weren’t much of a concern to the man, truth be told. Simon clocked the fool a mile before his huffing was etching like a point through the storm, cheek to your scalp as you shiver and shake, fingers curled into his shirt as your eyelids flutter.

He needed to get you medical attention—clean those wounds. 

But Graham. 

“No!” His screaming continues, stumbling through about ten feet away—the glint of a gun at the fool’s thigh unmistakable. “No! I was asleep for five minutes!” 

Brown eyes don’t blink as they watch, feeling you tense and tighten even at the phonics of the man’s speech. 

“Don’t look, then, yeah?” Simon utters softly. The sound of the safety being flipped off on his gun was drowned out. Your mind barely comprehends the words, all of it slurring together as Simon’s hand curls your skull and covers your ear above the hood. An oil painting smeared by blood-coated fingers that hold you so sweetly. “Easy. It’ll be over soon.”

You get drunk on it as you nuzzle your face into his neck. Simon’s focus threatens to give way before he blinks at the scene ahead of him.

Graham twists in a circle, nearly sobbing as he yells even more and grips one hand into his hair, pulling harshly. It was like watching a toddler having a tantrum, though this was far more serious. And deadly.  

But all of that searching wasn't for nothing.

Simon lets his eyes lock with Graham Whitaker only once, and even then it was a mere glance. A Ghost deserves nothing more before it disappears back into smoke. 

Panicked widening, an arm seizing up. 

It had been for more of the mechanic’s benefit than anything else—torture in its own right as a rabbit stares down a wolf and its foaming maw. Simon was never reckless; never eager to kill even back then. It had been his job, and he’d done it tactfully—resourcefully. A dance of instinct and sheer nuance to get the ques down that had taken him decades to perfect. Training like that didn’t just go away.

People only saw him coming if he wanted them to.

And Simon desperately wanted this man to look into his eyes as he pulled that trigger. Not even the maggots would want the body he gives to them.

—

You both lay in bed, silent. 

The sheets are warm with body heat, and the cast around your arm had only come off two days ago—the flesh sore and the muscles weak. Around you, hard limbs are anchoring you to a chest filled with scars; scars you’d memorized easily as you traced over them like a painter with her favorite brush. 

He wouldn’t tell you the stories behind them, and you have to admit you were relieved about that. It was the past, after all. 

This moment was for the future.

“Want you to work with me in the shop,” Simon mutters as he stares into your eyes. You blink, brows lightly furrowing before his hand comes up and his digits brush your cheek softly. Your lashes flutter at the scrape of calluses as he continues in a low grumble. “Custom detailing.”

“...And will I be paid for this?” You ask him, teasingly—delicately. 

“As much as you want.” Simon isn’t joking. “More than what the fuckin’ bar can give you,” his breath moves over your pulse, making you shiver.

Your half-lidded eyes stay locked into those endless voids, his slow blinking waiting for an answer as the bulk of his belongings sits in the corner of your room. 

“Haven’t even finished the mural yet,” you huff. “Eager to get me next to you?”

“Yes.” Simon moves forward, and, without the need to hide himself from you, presses his lips to your chin, head dipping to tilt your face and allow him access to your neck. You hear him nearly purr when your fingers card his hair, nails set into his flesh.

“I make pretty good tips, Brown-Eyes.” Fingers pulse at your hips, slipping over flesh. 

There’s no reason to keep talking about this—your answer is already obvious—but the both of you enjoy this endless chase. 

Something new and, for you, something to make your feet stationary.  

Simon had taken out his CB1000R for the first time for your date yesterday, his eyes avoiding yours as you’d asked why he’d been five minutes late. He’d said it was because he’d been checking the motorcycle over all day—re-checking it once before coming over with a knot in his intestines. 

There was the very obvious change of two helmets, as well. You had thought you’d be hesitant to get on a bike again, but the feeling of Simon’s body in front of yours was more of a comfort than anything that came before. The wind at your sides as he’d driven far slower than ever—glancing back nearly every minute to make sure you were alright. 

Big teddy bear, you thought affectionately.

“Can give you a better one,” Simon jokes crudely in your bed, grunting like a beast. Your lips let loose a snort, head flopping down to rest on the top of the man’s skull. At his back, your fingers play with the brunt of his old scars as well as the new ones that are still and an angry red; barely closed.

“That was horrible.” Simon shivers under your study when your lips mutter your amusement.

“A bit.” He smirks. “You givin’ me an answer, Sunshine?”

This would be the last chance to get out of this town—say no and disappear, never to be seen again just like the hundreds before you. What life could you have out there? What could you build differently—build like a pack of wooden blocks and poke at before they fall down?

What could you nurture what you already had blooming?

You sigh, arm moving back to perch under Simon’s neck. Pulling him back, you tilt his head to meet yours as he hums, kissing him on the lips and taking his freedom as your own. Simon’s hand spans your spine as his fingers spread; the stretch of his tattoos corrupting your soul one atom at a time as he opens his eyes to watch.

A loyal sin had never tasted better. 

You ease back and whisper over his open mouth, “Yes.” 

October eyes consume you whole.

—

This town is small—it talks. Everyone knew what happened to Graham Whitaker; everyone knew who killed him. 

But small towns always have big secrets that no one ever discusses. 

They never found his body, and the boys had all made sure they never would. So, to this day, the bastard is still listed as he should be:

MISSING: GRAHAM WHITAKER

Dangerous individual believed armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to approach.

Information? Contact your local police force at the provided number below. 

Celina and the rest of Graham’s goons never showed their faces again, and even then, there was no evidence to directly tie them to anything beyond the loose connection to the vandalism.

Of course, the bar was always bustling, eager to speak about it even when ivy had crept over the telephone post flyers and hidden them from any eyes. That one cold case that was ingrained into its history until something else came along—told on long nights to ease the bored atmosphere of passing folk and crumbling buildings. Grumbled over the raw scent of black metal and grunted at the rim of a Neat Kentucky Bourbon.

The twitched smirk over those lips is always a staple, though, and so is the brown-eyed look passed your way as you sit content under the stretch of his arm, art journal open to yet another page as the appointments piled up. 

You haven’t shown him yet, but all of your sketches are of him.

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[gurugirl]

The Halloween Call | cop!harry

can be read as standalone

Summary: Harry takes a call to check out the scene of crime at an old abandoned house, well known as the Slaughter House with a grim history.

A/N: You guys voted for a cop!harry update and so here you go! This one is a little different than the usual cop!harry one shots and is connected to an upcoming ghost!harry one shot to be posted later this month. This is a crossover of sorts where cop!harry responds to an emergency call at the haunted house that ghost!harry lives in. Hope you Enjoy!

Word Count: 3656

Warning: 18+ only, smut, mentions of death, murder, evil spirits, a seance, and Harry gets very spooked (nothing gruesome just mentions)

cop!harry masterlist

Something told Harry his day was going to be a strange one. Maybe it was because it was Halloween. He wasn’t sure where the feeling was coming from but he knew he needed to cuddle and love on Y/n before he left their house for work.

And of course that turned into Y/n grinding down over him with his cock deep inside of her with her palms flat on his pecs, tits in his face.

“Fuck, Harry!”

Harry’s tummy was already swirling with that thick, syrupy rippling that made his balls squeeze against his body. He held her hips and gritted his teeth, “Shit, baby. That feels so good…”

“Can I come? Oh god! Please?” Y/n’s face was screwed up as she inhaled a sharp breath, her orgasm about to spill out.

The bed rocked gently and every time Harry thrust up into her and their bodies pressed together, the squelching of wet sex sounded in their bedroom.

“Baby, come on my cock. Fuck, honey!” Harry closed his eyes. Only a couple more minutes and he could come. If he continued to stare up at his gorgeous girl grinding on his cock with her tits swaying and her lips all puffy and bitten he was sure he couldn’t last while she was coming and squeezing around his cock. He cherished the way it felt when she was orgasming and gripping him tight right before he’d allow himself to finally come.

“Yes! Fuck… Harry! I’m coming…” She moaned through her gasps and rocked over him when her orgasm snapped and she gushed in her release.

“Good girl… feels so good doesn’t it?” Harry whimpered his words with a shaky breath.

Her moans and whines and the slip of her walls over his shaft put him over the edge. He could no longer hold himself back as he pumped his orgasm into her tummy. He lifted his hips and held her down on his prick tightly as he coughed out a loud groan.

He had come so hard he nearly fell back to sleep after his body calmed but when he heard her giggling he opened his eyes. She was lying flat on his chest and looking up at him with her finger twirling a section of hair at his temple.

“What a perfect way to start the day.” She hummed and grinned at him.

Harry smiled and pinched her bottom, “Agreed.”

During Halloween, Harry was used to getting lots of domestic calls. Sometimes they were about the occult or someone being scared someone was in their house. Pranks were usually the culprit, but typically it wound up just being wild imaginations and a little too much weed and horror movies.

But today’s call was different. First of all, it had come quite early in the day. It wasn’t even 10:00 a.m. Usually, Halloween calls came when the sun was down. He turned on his lights and siren and safely raced down the neighborhood streets toward the house, famously known as the Slaughter House. A supposed haunted house long abandoned by its last occupants 55 years ago. Normally Harry didn’t investigate things of this nature but he was closest to the scene and could get there to secure the premises.

The call was for the homicide of 11 people. The woman who called 911 admitted to having been in the house and was hosting a séance. He was told she might be a little crazy and that backup was on the way but an officer already on the scene was with the girl so she didn’t run off.

Pulling up to the front he visually inspected everything, the neighbor’s yards, the street, the front of the house. Officer Danzel was with a young woman who looked distraught.

Looking at Danzel he asked, “Is this the woman who called in about the homicides? Cooper?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to calm her down. She’s saying they held a 55-year anniversary séance inside that house. In the basement. If there are any bodies they’ll be there.”

The young woman looked up at Harry, “You won’t find any bodies. Or anything. The house took them. I saw it. It started off with us making contact quickly and then…” She looked down and inhaled sharply.

Danzel patted her back, “That’s okay, Cooper. He’s just gonna go in and take a look.”

The girl shook her head and reached for Harry’s arm, “But… you need more- more men. Don’t go in there alone. He… he’s still in there.”

Harry looked toward the house and couldn’t see any activity from where he stood in the street but he had a job to do regardless of how scary and gruesome the scene might be, though he doubted there would be anything based on the warning he was given about the Cooper’s mental state, he still had to check it out. Plus, he had a gun and was a trained policeman so any murderer would be put at a disadvantage very quickly.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me this, but I do need to check the premises and make sure whoever is in there doesn’t escape.”

“NO!” She shrieked and Harry widened his eyes. This young woman had really seen something that had her shaken up. “No! Officer, listen. This thing isn’t of this world. It’s not human. It’s… evil and it’s attached to the house. It was a séance! We were trying to speak to the innocent…” She backed away and put her hands in her hair and lowered her voice, “No one will ever believe me. Just please,” she looked back up at Harry, “Please don’t go in alone. I can…” she sniffed and looked at Danzel, “I’m not going anywhere. I can stay put here and you go in with him. Don’t let him go in alone.”

Now Harry was not a superstitious man. He didn’t believe in ghosts or anything supernatural like that at all. But the girl was scared out of her wits. She seemed genuinely concerned for him. And somehow he was feeling uneasy about the whole thing as well. He felt his adrenaline spike and a little scratchy something in his spine that had his hackles raised.

“There’s no need to worry. I’ll be in and out. Backup should be here to join me inside soon.”

The girl shook her head, “Officer. I know you don’t believe in evil or spirits but that house is full of them. And the one that’s conducting everything won’t be deterred by a gun. Sir, please-“

“That’s okay, Cooper.” He looked her over and then back to Danzel who had a telling look on his face. The man didn’t believe a word the girl had spoken.

She nodded and turned to look back at the house before Harry continued, “You’re right. I don’t believe in that but I believe that you think something very scary happened and I will be going in safely and soon I’ll have more help to join me.”

There was nothing she could say to deter Officer Styles and she knew it. But she tried and she figured that was going to have to be good enough. Hopefully, the other cops would be arriving soon.

The front of the house was all boarded up. The grass was overgrown, vines wound up the porch's banister. He walked to the side of the house and noticed a small piece of paper taped to the siding: The Séance Experience this way with an arrow pointing in the direction he was headed.

From what he could tell, every window and crack had been boarded up. The house was huge. Harry could only imagine what a property like this could fetch if someone fixed it up.

When he got to the back there was a small table with burnt-out candles and a box turned on its side that appeared to have been a spot to take money, though the box was empty.

Harry scanned the backyard and the fence that contained it. Not much different than the front. A huge oak in the middle with long grass all around, overgrown bushes, and patches where weeds were growing tall along the fence.

Turning back to the door, where boards had been carefully pried off he had a feeling that something bad was about to happen. He wasn’t a man who usually tapped into his gut feelings but something about it all wasn’t sitting right and that strange little scratch at the base of his spine began to rise and gave him goosebumps as he pushed the door open to enter.

He noted the door wasn’t closed. Which made sense based on the story Cooper had told him. She was obviously in a big hurry to get out of there.

Inside the house it was dark. The windows being boarded up didn’t let in much light and electricity was obviously shut off. Everything was dusty and quiet. As he walked deeper into the house, gun out in front, his finger in the safety position, he stepped quietly and observantly into the hallway off the kitchen looking both ways before continuing toward what appeared to be the front of the house.

The hair on the back of his neck rose when he felt a deep chill over his frame and his heart thundered wildly. He couldn’t hear anyone, nor could he see anything amiss.

The living room was empty, aside from old furniture covered with sheets. He turned back into the hallway and checked each room, all of which were empty and quiet. He knew the house had a basement and that’s where the séance was held so the basement would be his last stop.

Slowly he made his way up the old wooden stairs. The house must have been quite grand back in the day. Harry noted that it was in need of repair and love but the craftsmanship was stunning.

The first room he got to was a bedroom. Nothing. No one. The second bedroom was larger. The master suite possibly. He stepped into the room and paused when he saw something move but then breathed out in relief when he realized it was only his reflection in an old mirror atop a dresser.

The next room was a bathroom, then a hall closet, and then another room (so far Harry had counted five bedrooms). Like the other bedrooms, he opened the closet to check inside. Shining his flashlight in he saw a long brown wool coat hanging at the back. He reached for the coat to move it away so he could look at the back of the closet when suddenly the bedroom door slammed closed. He turned quickly, gun aimed at the door, and saw no one.

Harry was feeling his nerves prickle in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. So far he’d seen nothing but this house gave him the serious creeps. And where was his backup? What was taking them so long?

Harry slowly made his way back to the door that had just been slammed and opened it to look into the hallway. Nothing. No one.

He sighed to catch his breath. Maybe it was a heavy draft that caused the door to slam. But that itchy scratchy feeling up his spine began to spread and he felt the tremble in his hands. He couldn’t stop it.

Looking back into the bedroom at the opened closet door he made the decision to leave it and head back downstairs to go into the basement. He really hoped his backup would have arrived by then so he didn’t have to go down into a dark basement where there was supposedly some kind of dark entity waiting for him. Not that he believed in any of that.

At the top of the stairs, Harry pulled out his radio to check it. He clicked the call button but the device didn’t even fuzz back at him. It was silent. It was dead.

“Just fucking great,” he mumbled as he hooked the radio back into his belt and descended the steps.

Going back into the kitchen and into the short hallway that led to a laundry room he stood before the closed basement door and inhaled a deep breath.

Placing his hand on the knob he hesitated. Cooper had nearly begged him not to go in alone. What if he never came out? What if there was something otherworldly down there? Something evil? Would Y/n think he’d abandoned her?

He shook his head and laughed at himself, “Don’t be a pussy.”

Twisting the knob and pulling the door open, he peered in and there was nothing but blackness staring back at him.

Clicking his flashlight back on and stepping in onto the landing he pointed his light down the stairs and around the area he could see as he began to slowly step down into the dark space.

As soon as his shoes hit the cement flooring at the bottom he heard something that sounded like scraping but could have been a mouse or small rodent. He adjusted his flashlight and turned it toward where he thought the sound was coming from but saw nothing.

And just like the rest of the house. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Not only that, there was absolutely nothing alarming in the basement at all. It didn’t appear to have been a place where there were 11 people supposedly murdered. There was no table or chairs or candles. Harry imagined at least something that pointed to some people having been in there. But there was nothing.

The chill he felt when he first entered the house descended on him again. Only this time he felt it start from the top of his skull down to his toes. He turned the flashlight upward to check the ceiling, perhaps a vent was pulling cool air in, but it was just flat cement. The vent and connected pipes were across the room.

Harry cleared his throat and strained his eyes to follow the light but it was then he realized his flashlight was dimming slowly.

The scraping noise started again, this time from behind him. As he quickly turned toward the noise, which had grown louder and sounded like a metal chair being dragged across the damp cement flooring, his flashlight died.

Harry put his hands out and felt for the stair banister. He needed to get out of there. He’d have to wait for backup before getting deeper into the basement. His flashlight going out was his last straw.

When he found the banister, thankful for his natural sense of direction he gripped the metal and took one step at a time so he didn’t fall. He was shaky and his adrenaline was making his ears begin to ring.

But he was suddenly aware that the door to the basement was closed. He hadn’t heard the door shut but being that it was pitch black right where there should be some light coming in through the door, he knew someone had closed it.

And now the odd feeling he’d gotten on his way into the house, the chill, and the anxiety, had turned into something a lot like terror. He hastened his steps up the creaky wooden stairs and reached for his radio, pressing the call button over and over again to no avail. When he reached the landing and tried twisting the knob to open the door, it was jammed.

“Fuck!” He whispered to himself and continued yanking at the handle as he pressed the radio’s button to reach out to anyone.

“Fucking piece of shit!” He shoved the radio back into its loop and began to pound on the door, “Hey! An officer is locked in here! Hey!!”

Harry couldn’t think of a time he’d been so spooked in his life. He felt his life was in danger as he continued banging on the door and loudly calling to anyone who might have entered the house.

A whisper from his left had him swinging toward the noise. It sounded as if it had been whispered directly into his ear. He was in a full-on panic as he beat on the wooden door.

“Get out!” A guttural feminine scream came from behind him with a whoosh of air blowing around his body and toward the door. With a violent crack, the door blew open and Harry had never run so fast in his life as he darted into the kitchen and found the back door. The moment he stepped out into the backyard he saw Officer Davis and Lyle.

“Styles! You okay man?” Officer Lyle grasped him by his shoulders.

Harry was heaving breaths and, in that moment, felt as if he’d miraculously escaped death. Though he saw nothing, and most of what had happened would easily be brushed off by anyone he told, he was visibly frightened.

“Fuck. I don’t know. Something weird… I didn’t see anything. Just…” he caught his breath and shook his head, rethinking what he was going to say so they didn’t think he was insane, “House is clear but the basement might need a thorough search. My flashlight died down there so I couldn’t finish. I’m gonna go check on the girl.”

He was still shaking as he walked toward his squad car. The girl was sitting in the back of Danzel’s car with the door open and her feet out on the curb as he approached. Danzel was leaning his bottom into the hood of his car on his cell phone. He felt his heart rate pulsing heavily. Everything that had just happened was intense. Something he’d never forget.

He walked toward the pair at Danzel’s car and leaned down to look at Cooper.

“You’re white as a ghost,” the young lady spoke as she took in his face.

“The house is definitely creepy. But I didn’t see anything in any of the rooms.” He wanted to tell her more but he still hadn’t even wrapped his own mind around what had just happened.

“But surely you couldn’t have checked the whole house and all those rooms? You’ve only been gone for like,” she looked toward the clock on Danzel’s dash and pointed at it, “three minutes.”

Harry stood up and looked back at the house. Three minutes? How was that possible? He had been in there for at least 15 minutes checking and clearing each room.

“Something happened to you in there, didn’t it? To everyone outside of that house, you were only in there for three minutes. But to you, it must have felt like much longer.”

Harry nodded pensively but decided to not respond to her comment, “Just wait her a sec.”

He walked to the front of the car to follow up with Danzel before getting the fuck out of there. Danzel ended his call quickly, “See anything?”

Harry shook his head, “Nothing. But the house is definitely… it’s creepy.”

Danzel nodded and hummed, “You think she made it up?”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. I don’t think she’s lying. I know this might sound crazy but some really weird shit happened to me in there just now. Things I don’t think I can really explain or wrap my mind around at this moment. But she’s really shaken up and I believe her. Plus we have 11 other names we can follow up on if they wind up missing.”

“But there are no bodies in the house? No blood or any weapons?”

Harry sighed and shook his head, “No. Nothing like that. I think this is something that you and I won’t be able to understand. Like…” he scratched the back of his neck, “… evil or some shit. Not that I believe in any of that, but… I don’t know.”

He noted that Danzel had given him a look of pause before pushing himself from the hood of his car, “Okay. Well, we’ll get her official statement. Once Davis and Lyle get out of there we’ll have someone back out and secure the door, make sure no one can enter easily.”

Harry nodded and waved at Danzel as he walked away before turning back once more to look at the girl. She wasn’t lying. There was nothing to back up what she had said but he knew something had happened.

Harry sat in his car for a moment taking deep breaths to calm himself. He needed a moment to breathe and collect himself. He closed his eyes and thought of Y/n. She always calmed him and made him feel safe and warm.

He picked up his cellphone and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Baby? How are you?” He asked, already feeling better hearing her little hello when she answered the phone.

“Doing good. Just… Are you okay, Harry?” She always knew when he was upset somehow. He couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was in his voice? He didn’t know how she was so good at picking up his subtle changes but she was.

He opened his eyes and looked back at the house as he started up his car, “I’m okay. Just… Missed you. Wanted to hear your voice.”

He could hear her shuffling around, “Did something happen, baby? I’m worried–“

“I’m okay, Y/n. Just had a weird day. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

Harry drove away from the house and felt his body settle and his mind quiet the further he got. He didn’t know if he’d ever tell anyone what happened in that house except for Y/n. She was the only one he felt safe to tell. She might not understand but he couldn’t say he even understood it himself. All he knew was that whatever was in that house was evil and there was nothing the whole police force could do to stop it.

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[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 4 - Show me those issues

Dp x DC AU: Regent!Jazz & Vigilante!Jazz

Masterlist Part 3

"Show me those issues, how you've been misused. Yeah girl, I'm with you." -Train Wreck by Divide the Day.

Previously on The Regent: 

It wasn’t as if the Pit Madness could just be gone, right?

Right? (Jason Todd was no fool, the Madness was still there.)

(Just… sedated. Like it didn’t need to boil to the surface anymore where it concerned his murderer.)

And for the first time in a very long while, Jason felt like himself again.

Until the agony began.

In a strange synchronized motion, both Jazz and Danny twisted their bodies towards the spirits who began screeching in the air between the two, ghost speak intertwined with screams of the damned, demanding the Regent and the Prince help the Robin.

“Broken Robin, bloody bird, help, help, help. Agony, pain, corruption” 

Danny didn’t hesitate for a moment to transform into  Phantom, calling over his shoulder for Jazz to bring her last few pure ecto vials along as he phased out of the apartment. 

Jazz sighed heavily as she unlocked the safe in her bedroom, three vials remaining within. All the supply the Regent had left for the month, until Wulf was able to deliver more. 

In any other circumstance, Jazz would have refused to hand over something so vital to her health- escpecially since she was burning through her ecto-levels acting as a vigilante and a Regent, with frequent travels to the Infinite Realms to work on paperwork and attend Council meetings. 

However, Jazz felt the tugging in her chest, the instinct that she had to give up her ectoplasm for the agonized Robin. And she was not one to ignore such strong instincts. 

Vials tucked safely into her bra, Jazz summoned her ecto-sword with only a thought and cut into the air, opening a portal in the between to take her to where the spirits demanded she go. 

Jazz stepped through after a heavy sigh, bones feeling as if they were filled with cement. 

No rest for the wicked after all. 

Danny had already arrived ahead of her by the time Jazz stepped through her portal, fussing over what seemed to be the local unfriendly neighborhood vigilante, Red Hood, without his signature helmet and sweating green droplets profusely. 

Oh.

So that’s how she’d been sensing him. He’s got ectoplasm in him and (by the rancid scent lingering in the air) corrupted at that. 

“Did he go swimming in the Realms sewer?” Jazz asked, half-seriously as she willed the portal closed behind her and leaned her sword against a wall before pulling out the vials of pure ecto. 

Danny struggled to laugh at her attempt at humor however, chirping and warbling at Red Hood’s prone form. Jazz offered the vials to her little brother, “Will these flush out the corrupted ecto?” 

He didn’t answer her, poking at Hood’s chest plate, a warble of worry-horror filling the air. 

“Danny.”

Jazz reached for her proto-core (tucked behind her heart) and chirped back with concern-worry-resignation.

Which worked to get Danny’s attention and he snapped his focus to her, “Jazz, give him the pure stuff! He’s starving!” 

Oh again. 

In Hood’s current state, could he swallow it on his own? 

No, he couldn't. He'd likely choke on it or spit it back out on reflex. One of them would have to administer it by mouth.

Jazz sighed heavily before she uncapped the first vial and tipped its contents into her mouth. The familiar battery-acid taste was heavy on her tongue as she tried not to reflexively swallow it in her hunger.

(She tried to ignore how her heart raced.)

Jazz leaned over Red Hood's prone body, gently carded one hand into his hair, and set the other onto his throat before she pressed her lips onto his own.

To stay in my shadows you must aid my Knight, Regent.

Of course, My Lady.

I speak of the one born in my streets and unburied in my soil, hidden under Red.

The Red Hood?

The Once Bright Light of Gotham, unavenged. Care for him and he will care for you.

Frostbite had been quite shocked at their sudden arrival to the Far Frozen with Red Hood in tow. Jazz’s sword made quite an entrance after all, and Danny’s choice to drop hood’s sweating and shivering body into the Yeti’s arm was enough to get him into motion. 

“Great One, Regent.” The Tribal Leader greeted them as he turned on his heel with his cargo firm in his grasp. 

“Hey Frosty. Gotta doozy for ya.” Danny quipped with some warmth. Being in Realms again seemed to cheer him up ever since the move to Gotham, even if it wasn’t a common occurrence anymore. 

(Jazz kept him far away from the Observants since taking the crown.)

(Nosey one-eyed bastards.) 

“Hi Frostbite.” Jazz offered her own greeting as they followed behind the Yeti into the tribe proper. 

It had been some time since Jazz had been into the Healing tents, but Danny had always enjoyed Frostbite’s company so he easily maneuvered his way around the equipment and tables towards the sectioned off beds in the back, which were Yeti sized and easily dwarved Hood’s own six foot brick house frame. 

Frostbite hummed as he examined his new patient, having heard Danny explain their treatment thus far of Hood. 

“Great One, you were correct in this regard. Red Hood was dying of Corruption due to ectoplasm.” 

“But?” Jazz proded.

“His proto-core has accepted the pure ecto and has begun to stabilize.” 

Both siblings breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news, especially to hear of a new Liminal that could survive Gotham- means Hood was a survivor in more than one regard. 

“However, there is something more concerning…” The Yeti trailed off, a soft growl left in the wake of his words. 

“Frosty?” 

“Pardon me, Great One. It seems that Red Hood’s proto-core isn’t ice-based, it needs warmth.”

Danny, despite the seriousness of the situation, laughed at Jazz’s resulting blush at Frostbite's words.

(Oh I can keep him warm.) 

Not to mention how she they had gotten the pure Ectoplasm down his throat to begin with

“Regent?” 

Jazz sighed and answered the Yeti, “I can offer him my warmth until he can be returned.” 

Frostbite pondered for a moment, “Ah, yes, the Regent has a Fire-based Proto-core. That should do well.” 

(Danny had laughed himself sick when it had come to light that Jazz was his opposite in core too.) 

(Fire and Ice) 

(Hero and Villain) 

With a passive glare at her now-chuckling little brother, Jazz approached Hood’s bed and carefully climbed in alongside him. 

(She did her best to block out how her body wanted to curl into him, grasp onto him and never let go.) 

Turned onto her side away from him, back pressed to his form, Jazz forced her body to relax and let her natural warmth seep out from her core into the vigilante at her back. 

(Little did Jazz know that she would cuddle him in her sleep.) 

(And that a pesky younger sibling would coo and take a few pictures to save as blackmail.) 

Jason dreamed. 

He dreamed of his mother, the good days when she would read to him softly and wrap him in her arms. 

He dreamed of late night patrols with his dad, tucked under his cape when he wanted to feel safe. 

He dreamed of a red haired woman who kissed him softly, held him gently, and… chased the cold away. 

Why had he been so cold? 

Why was his heart aching? 

It wasn’t supposed to ache. 

He wanted his dad. 

He wanted his books. 

He wanted his dream woman to kiss him again and tell him her name, just so he’d have something to hold onto when he woke up. 

(If he woke up.)

A/N:

Alright, part four! With a glimpse into Jason and Jazz's natural bond as, well, maybe... soulmates? Who knows. I'm a sucker for that trope.

If you want a spoiler for what's happening to Jason, check out the original prompt!

And make sure to subscribe to the master list when it's created.

[toiletpudding]

HAZBIN HOTEL FANFIC

Adam x Lute ⚠️NSFW⚠️

I did it, I made a thing. 😀

Warnings: sex, a blow job, (light cock and ball torture here, Lute's a biter and Adam's into it,) swearing, Daddy kink, dirty talk, (it's Adam so, I mean, yeah) "What's a clitoris?" -The first man, small drug use mention, both of them are stoned, not much for plot, friends with benefits are what these guys are, Lute gets aroused at the idea of murdering things.

-She was bloodthirsty as fuck in that last episode you guys.

.

.

.

Nothing to do but Fuck, Perform, and Kill:

"-and then the bitch has the nerve to call me a sexist asshole, me! I fuckin' LOVE women, they've got like, a bunch of hot holes to stick your dick into whenever you're bored, and I told her that and she..."

Lute inhaled the smoke from the bong, letting her mind wander as Adam continued to ramble on about his most recent fling. It had hardly been a day on Earth since they had found the body of one of their Exorcists. The idea that a hell spawn could kill one of her kind made her heavenly blood boil. She wanted to find whoever did it and pull their tongue out of their ass. Alas, Adam ordered her to wait, he'd said that in six months they would make sure this kind of thing never happened again. She knew he was right, and that they needed to be careful so that nobody caught on.

But fuuuuuuck was waiting boring. Lute was ready now, she wanted to charge down there and send every demon scurrying like bugs, to feel the excitement that only extermination brought these days. The adrenaline coursing through her golden veins as she pierced her victims' weak little bodies with her spear and listened to their pathetic screams.  Just thinking about it made her-

"Hey, Danger Tits." Lute turned, meeting her boss's scrutinizing gaze.

She straightened, clearing her throat, and ignoring the sudden heat in the pit of her belly. "Yes, Sir?"

"Are you listening?"

Lute nodded, "uh- yes sir, she gave you the bill for dinner."

"Yeah! Like, who the fuck do you think you are bitch, I'm fucking Adam. I shouldn't have to pay the bill-"

The extermination was one of the few things they had left for fun. And now not only was somebody trying to fight back, but Lucifer's brat wanted to redeem demons as a form of population control? It was fucking bullshit. Demons only deserved ,eternal damnation and death, and she deserved to have some fucking fun. The only thing they had left to do after building heaven was fucking, performing, and killing, and nobody was going to take even one of those pleasures away from her.

"Well? Are you gonna or not?" Lute blinked, registering that Adam's face was directly in front of hers. Fuck, the weed was making it hard to focus.

"Uuh, er...Y-yes?" She said, uncertain to what she'd just agreed to.

"Sweet." The large cushy sofa they were both sitting on creaked in protest as the huge angel sank back into it. Leaning against the armrest. He propped one foot up onto the cushion, and let the other rest on Lute's knees. He watched her expectantly, a shit eating grin on his face.

Lute stared at him, "What're you doing?"

Adam's smile dropped, "Pfft, is the pot making you stupid or something? You said you'd help me out."

"Help you with...?"

"The blue balls that dumb skank left me with, c'mon! I'm harder than a rock here! Put that thing down and show me a good time, bitch."

Lute gave him an annoyed look.

"You wouldn't have blue balls if you didn't pick one of heaven's residents"

"Well I thought she looked pretty fuckin' chill, how was I supposed to know she'd have a stick up her cunt...You gonna get my dick wet already or what?"

Lute rolled her eyes, oh well, there were worse things Lute could have said yes to, and it's not like she had anything else to do other than wait for extermination day.

Setting the bong aside Lute turned to Adam, who was smiling again.

"That's the spirit babe, now come to Daddy." A shuddering jolt goes through her, and something clenches in her belly.

Wordlessly, Lute crawled on top of the larger angel, straddling him and looking down. He was gazing up at her with the usual cocky smirk on his face, prominent as ever, even without his mask, "Well? You just gonna stare at me all night? I know I'm good looking as fuck, but c'mooon."

She could feel the eagerness underneath his robes pressing up against her, and through the way he was gripping her hips tightly, fingers kneading into her flesh.

Lute leaned down and pressed her lips against his. Adam returned the kiss, already trying to push his tongue into her mouth, and pulling her tightly against him. Lute's breath stuttered as his hands wandered up to her chest, roughly groping her breasts through her clothes.

"Fuckin nice," he mumbled against her lips, fingers finding her nipples through the fabric and tugging on them. Lute let out a small moan, encouraging him to continue.

She reached up, running her hands through the mess of brown tangles he called hair, forcing her fingers through whenever she felt resistance, enjoying the small grunts of pain he let out and how his groping became a little more erratic. Both of them were breathing hard when they broke the kiss.

"Fuck," Adam panted, rolling his erection into her hard enough that he nearly bucked Lute off. She gripped his shoulders to steady herself, pushing back against his rutting hips, enjoying the sensation of his clothed cock pressing into the heat between her legs.

Lute dipped her head, pressing her lips to the indents of his throat, suckling and biting, she clenched down on a particularly sensitive spot and tugged until his breath was hitching and he was squirming underneath her.

She let go after the skin was red and painful looking, pressing sloppy kisses up his neck and jaw, pulling him in again for another heated make-out session when she reached his lips.

The kiss didn't last long this time, before Adam was pulling away and whispering in her ear where else he wanted her mouth to be.

Never one to disobey an order Lute slid downward, positioning herself between his crossed legs. His erection was straining against his clothes now, ready to pop out like a jack in the box.

After an awkward struggle of shifting his robes out of the way, and with only a little help from Adam, Lute was finally able to pull his dick out from its confines. Despite being the self proclaimed "Dick master," his was relatively average, and only a little on the longer side. Nothing for Lute to complain about though.

Her hand was already sticky with cum, as it dribbled out of the tip of his cock in a steady trickle. Geez, he really was pent up.

Adam nudged her closer with his legs, "Come on come on come on! What're you waiting for bitch? It's not like it's gonna suck itsel- oooh, fuuuck yeeeah."

Without warning Lute took him into her mouth down to the base and held it there. Adam gripped the back of her head, clutching handfuls of her hair tight enough to yank a sizable clump right off of her scalp if he wanted to. His legs trembled and his feet scrabbled for purchase, heels digging into Lute's calves. Lute didn't move for a moment longer, seeing the First Man grovel underneath her always turned her on more than it probably should.

When his hips started twitching forward Lute began to slide her tongue up and down his length smoothly, the acrid and salty flavor of him coating her taste buds overwhelmed her senses completely.

Adam spat out a series of curses when Lute began to bob her head quickly, going down as far as she could until his mushroom cap bumped the back of her throat, and sucking hard when she came up to the tip. The brutal pace she set for him doesn't give Adam a chance to steady himself or even to make a snarky comment, he was completely at her mercy.

The fact that the most powerful Exorcist in heaven, who could incinerate her with a single finger gun pointed in her general direction, could barely even form a coherent word had her rubbing her thighs together in an attempt to give just a little bit of the pooling heat between her legs some attention.

"Don't fuckin stop Lute, don't stop," judging by the way he was thrusting his hips against her face and that his voice was high with excitement, Adam was already on the verge of blowing his load. Lute only moved faster and dragged her tongue across him more.

"Fuck, holy shit," Adam gasped, Lute could feel his hands shaking, "I'm gonna-fuck-" she stopped moving her head, letting him take control, and immediately he was cramming his dick into her mouth as much as he could, chasing after his orgasm, moaning with each thrust and-

And right when he was at his peak Lute bit down. His startled, pained scream was probably loud enough to be heard outside of the room.

"Fuckin, aaah, you crazy bitch. I was about to nut-fuck!" He pulled his dick out of her mouth to inspect it. Beneath the glistening spit and pre-cum covering his shaft, bright red bite marks indented his pale skin. When he saw them he began to laugh.

"Not yet," Lute rasped, she cleared her throat, "You're not done yet."

"Fuuuck," he laughed, "I didn't think I could get any harder, ow by the way."

"Serves you right, sir." Adam grinned darkly and pushed her hair out of her face.

"Do it again." Lute leaned forward and took his dick into her mouth again. His breathy sigh turned into a pain choke when her teeth clenched down, body as tense as a harp string. His hand tightened around the back of her skull. All it would take is one hard squeeze and he could easily crush her head into a pulp. The thought has her biting down a little bit harder.

When she let go Adam deflated underneath her, "You wanna get a facial?" He panted, "'Cause this is a great way to get a shiiiiiit!"

Lute clamped down on his cock again, her eyes on his face the whole time. Watching the way it twisted in pain and pleasure. She couldn't decide which she liked seeing more. Adam's lips were kiss-red and his eyes were closed and he looked absolutely exquisite. Albeit, It wasn't enough for Lute to grant him an easy finish. Not by a long shot.

She let go of his dick, and the moan that came out of him was like rock music to her ears. She crawled up on top of Adam once again; giving him an open-mouthed kiss. He kissed her back with less focus than before, like he was halfway out of his body.

Denied-orgasm Adam didn't last long, soon he was kissing Lute viscously, nipping at her lips hard enough to make her grunt in pain. "You know, you're supposed to help me with my blue balls, not make it worse." He grumbled against her lips.

Lute pulled back and looked him in the eye, both of their gazes were alight with desire. Eyes like glowing torches. "I've got something else for that." She made a show of sliding her fingers underneath the hem of her dress and down the front of her skin tight pants, watching him the entire time.

Adam's grin split across his face and he sat up. "Aw, fuck yes!" Somehow Lute ended up underneath him, a difficult feat when even a couch this size could barely fit Adam.

He reached up, tugging the dress's neckline down to get easier access to her tits. He fondled one of them, his other hand diving between their bodies to drag her pants down far enough that she could wiggle her legs out of them before groping at her crotch.

Lute shoved that hand away immediately. Beside math, the next thing Adam knew absolutely nothing about was the anatomy of a woman, and what Lute didn't need was to feel the stretch and burn as he stuffed his fingers inside of her dry.

Lute shoved that hand away immediately. Beside math, the next thing Adam knew absolutely nothing about was the anatomy of a woman, and the last thing Lute needed was to feel the stretch and burn as he stuffed his fingers inside of her dry.

Lute sucked on her index and middle finger briefly, just enough to get them dripping before sliding them underneath her clothes, nudging her undergarments to the side. Her fingers just barely brushed against her folds and already her breath was hitching. She focused on her clit instead, and it didn't take long before she was able to slide her fingers in with no resistance.

Adam grabbed at her chest while she quickly prepped herself, switching between massaging her breasts to pulling her nipples and twisting them until she moaned.

"Fuck, I love your tits, they're so fuckin soft. You like it when Daddy plays with'em like this, huh bitch?" His dirty talk only served to excite her even more, Lute curled her fingers inside and her thighs tensed.

Her breasts didn't hold Adam's attention long before he was pressing his cock forward, the head grinding against the back of her hand. Lute didn't need to be told twice. She withdrew her fingers and wrapped her legs around the other angel's hips as best she could. Adam sank down onto his elbows, and she was enveloped completely in his robes, her vision nothing but white and gold.

Her back arched as his dick prodded against her hole, before sliding up and brushing her clit. He thrusted, but missed again. "Fuckin-" Adam muttered to himself, reaching down to guide himself inside.

Lute's folds parted for his pole. Even after prepping herself the stretch still made her clit beg for reprieve. Lute's head dropped onto the sofa cushion.

" Oh, shit, " she hissed, words barely audible, as he slipped into her depths.

A strangled noise came from Adam's throat when he bottomed out inside of her, shudders racking his body as the sensation enveloped him. "Fuck, you could keep me warm all night like this," Adam breathed, cock twitching deep inside of her.

Lute jerked and moaned as his dick brushed against a spongy euphoric. It didn't take long before he was thrusting his hips, dragging his shaft out until only the tip remained inside and slamming back in in routine fashion. The way his veins felt, bulging along her inner walls was phenomenal.

She rolled her hips into his impatiently, wanting more, harder, faster. It wasn't until his mushroom cap snagged something particularly good that Lute let out an audible yelp.

Oh yeah, babe?" Adam jeered, aiming for that same spot. "Gonna gush on my cock? Bet it feels fuckin' good. I keep telling you my dick's the best."

He grasped the back of the couch to steady himself and began thrusting into her hard enough to rock the furniture and jostle Lute upwards until the top of her skull bumped against the armrest. The hard juts to her cervix had her head spinning. She whined as she brought her digits down to her aching clit, she grasped at one of her breasts with the other, clumsily groping herself.

"Fuck- gonna fuckin cream you," Adam panted, Lute moaned her agreement.

"Yeah?" He breathed into her ear, "You wannna get stuffed with Daddy's cum?"

His words sent a buzz down to her precious bud and twin peaks. His cock was electric and each burst of energy sent pleasure sparking up her spine. She was going to burst.

Spreading over her form like early sunlight, the orgasm caused Lute's eyes to roll back and her entire torso to tingle. Heat raised to her ears like a bad sunburn. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck! I'm- I'm-" she bit her tongue to fight a louder response, gasping as the pleasure consumed her completely.

Adam didn't stop thrusting, cradling the back of her head in one hand, the other still gripping the couch like a lifeline. He was holding her tighter, moving quicker, breath rattling in his chest, he was getting close.

Lute wrapped her arms around him, groping at his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere she could get a decent grip. Fuck she was ready for him to, to-

Adam's voice suddenly grew louder and he moaned with each thrust. Lute gasped as his cum painted her walls, filling her up completely.

"Fuck! Takeittakeittakeit, you fucking slut... !"

His moans broke off into heavy sighs and he gradually took more time between each thrust, slowing and slowing until he stopped altogether and collapsed on top of Lute with a throaty groan.

The only sound in the room after that was their shared breaths, they stayed that way for a while, until Lute eventually began to stir from her prone position underneath Adam. She loosened her grip around him; fingers aching from clutching onto his robe so tightly.

Turning her head so she wouldn't be smothered she wriggled until Adam finally huffed and shifted enough so that he wasn't fully on top of her.

"Aaah, that was good," he sighed dreamily.

Lute couldn't disagree, but the fluids caking her inner thighs was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Was it necessary to finish inside, sir?"

Adam smiled, spoiled and content. "What can I say, I like usin' that hole as a cum dump."

Lute stared at him flatly, but her boss didn't notice, he was already swinging his head around. "Where'd ya put that bong, I'm starting to even out." He shifted and Lute's entire body jolted.

"Sir."

"Aw c'mon, don't tell me you smoked it all,"

"Sir."

"Oh, wait, nah, we're good."

"Adam."

"What?"

"Your dick is still inside."

"...Oh."

[midniiights-garden]

A Porcelain Doll and a Blade [3] - Mizu x Fem!Reader

Summary: The bar keeper crossed the line. The Beauty has finally decided to commit a murder and the Beast is simply shocked.

Possible TWs!!!: Canon typical violence, blood and gore, period typical sexisim, swearing

After the little scuffle you decide to just keep silent, preparing for the day without turning to the stranger. However, Mizu keeps glancing at you. You can feel her sharp eyes on your back, her gaze digging into your skin as if trying to pierce straight through you.

Getting fed up with her continued gaze you decide to speak.

"...what's your name?" You finally ask.

"It's Mizu," the stranger replies, now attempting to make eye contact with you to no avail.

Mizu. Hm. You think the name suits them. In exchange you tell her your name, still not making eye contact with her. Are you still a little bit miffed from the fight? Yes.

Mizu merely nods as you tell her your name. Of course, neither of you are aware that your stories are inevitably intertwined from this point onwards. The minute the both of you decided to squabble the fates set in, tying you together.

The two of you head down together, still not talking. It was a bit awkward. What is one supposed to say after a fight, after all? You had already apologized as well, there was nothing more to it, right?

At the counter, the bar keeper raises his gaze, a soft snort leaving his chapped lips. The man sneers, looking pointedly between the two of us.

"Better not have stained my sheets," he says.

You are instantly offended all over again. Mizu, on the other hand, just looks mildly irritated. Unfortunately for the both of us, the man can't seem to take a hint and continued to speak.

"Looks like we know why you don't have a husband, huh?" The bar keeper says snidely. "Can't keep your legs shut."

You finally had enough.

Without another word you swing at the man, hitting him square in the jaw with a sickening crack. The man screams, blood pouring out his nose and mouth. You, however, do not relent. Without giving him the time to recover you backhand him. Now his face was bruised and purple, the area of his jaw where you had initially punched him was swollen and most likely broken. His lip was broken, his nose bent to the side.

One last hit. You decide to uppercut him, successfully making the bar keeper pass out, his maggot like body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Throughout this Mizu just stared in shock. What was she supposed to do anyways? She had never seen another woman besides herself be this upfront or aggressive. She had never seen any woman actually unafraid. But there you were, very much unafraid but very much angry. Like those stories of haunted dolls who killed their owners. Once the man was knocked out all Mizu could was stare. She was both impressed, terrified and annoyed. If someone had heard the man scream the both of them would be in big trouble.

Luckily, it seems no one had. Mizu continues to stare as you simply wipe your hands off with a rag before grabbing some bread and trotting over to a secluded corner to eat. Your anger had subsided once you had knocked some sense into the man and you were now the calmest you had been since arriving.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts Mizu followed you. Why? She didn't actually know herself. But something drew her to you. Perhaps it was because you were beautiful. Or perhaps it was the fact that you just took down a nearly two meter tall man with ease. Who knew? But all Mizu knew was that you'd be useful to her. Or at least, that's how she justified her interest.

"You can fight," she notes.

You raise your eyebrow. "Yes," you reply. "If you're about to insult me then I can show you just how well I am able to."

Mizu merely snorts, amused at your continued stubbornness and fiery spirit. It was... refreshing.

"No need. We already fought earlier, remember?"

At her recollection of your earlier squabble you huff, clearly irritated.

"That doesn't count. I just woke up."

Mizu rolls her eyes, simply taking a sip of the tea she had taken before following after you.

"Sure," she replies dryly.

You can sense she's just trying to rile you up. So you take a deep breath, calming yourself once more.

"Believe what you want," you respond coldly. "I do not need your approval."

Amused yet again, Mizu leans closer, her blue eyes piercing you once again.

"Hm. Interesting. I wonder how you would react..."

Of course, Mizu was thinking about how you react to seeing her eyes. Most people would run, look horrified or disgusted. But you had proven time and time again to be... odd. Whether that was a positive or negative she had no clue yet. But she decided to take a chance. If worst came to worst, Mizu could always silence you with her blade as she had done to countless people before.

With that she takes her orange tinted glasses off, waiting for your reaction.

(A/N: LMAO SORRY Y'ALL CLIFFHANGER :p.)

[missriggie]

Rook is a Freedom Spirit Part 2: Elgar'nan

This is going off the previous entry I did about a week or two ago and I wanted to explore it a bit further with more of the Evanuris Part 1-> If Inquisitor Lavellan is Hope, Elf!Rook is Freedom

I'm going to just spit-ball a bit here on what I think might have been his prime motivations leading up to and throughout Veilguard right up until we stab his blighted ass. It's going to come off as fanfiction-y but that's literally the reason this theory came into my head....

I've looked into different forums and reddit posts looking at the possible origin of Elgar'nan as a spirit, and it's been widely accepted that he to be a spirit of Command, corrupted this becomes Tyranny. (Elgar'nan simps, no judgement, use that as you will)

In Inquisition, we actually can meet a spirit of Command in the ruins of Old Crestwood. The wraith is frustrated that nothing in this material would is obeying them. It is pompous and unrelenting. It says things like "I am in control of my fate." "I am called to higher things." "I am more. I am Command."

If Elgar'nan were indeed a Spirit of Command, and this is along the lines of his thinking, I'll try to string together his motivation here up to the very end of Veilguard. There were some huge bombshells shared with us thanks to the memories in Regrets of the Dread Wolf. We know that because the elves created bodies for themselves from the blood of Titans sparked an all-out war. But it makes me wonder at who would be the first to float on in and craft themselves a body. Who would have the balls to do that? Who would later have the conviction and belief in themselves to rally the elves and lead them into a hopeless war, then stand foward as a god king to rule them thereafter? Probably Elgar'nan as Command. Here's how I think this went down...

Command lives in Fade but has no body - so do other spirits - each can extend the will upon the energies at play - Command not quite so in control as he wishes with so many cooks in the kitchen- sees humans and they can control their surroundings by *gasp* picking stuff up with this thing called 'a body' - Humans don't always follow each others orders though - sees the dwarves efficiently carry out the titan's every whim - jackpot - steals titan blood - makes body for himself - 'hey peeps, come check out my apposable thumbs! I can pick stuff up! Come try it!' - more spirits want a body - demand too high - titans go on strike - war begins - spirits stubbornly following purpose even in new bodies - Elgar'nan mobilises everyone together to a singular purpose - elven forces unified but keep getting crushed - Titans are severed from the dwarves - war won - doesn't want to go into chaos again - steps up as God King so everyone can do what he says. Elven Empire created. Great success!

But spirits be spirits and those that are not enslaved fight to free those that are. And we see this play out in blocks through Solas's regrets; Evanuris use the blight from the Titan's agony and rage, Mythal murdered, Fen'Harel rises as a revolutionary, I'm sure the Forgotten Ones are in there somewhere, Veil erected etc etc.

Elgar'nan is trapped with the blight, with only Lusacan a conduit to whisper to the Tevinter schmucks, his kin die one by one over the course of thousands of years, the world is surely in chaos now without his guiding hand. But with every Evanuris dropping like flies, so does the Veil.

Here we see Rook's penchant for Freedom and Chaos once again. He and Ghilan'nain are freed, thanks to them.

Fast forward to Blood of Arlathan >>> Something that sticks out and feels so intentional is the long stare that he and Rook share after the elves are freed. Playing an elf and applying this theory, could it be one of recognition?

Freedom? Freedom means Chaos, those that ought to listen and obey him should see his would undone by such a force. Freedom must be extinguished, Chaos, cut down before it bears fruit. Rook must be faced and made an example of.

And so Freedom fights against Tyranny, just as Command fights Chaos.

So yeah I think it's really cool to think of Rook in this way, at least based off what I've experienced from my playthrough of Veilguard.

[yuesya]

geto’s reaction to shiki piloting the body is so delicious! i wonder what his later confrontation with satoru would look like? does it just emphasize his horror at satoru’s upbringing/the messed up nature of jujutsu society? or does satoru even tell the truth about shiki’s state as the vengeful spirit of his murdered twin that he’s willing cohabiting with? and if he lies the first time/hesitates, what does the truth coming out look like? (i adore this au and your writing with all my heart!!)

The first thing that Suguru does in the next morning is make a mad dash for his classmate's room.

"Oh hey, g'morning, Suguru! How are you doing this fine-"

Suguru ignores the haphazard greeting and seizes the other boy by the shoulders, carefully scrutinizing. In the light of the morning sun, Satoru's eyes are bright and crystalline. His posture, his body language, his expressions -they all seem right. There are no warning bells blaring in the back of Suguru's mind.

It's Satoru. Satoru is back.

Relief cascades into him in a veritable tide wave, and Suguru exhales slowly.

"Uh, is everything okay?"

Suguru gives his classmate the stink eye. "I should be asking you that question. What was going on last night?!"

Satoru stares at him for a long moment, unnervingly quiet. Then, the other boy sighs gustily, reaching up to run a hand messily through his hair. "Okay, yeah, I guess that's fair. I didn't think she would reel you in for a chat so soon, but that's on me. I honestly should've expected it."

Suguru folds his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "You owe me an explanation, Satoru. Cough up."

"Whatever," the white-haired teen turns back into his room, and Suguru follows. "Didn't Shiki explain it to you already? She's my little sister, and we share a body. End of the story."

That's most certainly a severe understatement, if Suguru's ever heard one. "A proper explanation, please. And you never thought to mention this to us before? Does Shoko know? ... Wait, does Yaga-sensei know about this?"

Satoru flops back onto his bed with a soft thump. "Nah, you're the only one in the school who knows. Congratulations! Please don't make a big deal out of it or try to exorcise my little sister, and we won't have any problems going forward."

Wait, exorcise? Suguru had suspected it, given the odd feeling he'd sensed while talking to Shiki last night and that distinctly unhinged personality, but... "Your sister, she's... really a cursed spirit? How did something like that even happen?"

"Through filicide, of course."

It takes a beat for the words to sink in. And with dawning horror, Suguru recalls-

Toru-nii is my brother, and we’ve coexisted with each other in this state for sixteen years.

Sixteen years. That meant-!

"Did you know that twins are considered as 'one person' in terms of jujutsu? It's considered an ill omen. Each twin is incomplete on their own, and will never realize the full extent of their abilities," Satoru's gaze rests unerringly on Suguru, carefully cataloguing his reactions. "... I was born with Six Eyes and Limitless. Shiki wasn't. So my father killed her, seven days after we were born."

Nausea churns in the pit of his stomach. There's a faint prickling on the back of his scalp, and Suguru feels lightheaded upon learning of this horrifying truth.

Satoru cracks a smile. "Wow, Shiki was right. You really are a softy, Suguru."

"How can you even smile at this?" Suguru demands. Fuck. He needs to sit down, before he falls over his own two feet. "Your family- your clan, your own father, they-?"

Satoru shrugs. "Eh, I'm mostly over it now. We took care of the perpetrators when they tried to go for round two after finding out Shiki was coexisting with me. Most of the clan just thinks I'm a murderous loose cannon now, but honestly, I'd say that's their own fault."

... At least Suguru now has a better perspective on the bloodier rumors following his classmate. Knowing Satoru, he'd always thought most of them to be unfounded, but clearly that wasn't actually the case.

Gojo Satoru. A prodigy, the miracle of the Gojo Clan. A sorcerer blessed by the gods. The one destined to carry the weight of the jujutsu world on his shoulders, and maintain the standing order.

What an honor.

(What a tragedy.)

"... Later, when Shiki wakes up," Suguru somehow finds himself saying, "Would you... let her know that I'm sorry?"

"Huh?"

Suguru sighs, "I was unnecessarily short with her last night. Because I was worried about you, mainly, but that was still rather rude of me."

Satoru tilts his head owlishly. "So you want to apologize to Shiki?"

"Why do you look so surprised by it?" Suguru shakes his head. "I trust you. If you vouch for her, then I'll take your word for it. Besides, she's your sister, and you clearly care about her. If she's always with you here, then... even without her own body, isn't she basically our fourth classmate?"

Satoru grins, "She'll be glad to hear you say that."

[kellysue]

On Interviews and Getting All Up In My Head

If you haven’t yet listened to Sam Fragoso’s interview with Annie Baker, please do. Baker is startlingly honest, and I mean that literally. I was folding clothes, hadn't even chosen the episode—it was just the next thing in my queue after whatever grisly murder podcast I had purposely selected. I was startled enough to stop folding, rewind, and listen again. I don’t want to say too much about it for fear of spoiling the experience for you, but there’s an authenticity there that’s rare. If anyone within the reach of this email knows Fragoso or Baker, please pass along my compliments. It was a hell of a thing.

Interviews are on my mind as I gear up to do press for the new comic. I’m not a shy person, not an introvert in the least (as anyone who’s met me will attest) but I do get up in my head about this stuff. It’s a part of the job that elicits a stew of feelings. The sort of vulnerability required to write, to create anything really, is different from the vulnerability required to talk about the work, about the process, or about yourself in that mix. (My heart is beating a little bit faster all of a sudden—my body reacting to even the thought of it. No kidding: I just got a notification from the Apple Health app.) There’s a certain defensiveness in the experience, no matter how friendly the interlocutor, one I suspect is fueled by the spirit of this internet age. As a part of your brain is searching for an honest answer, another is running through all the ways your response could be deliberately misconstrued, and a third is asking, ‘Will this really help the sales of the book/film/show/etc.?’ Is this worth it?

Baker lays all that bare; she risks being considered “difficult” or annoying Fragoso. (To his great credit, he doesn’t just allow for it; he answers her vulnerability with his own.) She appreciates the thoroughness of his preparation but at the same time wonders aloud at the peculiarity of having something she once said parroted back to her as Truth. She doesn’t deny having said it, and likely it was true once, but memory and identity are fickle things, and the perspective of age alters how the light hits both. Of course, for the purpose of an interview, for the purpose of any conversation, there have to be some things we take as given, but her willingness to highlight the absurdity of the exercise, to own her discomfort, and then to light up when Fragoso is willing to ride along is refreshing, a buoy to me just now.

I love her willingness to push back, too. If you know me, you know I can be a lot, and I don’t exactly have a reputation for conflict-avoidance, but there have been moments/remarks in interviews past that I let slide unchallenged and they gnaw at me still. My hesitancy to hit the press circuit probably has something to do with that as well. Fear of signing up to either answer the well-meaning stranger back or grit my teeth and learn to live with another Lego in my shoe. And for what? In comics, anyway, no one seems to know what press, if any, will move the needle.

Oh goodness. Reading back, I’ve descended into something that looks rather unflatteringly like privileged moping. I am fortunate to make my living in the arts, I know. My challenges are hardly those of a coal miner or a policy-maker, I know, but here we are. Bucking up now, I promise.

I’ll say in closing this bit out, though, that I probably ought to own that my efforts to find new ways to market FML (starting with the acrostic in the last email) are not entirely about the current media landscape. They’re at least in part a reaction to the current me landscape. And I think it’s probably okay to acknowledge the absurdity of being so tired you can’t bring yourself to do things the usual way and then making up new approaches that require three times the work. Nothing if not on brand.

xo

Kelly Sue

[dellalyra]

FAMILY FORMATIONS - PART FOURTEEN

Summary: Shibuya.

CW: angst, violence, lots of it, anger, angst, blood, violence - Shibuya. Need I say more.

A/N: So this is nearly more of an experiment in writing for me so forgive how shit it is. This is gonna be the last plot-centric part for a while then we’re going back to what Family Formations does best - tooth-rotting domestic fluff <3

Recommended Listening:

Me & The Devil - Soap&Skin

Fear and Loathing - Marina

Murder in My Mind - Kordhell

GOODMORNINGTOKYO - TOKYO’S REVENGE

Scrambling – sprinting – running as fast as you can, your lungs are raw from screaming and fighting for hours now. The smell of smoke is putrid as everything collapses around you.

You felt it - Satoru’s gone.

He’s captured, you’re alone.

You had heard names whispered around.

You needed to find someone – anyone, you needed to find someone alive, the hordes of transformed people had been pushed to you by Mei Mei – your claws and fangs show no signs of retracting now they’re all dead. There’s too much adrenaline coursing through your body for you to slow down or properly comprehend anything that happened – or even feel the slash bleeding down your back. You can’t concentrate long enough to transform with your technique into something faster or with better vision.

The shouts of your husband’s defeat and imprisonment resonated through your skull and just wouldn’t quiet down. Hope felt like it was slipping through the cracks caused by Sukuna’s rampage in the pavement. You had the blood of several hundred on your body – your feral technique and anger and grief over the loss of your husband and fear for your loved ones transformed into sheer rage as you slashed and twisted and tore your way through the curses littering the station which were blocking civilians exit. You knew you’d saved thousands of lives single-handedly that night.

But you’d lost.

Noritoshi Kamo and Miwa had somehow ended up with you through everything, and you followed a signal from the airborne Momo and simultaneously you and Kamo notched arrows with a view of Mai and a sniper rifle in the distance.

Just as you turned to loose your arrow.

You saw him.

A walking ghost.

The bow and arrow dropped as Kamo loosed his arrow and Mai made her shot.

But no sound of weapon art would drown out the ragged scream your body released.

Frozen in place you watched events unfold like you were in a dream. So this was how they got Satoru.

You walked forward into the clearing. You suddenly felt 17 again.

“Oniisan?”

The body turned to you.

He moved like him. He looked like him. He spoke like him.

But it wasn’t him.

“Ah! Welcome to the fray, it’s been a long time hasn’t it, little Dryad? What was it I called you? Oneesan?” The body asked.

“It wasn’t you who called me that. It’s was Suguru Geto. You – you are someone else. You have taken and defiled my best friends corpse and imprisoned my husband. I will kill you, you sick fuck!”

“You certainly have the spirit and temper of the women of your family. Your great great grandmother was very similar.” He easily deflected your arrow before sidestepping the vines grasping for his ankles.

That gives you pause – great great grandmother?

But before you could move another muscle, the man is turning away and you’re being dragged away by Utahime as you thrash against her.

“Greetings, Choso.”

A tall, broad man clad in purple has entered the clearing. Who is this?

“Ah, it appears you have noticed.” Pseudo-Geto says to the newcomer.

The rage coming from this Choso rivals your own – but it’s directed at your apparent common enemy.

“NORITOSHI KAMO!” He screams and simultaneously all (modern) heads whip to look in shock at the 17 year old Kamo heir, seeing the surprise on his own face.

You stop thrashing away from Utahime’s grasp and stare at her.

“Utahime if that’s Kamo – then…” you say.

“The thing inside Geto is over 150 years old!”

You’d read many accounts of the blight on the Kamo Clan, the most nefarious sorcerer to exist.

“How dare you try to make me kill my little brother Yuuji Itadori?!” This Choso screams.

Wait, what?

And before you know it Choso is fighting tooth and nail for Yuuji and you’re sure of your theory – he is also a Kamo, but he must be one of the death painting wombs that Noritoshi Kamo created. Noritoshi is his father, but how is Yuuji related? He’s not a Kamo. But, if… no, that’s crazy. If Noritoshi had been surviving by moving body to body, then maybe - it’s true. A death painting womb has blood connections to its siblings, so Choso would know. You’re grateful you paid attention in cursed object theory in high school.

And speak of the devil, beside you, beside Panda – is Yuuji. You scream his name and he looks to you and you almost cry in relief he’s alive. He’s badly injured and there’s something hollow in his eyes. Yet, now is no time for reunions.

Panda moves to attack but before any of you can make a move to retrieve the prison realm holding your husband and father of you children, a wave of ice encases your allies. Your body had protected itself subconsciously by wrapping yourself in your sunbeam technique – making you too hot for ice to approach.

Opening your eyes, only yourself Yuuji, Momo, and Choso were not frozen.

“You could try calling me big brother once you know?” You hear Choso say as you approach the duo.

“Take this seriously!” Yuuji replies.

“Yuuji! I think he might be right! I’ll explain later – we have to get Satoru!” You unfurl the tendrils of ivy from your hair and begin to focus.

But once again – you don’t get a chance.

Because in front of you stands your saving Grace – the woman you idolised since childhood.

“It’s been a while, Geto, can I get your answer from before? What kind of girls are you into?”

Yuki Tsukomo – one of the four other special grade sorcerers apart from yourself.

You ran to Yuuji, checking him for damage.

“Y/N. I’m –” he starts to say before you hush him and press a kiss to the top of your head, shaking your head because you can’t handle him apologising now - you’re too raw.

Yuki was stalling Geto. You didn’t know why, but you trusted her.

A rumble hit the ground and you finally tuned into the conversation despite your ringing ears.

“I’ve marked people as vessels, non sorcerers given abilities. Many have been in a deep slumber since I chose them, but as of this moment - they’ve awoken.”

Deep slumber? Cursed? Oh god. Please, not her too.

“Are you listening Sukuna? The Heian age has returned!” Geto shouts, gleeful and proud as hundreds of cursed spirits emerge from him, spirits Geto has absorbed through the years.

He reaches his arm into his sleeve, and produces a box. A cube. Covered in eyes, big, shining blue eyes held by your son Akio – inherited by

“Satoru!”

“Gojo-sensei!”

And with that he is gone.

Your first instinct now that he’s gone – your son. Where is Megumi? You sprint around, shaking shoulders of everyone you know – desperate to locate your son.

Utahime approaches you.

“Iori! Have you seen Megumi? I have to find him. Satoru – he –” she pulls you into her chest, still smelling like the perfume you bought her for Christmas.

“Y/N. Listen to me. I don’t know where he is, but you have to listen.” The panicked look in your eyes made you looked crazed. She hadn’t seen this side of you since the Star Plasma Vessel incident.

“Y/N. Satoru has been named an enemy of the jujutsu society and a law has been made that he must stay sealed. Y/N, you’re counted in that. The elders want you dead, they say you and Gojo were conspiring with Geto. Yaga has been arrested, he’s been sentenced to death – for inciting the violence. The stay on Itadori’s execution has been lifted - he’s to be executed on sight, Yuuta Okkutsu has been named his executioner.” She steadies you, keeping you upright.

Your face changes from fear to anger.

“Y/N, we will get Gojo out. For now, you need to find Megumi, and get Yuuji and get out of Shibuya. Get Akio away, hide him. Okay? We’ll get him out Y/N.” She says.

You pull her into your chest.

“Thank you, Utahime. I love you.” You say. Your face has turned to stone. The warrior in you has returned and you’re currently planning your next move. You turn away, whipping out your phone. The veil is down and you can call your mother.

“Momma listen, I’m okay. You need to listen to me. I don’t have long. Satoru has been captured, by Noritoshi Kamo - he’s in the Prison Realm (your mom screams), him and I have been named traitors because Kamo is in the body of Suguru Geto. Mom, please, just let me talk – I don’t have – momma! They want to kill the kid, sukuna’s vessel, I need to find Megumi. Tsumiki, I think she’s part of Kamo’s plan. Yaga is to be executed – our allies are hurt or dead. I don’t know where most people are. I think most are dead. You need to get Akio out of the country. Take him - don’t tell me where. It’s not safe for me to know. Keep him hidden, and keep him safe. In my jewellery box is a baby bracelet – put it on him and he and you will be untraceable. Whatever you need – talk to Gojo’s uncle, he’s at the estate. I love you, I love Akio – please let me talk to him.”

The phone is passed to your toddler son.

“Hi baby boy,” you are trying so hard not to cry, you have to hold it together.

“Mama! Hi mama! Nana momma and papa working!”

“Yeah baby, momma and papa are working – you go with nana okay? Going on an adventure. Akio, I love you so much, my beautiful little boy - you’re our angel and papa loves you so very much too. I have to go help Megumi okay? I love you baby, be good for nana.” You let out a sob, resolve cracking.

“Momma – I gotta go. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to keep everyone safe.” And with that you hung up.

You take a deep breath and grip your arm, the vines tattooed with Satoru, Megumi, Tsumiki and Akio lacing in elegant letters through the leaves reminding you why you’re still standing.

You stand for them.

You shake your head, focus, Y/N. Save your babies.

Yuuji. You have to find him. He’ll know where Megumi is. Wait, where’s Nobara? Toge? Maki?

You walk into the direction you saw Yuuji leave, and you see a pink shock of hair beside a head adorned with two spiky buns.

Yuuji – and Choso.

They’re sitting on the steps.

You sprint to him.

“Yuuji! Where is he? Where’s Megumi? Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

His jaw is tense.

“He – he used Mahoraga, Y/N. I –” you collapse on the ground. That was suicide.

“No! He’s alive! I promise, but Sukuna – he saved him. He’s plotting something with Fushiguro. He’s badly injured, but alive.” You fling your arms around him and feel Yuuji wilt in your arms.

“Y/N. Nobara – she, I don’t know if she’s alive. Sukuna, me, he killed so many people, it’s all my fault. But I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t – Nanamin, he’s, he’s dead.” He croaks into your neck, his mentor killed in front of him and he’s apologising to you.

Hearing Akio’s godfather was dead, best man at your wedding, star of every Thursdays Kooking With Kento at your home as you made dinner together. You felt a fresh wave of sobs and you let them escape. Later, you’d mourn later.

“You did everything you could, Yuuji, it’s okay. You brave, brave boy. You’re not at fault. You’re so strong.” He pulled himself from your grip and wiped his eyes.

You saw Choso, from the corner of your eye. He stood, sheepishly and curiously watching the exchange.

“I need to find Megumi – but Yuuji, you need to come with me. The execution order has been brought up and I’m a wanted woman. We need to get away from here.” You look at him.

The sound of footsteps crushing the debris echoes through the empty street.

“Well well well, it must be my lucky day. The traitorous harlot and Sukuna’s rampaging vessel served to me on a platter. What honour the head of the Zen’in clan will bring to society by killing you both.”

That voice. That grating fucking voice.

How many days had you spent since childhood fighting with the owner of that fucking voice.

“Naoya Zen’in. You lecherous cunt. Here to revel in the death and misery like the reaper you are?”

You spit out at him, pushing Yuuji behind you.

“See – bitch. This is why I never liked you. God, you’re beautiful – such a goddess among women and you’ve already proven yourself fertile with the Gojo brat but your issue is your mouth. Such a shame, a waste of a perfect breeding bitch if you ask me: perfect body, pretty face, esteemed lineage, powerful technique but you just can’t shut that whore mouth can you?” He leers, eyeing your body like meat.

Your snarl in response makes even Choso grimace.

“If you just learned to be a nice girl, sit still and just look pretty – then I’d have married you in an instant. You’d be a pleasure to knock some kids into, just all that temper and ego. Oh well, your protectors gone now, so you’re fair game to kill. I’m now head of the Zen’in family –”

“God Naoya, you really never got smarter did you? Even after all those years in school you’re still a dense bastard. You’re not the Zen’in Clan head, if Naobito is dead – which I’m guessing he is, good riddance I say, and Satoru Gojo is dead or in any way incapacitated – Megumi Fushiguro will be named head of the clan, as per the deal made with Toji.” You smirk, knowing you’ve the upper hand here.

He clicks his tongue. His displeasure is palpable.

“Such a smart mouth. Of course that’s the case, but, I’m going to kill Itadori and you, and then – it would hardly come to fruition if Megumi Fushiguro was dead now, would it?” He smirks.

And that was the flash lit to the powder keg.

“Oh Naoya, I’ve wanted to beat the ever living fuck out of you for so long – you sexist prick.” And with that, years of rage renewed by threats against you and your kids, and insults to your family kick you into 6th gear.

“Yuuji Itadori, I have been appointed your executioner and I am here to put you to death.” A familiar voice calls out from above.

Yuuta.

God, he’s grown. Several inches taller, his hairs shorter and he looks so healthy. He’s filled out, almost 19 now. Not a boy anymore, but a man.

A man, who is trying to kill the boy you’re shielding.

“Step aside, Gojo-San.” He calls as him jumps down from the bridge.

“Ah, you must be Okkotsu. I’m here for the Gojo whore - I’ll leave the vessel to you. I propose an alliance, given our common goals.”

The ringing in your ears returned, surely, Yuuta wouldn’t kill Yuuji? He’d promised Satoru.

He’d promised to protect him if anything happened.

Why would he do this? This wasn’t Yuuta.

Wait – no. It’s not Yuuta. Yuuta is honest, and true to his word. He is also smart and will one day surpass both you and Satoru in talent.

“I’m afraid, I must ask you again to step aside Gojo-San.”

Yuuta never called you that, he just called you Y/N.

“I made a promise to those I respect and trust. I must keep my promises.” Yuuta looks at you.

He doesn’t mean the elders.

He means you and Satoru.

He’s praying to anyone that you’ll understand.

“Yuuji Itadori must die.” Reversed Curse Technique.

You squeeze Yuuji’s hand.

“We can defeat them. Choso – stick with me. Yuuji, you’re with Okkotsu.” As you turn – you whisper ‘trust me’ into Yuuji’s ear. Choso and Yuuji together would hinder the plan, so you needed Choso to stick with you.

You needed to get Choso angry.

“Naoya, you’d forsake your brothers just for power?”

And with that, the thought of fratricidal tendencies – Choso was off. With Naoyo distracted by Choso, you nod at Yuuta – giving him your go ahead. You trusted this man with your life, and the lives of everyone around you. He wouldn’t fail you.

You turned to your personal mission.

“Naoya Zen’in! Too scared to fight me? Scared you’ll lose to a girl?” You shout at him, you didn’t need your bow for this – you tossed it to the side. Fangs and claws and vines weaving out of you. You wanted to do this up close and personal.

And with that you, Choso and Naoya were a flurry of blood red, forest green and shadows. There was no way either of you would match his speed – but that’s okay. It was two versus one and you quickly found out that you and choso fought incredibly well side by side.

Naoya’s continued taunts only fuel your fury. He wants to kill your son. He would kill Megumi just for a title. He had bullied and threatened the women of the sorcery world for so long that all of this was something you could not allow to continue.

Naoya Zen’in has to die.

Choso has him pinned, poisoned by his own blood. You grab your daggers, from where they are holstered on your thighs.

You stand above him.

“Choso – go to your brother.” You say.

And he does. Leaving you and a fatally injured Naoya laying on the ground.

“The women of the world will sing praises of your death, Zen’in and I will forever be proud that it was made you sent you to hell. Let this be a lesson. Don’t touch my fucking kids.”

And with that, you sent a dagger through his temple. A quick death. More than he deserved.

You move to where you sense the boys you’re with. Their energy is heavy.

Choso is standing beside Yuuji, a scene you expected. A fire lit, Yuuta sitting on one side, Yuuji laying – covered in blood but recovering on the other.

“Ballsy move, Yuuta.”

All heads turn to you, and Yuuta stands and you wrap him in a hug.

“I knew you’d understand. I couldn’t risk fighting you too – this was the only way. Thank you, Y/N.”

“No, Yuuta. Thank you. You kept your promise to Satoru and I’m eternally grateful.” You squish him into you. Why are all your kids so much taller than you?

Turning to the brothers.

“Thank you, Yuuji. For trusting me. I’m sorry that this had to happen. But Satoru had contingencies in place for an event such as this.” You say, Yuuji’s haunted eyes look up to you.

“I always trust you, and Gojo Sensei. Dying isn’t fun – but if it’ll keep everyone safe then I’ll do what I need to do.” You stand beside him.

“You’re as good as a son to me Yuuji. You’re safe as long as the Gojo’s are here. This guy too, apparently.” You say, nudging Choso.

“The man in the street?” He asks.

“Dead.” You reply.

“I am sorry for the part I played in your husband’s imprisonment.” He says, facing you.

“You protected Yuuji, and saved us both. We both share the commitment to fight for our families - we’re gonna be really good friends Choso Kamo.” And the death painting womb is exceptionally confused by the way you wrap your arms around his chest and squeeze, but he returns the ‘hug’ and feels a sense of peace.

As you pull away, you’re glad to be beside Choso and Yuuta – the days event seem to have caught up to you. You lose your footing and the world swirls around you. You’ve used so much cursed energy today.

Satoru - he’s gone. Who knows where.

Faced a ghost.

Sent your son off to a place that you can’t know.

Learned your adopted daughter is cursed and a tool in a war.

Had to let a boy you trust kill another boy you love.

Defended your son to the point of killing.

And lost a fuck lot of blood from the wound your adrenaline had helped you ignore.

“I’m okay – I just, Choso can you use your blood manipulation to stop the bleeding? Im guessing your reversed out, Yuuta?” The boys fuss over you and when you feel stable – you turn to Yuuji – a crying mess of a shell of a boy.

You scramble and pull him into you.

“I’m here, you’re safe. I’m so sorry Yuuji. For everything.” You croon.

“I killed so many people. I deserve the death penalty. Sukuna came out and it was a bloodbath.”

Yuuta sat down too.

“You aren’t to blame.” Yuuta says. Decidedly sure in his voice.

Just as the boy goes to respond, a voice sounds out.

“Itadori. What are you doing? Let’s head back to Jujutsu High.”

“Fushiguro.”

“MEGUMI!”

He hadn’t spotted you behind Choso’s imposing frame.

“Mom! I thought – I thought you were gone too. I thought - you’d go for him. Shit, I thought they had you too.” He stumbles into your arms and you collapse holding him.

“God I was so worried I’d lost you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.” You say.

“Megumi. You know don’t you?” You say, brushing his hair from his face.

“Tsumiki.” He says, face grave.

You’re distracted by counting the cuts on Megumi’s face, you vaguely hear talking.

“So start by saving me, Itadori.” Now you’re listening.

“Noritoshi Kamo has made plans for those involved with Jujutsu to face off in a Culling Game.” Megumi claims,

“And Tsumiki is ensnared in that. So I’m begging you, Itadori. I need your strength.”

Yuuji can never say no to Megumi. God you hope these two get their happy ending.

“Like hell am I letting you boys go in alone.”

“Mom – it’s not safe. Akio –” Megumi immediately rejects this.

“Akio is safe, don’t forget who you’re speaking to boys. I might be your mom – but I am also Y/N of the Y/L/N clan. I’m the first person to hold my technique in 600 years - I’m the head of my clan. A special grade sorcerer. Wife of the strongest sorcerer alive and mother of the head of the Zen’in clan. There is no woman more influential or strong as me alive. Today, I nearly lost most of my kids, all but one of my best friends are dead and the other is back from the grave, my husband was taken, my eldest son used a technique he knew would kill him and then sorcery’s biggest bully came to execute both of my sons – and I responded by stabbing a dagger through his skull. Do not underestimate me, boys.”

“Megumi – putting all of that aside. I have 3 children. One is hidden, and safe – the other two are being sent into a death match. I vowed to protect you all with my life. That is what I’m doing. You – are my son, and I am always by your side.” You clutch his burned cheek in your palm. Pressing a kiss to his temple. A part of you is nostalgic for the days you didn’t feel any stubble on those soft cheeks – just baby soft skin. He wanted to protect you now, but no matter how grown they get - you’re still their momma.

You stand up, holding his hand – and gesture to the boys to do the same.

“Where are we going, Y/N?” Yuuji asks.

“We’re going to get my fucking husband out of that box and end this shitshow, let’s go boys.”

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Have writer’s block on my actual story so bad I wanna punch an emu. This is for me lol. This is self-serving. Bad ending, murder ending, sad times, everyone is miserable in Hell ending. 

_____

RxF!Tav/Durge: Hopeless

_____

"How on earth did you survive this place?" 

The spirit arches a brow. He doesn't say a damned thing; he lingers by the window of the little shack. He feels nothing at all, drifting outside the confines of her body. She thinks that's why he's left. It's more enjoyable to watch her suffer. 

Joi frowns and pulls her knees close to her chest, hungry for warmth—the tiefling longs for the fires of Avernus, any other Hell. Gods above and below, Stygia would prove a welcome change of pace. But Cania? Cania is miserable, misery. 

And Raphael survived it. Thrived for so many centuries.

And you brought that to an ignominious end, didn’t you, pet?

"You can't stay mad at me forever," she whines, perfectly aware that he can. He's been silent for the better part of a half year now, speaking up only to bark orders or demand control of her body. Raphael scowls, turning away. 

She's not made for silence, certainly not for this crushing loneliness. It feels like hooks in her flesh and spirit, dragging her downwards. Joi longs for laughter, for life, for anything other than fucking stillness. The bhaalspawn drags a hand through her hair and bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. At least it's something, a feeling, more than just cold. 

"I hate it here," she spits, petulant and angry. 

"Then why did you come, little mouse? To complain? You've done that well enough." 

His voice is rough from disuse. Joi glares at his back, looking away. What's there left to say? The apology rings hollow. She won't mean it. Baldur's Gate needed saving. The cambion refused to budge. An unstoppable force, an immovable object…no coexistence…

She sighs, tail curling around her ankle. She's cold. So miserably cold. "To…make things right, I suppose." 

"Pretty words to right your spot of butchery? Charming." At least he's looking at her, still handsome; Joi drops her eyes. Looking at him is…difficult. The spirit's flesh is rent as it was at death: jagged tears in his flesh, courtesy of the slayer's claws. "We could have been friends, allies." 

"Why the Hells do you think I'm here? I want to make it right. I'm trying." 

And there's the insane voice in the back of her head, pleading, desperate, wishing for so many things. Never that she could change what was; it had to happen. Instead, she wishes either could give an inch towards reaching an understanding—a fool's dream.

Raphael holds his head high, wings fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. "Empty words." 

She wants to scream. Or shake him. Instead, barely a whisper, she says, "Please, come back to me. I'm cold." He's warmer, even as a spirit; he's the only warmth she's felt in this Hell. 

The muscles in his jaw tense, wanting to fight for the sake of it. Raphael screws up his nose, shoulders pulling taut, only to finally relax. He strides across the room, fingers curling around her wrist, not integrating back into her, not entirely. Raphael likes this freedom. Instead, he settles back into her furs, motioning for her to come nearer. Joi does, pulling the furs up around her chin. 

The weight of his wings and arm over her is an illusion. The gust of his breath along the underside of her jaw is just the fabrication of a touch-starved mind. Joi shivers.

"Don't mistake this for a ceasefire," he grumbles. "Your value to me ends the moment we reach Nessus." 

"Of course." Warm. Blessedly warm. Joi pretends to thread their fingers together. "Would it mean anything? If I said I was sorry?"

The spirit's fingers ghost up her forearm, nose tucking in her hair. He thinks for a long while. In that space, she lies to herself: he's considering, struggling, they can grow, they can…

But he shakes his head, voice hard. "No, mouse. Nothing at all." 

[jittyjames]

full whumptober masterlist is finished! ehehe it's so great i actually have time to work on these this year! anyway, if anyone wants to know more about any of the specific fics or maybe even a snippet, feel free to drop an ask!

Day 1: Search Party + Panic Attack — Jesus Christ Superstar — When Jesus disappears without a word to the disciples, Judas and Mary take it upon themselves to go looking for him as days turn to weeks. 

Day 2: Role Reversal + Used As Bait (Alt. Prompt)— Twenty One Pilots · Trenchler — The Torchbearer is taken by DEMA as a way to lure Clancy back to them.

Day 3: Wrongfully Arrested — Jesus Christ Superstar · Jesus/Mary/Judas — Jesus rushes to save Judas from being punished in a way he doesn't deserve.

Day 4: Hallucinations + Motion Sickness (Alt. Prompt) — Hamilton — Alexander and Washington find themselves in the clutches of a cruel soldier. His experiments leave the two in quite a predicament.

Day 5: Heatstroke — Hamilton — The heat of battle is only made worse by the oppressive summer sun. Aaron Burr finds himself faltering. 

Day 6: Not Realizing They're Injured — Jesus Christ Superstar— After a violent riot breaks out, not everyone is as unscathed as it seems.

Day 7: "It's Us Or Them." — 9-1-1 — Buck ends up in the hospital after making a choice.

Day 8: Sleep Deprivation — Hamilton · Hamburr — As Alexander and Aaron push through a high-stakes murder case that bring up bad memories for the both of them, the lack of sleep causes something else to brew between them.

Day 9: Obsession — Hamilton · Hamburr · Modern — Aaron runs into trouble when a mysterious man takes an interest in him. 

Day 10: Blow To The Head + Slurred Words + “I Can’t Think Straight.” — Mindhunter — In a questioning gone wrong, Holden is left reeling. Quite literally.

Day 11: Seeing Double + Loneliness — Hamilton — For just a moment, Alexander thinks he's looking at someone who can't possibly be there.

Day 12: Starvation + “Just A Little More.” — Jesus Christ Superstar · Jesus/Judas — Judas takes issue with having when others have not.

Day 13: Team As family + Multiple Whumpees + Vermin (Alt. Prompt) — Hamilton — The British didn't see them as people anymore. They saw them as something far different.

Day 14: Blackmail— Hamilton — When Alexander's secrets are being held by his political enemies, he will do everything he can to ensure they never get out. [Continuation of Keep Me (And My Secrets)]

Day 15: Childhood Trauma — Jesus Christ Superstar (Arena) · Jesus/Judas — Mary reflects on her life as she watches Judas’ fall apart. 

Day 16: "No, I Can't Feel Anything." — Twenty One Pilots · Trenchler — After the final battle, Clancy stumbles.

Day 17: Nowhere Else To Go + Beatdown (Alt. Prompt) — Hamilton — Thomas Jefferson finds a bleeding Hamilton on his doorstep.

Day 18: Revenge + Loss Of Identity + Unreliable Narrator — Jesus Christ Superstar · Jesus/Judas — Judas finds Jesus with blood on his hands.

Day 19: Abandoned Cabin + Blood Trail — Mindhunter — Holden is taken by an unsub.

Day 20: Emotional Angst + Giving Permission To Die — Hamilton · Hamliza — Eliza and Alex have one last conversation.

Day 21: Spirit Possession + Body Horror — Jesus Christ Superstar · Jesus/Mary/Judas — Jesus had cast out demons from many people over the course of his ministry. But it’s just different when it’s someone he loves. 

Day 22: Reopening Wounds — Mindhunter — The aftermath of all the events with that principal leave Holden burning with a need for justice, no matter how obsessive it seems.

Day 23: Forced Choice + Public Display — Jesus Christ Superstar · Jesus/Judas —  Amuse Me (Fuck or Die Fic)

Day 24: “I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent.” — Hamilton — How can the sun still rise when so much horror has come to pass? How can the world still spin?

Day 25: Being Monitored + "It's For Your Own Good."— Jesus Christ Superstar · Modern — Judas meets Jesus in the most unlikely of places.

Day 26: Nightmares + Breakfast Table — Hamilton · Modern — Aaron's daughter is always hanging around that Hamilton kid. He doesn't mind it as much as he pretends to— Philip is a sweet boy, after all, and it gives Aaron the excuse he needs to see his former friend despite bridges being burned to a crisp. But when Aaron get's a phone call one stormy night, everything changes.

Day 27: Voiceless + Communication Barrier ( Alt. Prompt) — Jesus Christ Superstar — Judas had only wanted them to warn Jesus off. He hadn't expected... this.

Day 28: Exposure + Secrets Revealed (Alt. Prompt)— Jesus Christ Superstar — As tensions rise amongst two of the apostles while on a mission, some secrets comes to the surface.

Day 29: Burnout + Shivering (Alt. Prompt) — Hamilton— Everything is coming to a breaking point. Words don't look like words anymore. Alexander doesn't feel like Alexander anymore.

Day 30: Recovery + Hospital Bed + "What Have I Done?" — Hamilton · Jamilton—  After an attempt brought on by something Thomas said, he's left to pick up the pieces of a broken Hamilton.

Day 31: Asking For Help + Therapy — 9-1-1 — No one can understand why Buck is so averse to therapy.

+ ALTERNATIVE IDEAS!!!

Body Swap— Judas' kiss wasn't that of betrayal.

Finding Old Messages + Regret + Forgotten — Aaron Burr finds an old, unopened letter in a coat he wore in his younger years. The coat he wore to Hamilton's wedding.

Friendly Fire + Survivor's Guilt— John hadn't meant to hit him. He truly didn't. But Alexander was still on the ground.

Time Loop— Jesus and Mary don't abandon Judas once the three days have come and gone. Their love perseveres. And they would have followed him anywhere.

Venom— The snakes of the desert were the furthest thing from Jesus' mind. Maybe they shouldn't have been.