#i was gonna say ‘with my bare teeth’ as if ??? there’s anything i’d put on my teeth to eat through an encyclopedia???

[inkykeiji]

ate too much chocolate,,, tummy hurts,, ໒( ⇀ ‸ ↼ )७ send help (and by help i mean mikey, so he can rub my sore belly while gently scolding me in that sugary condescending tone because i’m such a silly lil baby and i should’ve known better than to eat that much cocoa in one sitting but it’s all okay now, because Daddy’s here to take care of me n make me feel better <33)

[coryosbaby]

i’d do ANYTHING for a part 2 of life lessons

Teacher

synopsis: Coryo oversteps some boundaries with himself (and doesn’t regret it).

♡ content warning . Threesome, more Sejanus x coryo in this? (the genderfluid in me screaming rn) + some sexuality questioning and inner homophobia, handjobs, praise and degradation, cum eating . Dom! Sejanus, switch! Reader, sub! Coryo <3

He didn’t think it would happen again.

Not in a million years. Not after that one night, when him and Sejanus had let go with you watching. When Sejanus had punished him for taking your orgasm from him. When they touched each other. He thought their friendship was ruined.

Oh boy, was he wrong.

Sejanus has him sprawled out on your bed now, the pink sheets that made Coryo let out a snort before the other boy had scolded him silky and soft. Coryo’s cock lays against his stomach, red and aroused to its fullest capacity. You’re on your stomach, your cheek nuzzling Coryo’s thigh, leaving little kisses on the meaty skin there. You’ve grown fond of him, this handsome blonde boy, and you know Sejanus’ adoration has only increased since that one night.

And that’s why Coryo has allowed him to touch him again.

It’s not as intimate or close as it was that one night. No— this is easier, simpler. Coryo feels less pain slicing through his stomach when Sejanus’ face isn’t towering over his own. When it isn’t a fight— a rough, desperate battle of tongue on tongue and skin on skin. When he’s not seeing a boy above him.

He has no problem with men who like other men. He finds it stupid to worry about such a dumb, small thing, to be in other people’s business like that. But those words from his peers, the hatred towards such people, it makes his gut twist with guilt.

Guilt because he likes men. Guilt because he likes Sejanus.

He likes you, too. At least sexually. Maybe a little romantically too, but he doesn’t know how comfortable Sejanus would be knowing that, so he keeps his mouth shut about his feelings. About it all.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head. There’s no reason to think these things right now, not when Sejanus’ fingers are wrapping around his cock and tugging, something he’s oddly good at and Coryo suspects he’s probably done this before. His precum drips over the other boy’s fist, wet and warm and perfect. You keep giving Coryo these teasing little eyes, challenging him to do something, anything to test your limits, to test Sejanus’, and you know that once Coryo is challenged that he’ll try his hardest to win.

He tries to move away from Sejanus’ hand. He doesn’t want to. It takes all his willpower to pull his hips away. But he does it, and he does it because he wants Sejanus to put him in his place and not because he wants to stop. Sejanus knows this, because if he really wanted to stop he would use the safeword. He grunts, his big arm grabbing onto Coryo’s lean body.

“Stop it,” he growls, burying his chin in the boy’s golden curls. “Don’t be a brat.”

Coryo smirks, his nails digging into the other boys equally bare thighs.

“Or what, Sejanus? It’s not like you have any power, anyway. She’s wanting to suck my cock.”

Oh, he’s done it now. Mentioning you in his little tantrum, claiming some kind of territory over you. Sejanus hand goes up around the boy’s neck, the kind of grip that Coryo didn’t expect from him. His teeth scrape against his neck and his hand goes back down to his cock.

Only this time, he slaps him. Hard.

Coryo grits his teeth. A groan escapes him, and his cock reddens under Sejanus’ hand.

“What did I tell you?” The brunette warns him.

“Mmm…” Coryo lets out a sultry little whine, his hips humping up into the open air with precision. “I’m sorry.”

He says it with no real meaning, a faux tone in his voice. Sejanus scoffs, and his hand wraps around him again. You watch the whole scene with an amused look.

“You’re gonna be,” Sejanus says, and his eyes direct to you. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

You obey, all sweet and innocent. Sejanus’ hand furiously rubs over Coryo’s cock, and the boy gasps, his hips lifting up as he groans throatily. You think he looks gorgeous, abs pulled taught, wet cock threatening to squirt into your open, awaiting mouth. Sejanus’ hardness rubs against the boy’s back as he watches the scene, his best friend and his girl getting each other all hot and bothered. Coryo’s face is contorted in intense pleasure, and he knows he’s close. Can feel it in the way his balls draw up tight, in the way his ears begin to ring from the force of his upcoming orgasm.

When he cums inside your mouth, your tongue laps him up greedily. You’re a slut for cum, all salty and creamy and thick, and you can’t wait to get Sejanus’, too. Coryo pushes your head forward, demands you lap up the rest of it. Sejanus lets him. You clean his cock up in no time.

But Sejanus gives you a look. A look that tells you not to stop. You know your boyfriend well, after all, and you can read practically any expression he makes.

So you don’t stop sucking him. Coryo tries to move your hand off, tries to get you to stop, “‘s too much,” he says in that whimpering tone. But Sejanus grabs his fingers and holds them down so he can’t take you off of him. He cries at the overstimulation, literal tears flooding his blushing cheeks, and Sejanus kisses his neck.

“It’s okay, Coryo,” he says softly. “Gonna cum again, yeah? Gonna cum for us?”

And how can he resist that?

So with a mix of pleasure and pain coursing through his cock, he makes himself let out weak spurts of cum onto your tongue again. But your mouth doesn’t stop— again. And no, no, it’s too much, it hurts, but how can Coryo resist?

So he sits back, lets Sejanus move down to play with that space behind his cock, and submits.

[luveline]

darling darling jade-y!!! I saw your post about semi specific requests that you like to write and I thought I’d combine two of the things I saw on there ❤️

for asf!Fred, very possibly maybe reader gets a serious concussion and Fred has worries about how the brain fog may affect readers tendencies to dissociate or that the confusion might further upset her? Just general, mutual hurt comfort where everyone’s worries are put at ease in the end ❤️❤️

I love coming back to your blog almost everyday and always finding something delicious to read no matter if i’m reading something new or rereading a fav!! Sorry this was a bit long but I love to sing people’s praises!! Have a looovely day or night ❤️

thank you for your request lovely! 💌 —Fred takes care of you when you can’t look after yourself, but he finds it hard to ignore how your actions mimic the past. 2k, fem

cw mental health issues

“It’s alright. Hold my hand.”

Fred puts his hand out for you in the middle of George and Angelina’s living room. Your eyes shine with hurt, so odd to see when no one’s said anything cruel, and you won’t take it. You’re stuck where you’re standing.

“Go on, sweetheart, take my hand. It’s okay. I’m just gonna help you.”

You put your hand up gently. Fred takes the hint and twines his hand through yours, tickled by the slowness of your fingers curling over the backs of his knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, taking a guiding step to the sofa. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

You walk. Fred takes your shoulders into his hands when you’re close enough and holds you to his chest as he shakes out the pillows behind you, making room for you to sit comfortably. “Okay, sit down, my girl. There you go.” He grins at you. “Brilliant. How do you feel, are you okay?”

You stare at him. Your despondency makes him feel sick, but he swallows it down. He bends at the waist to meet your eyes with nothing but patience and fondness. “Y/N,” he says slowly, reaching for your knee. “Do you need to go to bed?”

“No.”

“No. Alright, I’m going to get your drink, and see if George is finished with dinner, okay? I’m not going far.”

You give him a look you’ve employed many times since you got hurt, like you can’t work out why he’s acting strangely, or perhaps why you’re acting strangely. Fred pulls your hand to his mouth for a kiss, barely a kiss, more like he’s pressing the entirety of your hand to his lips.

“Love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he says into your hand. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know, I just don’t want you to worry.”

He encourages your shoulders back to have you flush to the sofa and sends you a wink as he goes. You almost laugh, teeth peeking out as you smile at him, the happiest you’ve looked for at least the last two days. Your brain fog is persistent and bothersome, to put it lightly.

Fred heads into the kitchen where George is plating a large baking tray of pasta into four dishes, two of which he’s set atop the microwave.

“Hey,” George says, “I’ve got two for now and two for tomorrow, just in case.”

Fred doesn’t know how to say thank you, so he doesn’t. If Fred weren’t in love with you in a way that’s changed his entire being, George would still look after you, because you’re one of his best friends, and he’s yours. But Fred does love you, and George knows that, and to be taken care of by his brother while you recover is a privilege he won’t take lightly.

“Don’t worry about it, Forge. I think mums got a lasagna with our names on it waiting in her fridge…” Fred leans against the wall by the door frame and covers his eyes. He’d been joking, and now suddenly he feels sick again.

“You okay?” George asks.

Fred holds out his hand, as if to say, Don’t ask me. Don’t ask and don’t come near me. He doesn’t think that boys don’t cry, but he just hates being this person who can’t keep it together. You need to be looked after by someone who’s fully present while you’re disassociative. Fred needs to be that person, but it’s just so hard seeing you like this again.

“I feel like–” He swallows nothing, meeting George’s waiting gaze with a weak smile. “Feel like she’s that scared lonely girl again and there’s nothing I can do to make it up to her.”

George puts the empty pan on the back burner. He tosses dirty spoons and forks into the sink, and wipes his hands on a tea towel pensively. “It’s a brutal mix of symptoms,” he says finally, his voice straining. “But she’ll get better again.”

Post concussive symptoms are about as bad as it comes, and they can last for months. Not just weeks. Among the more manageable, such as dizziness, high blood pressure, and fatigue, are the worst Fred could imagine for you in particular —cognitive dissonance, memory loss, brain fog, anxiety, and depression. Even if you recover from each of your physical symptoms, it’s not uncommon for people who sustain a brain injury to remain depressed.

You’re already sick. Fred loves you and he doesn’t mind, doesn’t care, not a single thing will change for him, but you’re not well, and this head injury could send you into a tailspin.

“I forgot what she looks like when she’s hopeless,” Fred says. “I really did.”

“She’s not hopeless, Freddie, she’s hurt. Her head will get better, and she’ll get better too, because she has us to make sure of it.” George puts a plate of pasta onto a wooden tray with a knife and fork. “I’m… you know, I’m worried too.”

“Yeah.”

“I have Parmesan cheese and stuff in the fridge.”

“It’s okay. I’m gonna take hers in first.”

“You have to eat.”

“I know, I will. She might take some convincing, is all.”

It’s not as though Fred thought you were going to walk away from your concussion without consequence. It was an awful injury, his heart has never pounded that fast or that hard in his life, but he didn’t expect the symptoms of what you’re experiencing now to coincide as heavily as they do with your worst struggles.

You're teary eyed on the sofa, pressing yourself back into the apex of the arm and the cushions. It’s another symptom with multiple causes; Fred has found you crying because you were confused, and aching, and without explanation. It can happen and be finished within a few seconds.

“Hi, lovely girl. I have your dinner.”

“What is it?” you ask, sniffing.

Fred remembers the days in his last year of school where you’d been hungry enough to shake but not willing to eat. You didn’t know then and you can’t know now the sort of pain it is to watch a friend not be able to feed themselves without extreme effort, and Fred wouldn't want that for you, but it’s why he can’t explain his relief to you that you still have your appetite.

He sits down next to you and puts the tray on your lap, tentative at first to touch you in case he puts you off eating, then greedy with his hands as you eat a big first mouthful, and a second. You’re not uncoordinated despite the doctor's warnings. The dissonance seems to come before decision making for you, and this decision is firmly made.

You’re hungry so you’re eating.

Fred had to beg yesterday for you to eat. Hands on your legs, tone dropped into the most dulcet it’s ever been, asking, “Just one thing, can you do that for me? A piece of toast, lovely.”

That’s why you’re here. Fred can’t take care of you alone, he’s found. It’s almost fitting that you should need both of them again, even if Fred wishes you didn’t.

He knows it’s saccharine. Patronising, even, but he gives your arm a light squeeze. “Good girl,” he says quietly, relief palpable. “How is that? Is it nice? Don’t tell me all the trouble we had yesterday is because you don’t like my cooking.”

“Felt sick all day,” you say, scratching your bowl with the tines of your fork.

“I know. Do you feel less sick right now?” He cups your face as you nod shyly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t mind. I’m just kidding. George made you another plate to take home, anyways, so you won't suffer again.”

Your laugh is more breath than voice, but you turn your cheek into his hand before he can pull it away. There’s a connection in your gaze he hasn’t seen for a while. “You’re worrying.”

“I’m fine.”

You put your tray in his lap, and his heart sinks thinking you’re finished already, you’d eaten a few good spoonfuls but not enough to make up for days of pickiness. Your arm slides behind his. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” you say, pressing your cheek to his arm in a cuddle. “You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine,” he says, rubbing his nose against your head.

“It’s okay, lovely.”

He blinks back tears. “No, I know it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“You can have mine. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Can’t we share it?” he asks. He thinks you might be lying. In your confusion, you’ve taken his upset to be rooted in hunger. “Please?”

“It’s nice,” you say, like you’re agreeing, picking up your fork again to eat from his lap.

Fred breathes out a sigh. If he could, he would wrap you up in a hug so tight it makes you both click.

You offer him a forkful. He eats it and doesn’t comment on the way it taps against his teeth.

“I think I have that pain again,” you say, poking at pasta shells.

“Yeah? In the back of your head?”

“Like a thrumming.”

“I’ll get your painkillers.”

“I’m about to go get them,” George says, carrying a second tray, a soft smile on his face as he puts it on the coffee table. “I can read your mind, ghost.”

“What am I thinking now?” you ask.

“It’s nice to be with your best friends, duh,” he says, turning around again to retrieve your painkillers.

You turn to Fred without saying anything, eye to eye, nearly not quite smiling. You abandon your fork again to wrap your arms around his neck and hug him, hiding. Fred closes his eyes, his arm curved eagerly behind your back. “Don’t knock the tray,” he mumbles, letting out a deep breath.

“You’re making me feel sick,” you say.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault, right? It’s always my fault.”

“No, no, lovely, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s my fault,” you mumble. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect to me, you always will be. You’re just not very well today, that’s all it is.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, nearing hurting now, your voice strangled. “I’m sorry, Fred.”

“Ghost, it’s okay.” He shoves the tray from his lap. He can clean up any mess, but this is urgent. You slouch into the space he makes. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not your fault, and it wouldn’t matter if it was. There’s nothing wrong with you that won’t get better.”

“I don’t like feeling like this.”

Fred collects himself. He can’t panic right now, as much as he wants to. “It’s not forever,” he says, letting his hand run down your back to the base of your spine, “I promise, it’ll start to feel better. I’m not going anywhere until it does, and even then you can’t get rid of me. When was the last time you managed that?”

“I don’t want to get rid of you,” you mumble.

His hand seems to be working. The massaging of his thumb against the base of your spine calms you down. “I don’t want you to,” he says, nudging at your face with hide nose until he can kiss your cheek. “Mm?” he hums, lips sliding against the corner of your mouth. “Just me and you forever, yeah? You can’t be alone when you have me.”

[thus-spoke-lo]

Tables Don’t Talk // Roronoa Zoro x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Kink: Forniphilia [a kink/fetish involving a person being treated as a piece of furniture]

CW: afab!reader; no pronouns used to address reader, but gendered pet names used [ex. good girl]; alcohol use [reader and Zoro]; mild degradation and objectification; praise; vaginal fingering; light d/s dynamics implied WC: 2k // Fictober Masterlist

Zoro’s had too much sake.

That’s it—Zoro must have had too much sake, you reason as you straddle his lap, your thoughts barely coherent through a fog of your own whiskey-tinged lust as he leaves bruising kisses down your neck. His low grunts and your soft moans reverberate in the moonlit quiet of the crow’s nest, big hands gripping your hips and squeezing at the plush of your ass while you brace yourself on the hard, warm muscles of his chest. He must have had too much sake, you tell yourself, he would never mean such a thing—then he says it again.

“I wish I could just set my boots up on you,” he murmurs against the softness of your exposed shoulder. “Make you into a pretty little table.”

You snort a laugh at the suggestion, and the way his warm breath tickles your skin. “Why the hell would you wanna do that?”

“I dunno,” Zoro mumbles with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Because I can.”

“Oh can you, Zoro?”

“Yeah.” He grins, nipping at your jaw. “Because you’ll let me.”

“Who says I’d let you?”

“So if I told you to get on your hands and knees for me, you wouldn’t?” He pulls away from you, thick fingers digging into your sides as he holds you still and lifts his hips against you, letting you feel the swell of his clothed cock against your heat. The arrogant grin that’s painted across his face says he already knows the answer to his question.

You sigh and groan, feeling a flood of arousal between your thighs, knowing you don’t stand a chance against that smug smile. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

He runs his tongue along your lower lip before taking it in his teeth and giving you a nip. “Then get down on the floor.”

“You’re serious?” you muse, eyebrows raised.

“Only if you want to, baby,” Zoro whispers, his thumb running over the sore spot on your lip from where he bit you. “Not gonna make you do a damn thing, you know that.”

Of course you know that, he’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do, which is exactly why you always want to. It’s why you always follow direction—on your knees, lay on your back, open your mouth for me sweetheart and show me that pretty tongue—knowing that listening and obeying earn you the sweetest rewards from your swordsman. Obedience begets generosity, and he was nothing if not a giving man.

You hold his gaze and grips his wrists, tugging at them until he releases his vice-like hold on you. He bites his lip as he watches you slither to the floor, arranging yourself on all fours in front of him, the perfect approximation of a footstool if you say so yourself. “Like this?”

“That’s perfect, baby.” He wastes no time before he sets one heavy boot-clad foot on your back, then the other, crossing his legs and placing his arms behind his head. “Mm, I could get used to this.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Nice soft thing to put my feet up on at the end of a long day? Much better than some shitty wooden table. Much prettier to look at, too.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and can already see the shit-eating grin that’s settled on his face as he reclines and shuts his eye; he looks like he’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. You let him have his fun for a few moments, finding yourself starting to enjoy the weight pressing down onto your spine, before you waggle your hips, trying to tempt him into something else. “Zoro, come on. I’m lonely down here.”

“Hey.” He cracks open his eye. “Last time I checked, tables don’t talk.”

“Zoro.” You add a few more O’s to his name as you whine and shoot him a glare, one that only makes him laugh—you’re no threat to him on your hands and knees like this, trapped underneath him, a lovely little object for his personal use.

“Let’s see what a good piece of furniture you can be.” He takes his boots off your back and plants his feet squarely on the floor. “Here, hold this.”

He grabs your half-full whiskey tumbler from beside him on the bench and leans down, setting one hand on the small of your back to steady you before gingerly setting the glass in between your shoulder blades. You shift at the sudden feeling of the glass’ weight, and it goes tumbling to the floor, splashing alcohol into your forearm.

“Tch. Look at all that good alcohol gone to waste.” Zoro stands from his spot on the bench and slowly begin to walk around you, arms crossed, almost inspecting you, this unruly piece of furniture. He squats down in front of you, roughly grabbing your chin in between his thumb and forefinger and tilting your head up so you meet his patronizing gaze. “You need to be a better table.”

He releases your chin and gives you a couple soft taps on the cheek before picks up the glass from beside you and fills it again—this time with a little more liquor. You watch silently, anticipation coursing through you with every beat of your obedient heart, waves of desire crashing on your shores. It was a request made on a whim, an off-handed remark that you wouldn’t have even acknowledged normally—yet here you are, eagerly waiting on your hands and knees for the man you desired, willing to act as his footstool if it means pleasing him.

“Alright, let’s try this again,” Zoro says as he carefully rests the glass on your upper back, pressing it down into your clothed flesh before releasing. You dip your chin towards your chest to straighten your back, spread your fingers wide on the smooth wood floor to give yourself balance, and breathe carefully—slow and measured, in through your nose and out through your mouth. You close your eyes and focus on the rhythm of your breaths, feel the weight of the whiskey glass almost start to settle into your body like it’s meant to be there, your concentration only occasionally broken by the soft groans that come from Zoro as he watches you with a perverted fascination.

At last, he grabs the glass and you relax your posture, turning to watch him down the amber liquid; he gives you a wink as he licks the last drops from his lips. He kneels in front of you again, leaning down to gently press his lips to yours, just enough for you to taste the vapors on his breath, just enough to make you whimper when he pulls away, aching for more.

“Good girl,” he growls, words that make you vibrate to your core, make you press your thighs together to stem the urges, try to quell the insistent need. “I think this is too easy, though.”

“What do you mean ‘too easy’?” you rasp, watching as he pours another glass of alcohol, this one fuller than all the others, almost spilling over the rim. He begins to circle you again like the tipsy apex predator he is.

“What did I tell you, baby? The furniture doesn’t talk.” He drops to his knees behind you and grips the waistband of your shorts and your panties, yanking them down over your hips, rough hands picking up each of your trembling legs in turn to tug your clothing down and off. You hear a low hum from behind you, feel a warm palm start to caress the swell of your ass, trailing down and across your thigh. A gasp leaves your lungs as a wide finger runs over your slit, running through the slickness of your folds.

“Mm, so wet,” Zoro coos, pressing a fingertip against your entrance, hissing through his teeth as he feels the way you pulse. “You like serving me, don’t you?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” The lie that you quickly conjure is hollow, tinged with an unmistakable need.

“Maybe?” he chuckles, sliding one thick finger inside you, then another. “This doesn’t feel like maybe, does it?”

“N-no,” you stammer, choking on a moan as he thrusts his fingers inside you, pushing them deep, deeper still until his knuckles press into you. The warmth that spreads through your thighs as he plunges in and out of your needy cunt is so all-consuming that you barely register the weight of the whiskey glass being placed onto your lower back. Zoro crooks his fingers, pressing against that spot inside you that sends sparks down your spine, and your hips shudder in response—just enough to cause rivulets of liquor to dribble out of the glass and onto your body.

“Careful now—you spilled,” Zoro admonishes you, voice tinged with condescension as he licks the spilled whiskey off your bare skin, still lazily pumping into you. “What do you think will happen if you knock it over again?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Well, try not to find out then.”

You bite down on your lower lip and clench your eyes shut, trying to ignore the way his fingers feel moving inside your heat, how you vibrate inside with every stroke of your walls. You try to ignore the way your stomach tightens and the way your thighs shiver, as they always do when he hits every spot in the way only he knows how—he’s studied your body with the same intensity that he trains, learning just how to have you writhing under him with little more than the flexing of his fingers inside you.

“Zoro, please,” you keen, tension coiling so tightly inside you that you could snap, “please, I wanna cum.”

He pauses his ministrations, chuckles low and deep as he places a soft kiss on your hip. “And when did my little table start making demands?”

“Zoro, please, I need it. I need you.”

“Only because you asked so nicely. Be good just a little longer, and you’ll get what you want.”

Zoro pulls out of your dripping cunt, and you whine at the sudden emptiness; he drags his thick fingers down your slit, landing at your aching clit. Your legs tense and the glass wobbles, but you still yourself despite the urge to buck your hips, press against his fingers and grind against his hand until you extract your pleasure from him. Deep breaths in and slow breaths out, you clench your fingers into fists on the floor and fight the urge to grind against his hand and take what you need—but no, you won’t give in. You’re a good table, after all, and good objects get rewards.

“Look at you, controlling yourself so well. You’re such a good girl for me, you know that?” He takes the glass off the small of your back and sets it beside you on the floor. “Now you can lose control.”

The tension finally snaps and pushes you over the edge in a burst of ecstasy, rhythmic convulsions overtaking your body. You say his name over and over as a plea to continue, as a thank you for the reward he granted you, as a means of showing you know who you belong to, down to every shiver and spasm.

“Mm, that was fun,” he murmurs, swiping his fingers through your drenched folds as you twitch and quake through the last waves of your orgasm. “You make a nice table after all.”

“Do I?” You can’t help but laugh at how absurd it all is, how debased you feel being reduced to Zoro’s own personal coffee table—yet it leaves you with a strange sense of fulfillment, too.

“Yeah, you do. But you know what?” You hear the rustling of fabric, and suddenly feel the throbbing head of his cock pressing against your still-pulsing entrance, pushing slowly into you. “I actually think you make a much better cocksleeve.”

[arachnixe]

A Better Family

(Part 2 of Night’s Longing - Previous: Den of Depravity)

A man kneels on a stone floor, coughing blood. His face is a battleground of despair versus anger, and he clenches his fists in a futile gesture of resistance.

“If it helps, I’m sorry in my own way. I’d hoped to let you live, but I cannot do that if you will not play your role in this story.” A figure, cloaked in darkness, circles the dying man like a vulture.

“Damn you, Alucard. I should have known it was you. I see now it was always you. The count—” Another coughing fit interrupts him. “I won’t let you get away with this.”

“You are not in much of a position at all to ‘let’ me do anything, Morris.”

“I can still… curse with the best of them. Enough blood here for it, at least.” The man puts a red, dripping hand to his forehead and breathes a prayer. “By the bloodline of the Boltman clan, I curse you. We will wipe your progeny from the world. When you die, it will be at our hands. On my life, I swear it. In the name of my family I do hereby vow. We will be your end, Dracula.“

In a flash of light, the man collapses. Somewhere far away, a child wakes up from a nightmare of his father dying, his face wet with tears.

---

I, on the other hand, wake up with a smile on my face. Get wrecked, old man. If I have to suffer your curse, at least I have the consolation prize of playing dream witness to your embarrassing last moments on your knees again and again. It’s a damn shame, I think, that one of my ancestors apparently was successful at killing Dracula at some point. Wasn’t enough to end the curse on my family, though. I guess we are supposed to kill every last vampire to fulfill the prophecy.

That won’t happen if I have any say in it. I am determined to be the last of my line.

“Wait, she’s awake again already?”

“What did I tell you? This girl is the best.”

I open my eyes, blinking through the haze and trying to reorient myself. It’s still night, and I’m lying across the laps of two beautiful women in a dimly lit booth. I only recognize one of them. “Hey, Vicky. Who’s your friend?”

“Not totally with it yet,” the stranger observes.

“Come on. You met Liz already, remember? My sister.”

“Right, the hot sister.” That rings a bell. I sit upright with Vicky’s aid and position myself comfortably between the two vampires. I’m still feeling a bit dizzy, and my limp neck struggles to prevent my head from lolling to the side. “Gonna have to get some calories and iron in me if you want to go again before morning.”

“Already got a big steak coming your way, Hanna. Extra rare, just how you like it.”

I can’t believe there’s a nightclub in this city that serves steak of all things. This place rules.

“Ooh, she does have good taste. Twice over, even.” Liz rewards my quality opinions with a kiss on the lips and a lustful squeeze of my boob. While she continues occupying my mouth, Vicky runs her hand up my thigh and takes a long, lingering lick from my collarbone to my jaw. The way they treat me like a premium cut of meat makes me shiver in anticipation of what’s to come later tonight.

I’m too distracted to notice when my own meal arrives until the smell reminds my stomach that I’m starving.

“Oops, looks like they thought that was for one of us,” Liz says.

No sides on the plate, just a fat fucking slab of barely seared beef swimming in blood—is that human blood?—in a presentation clearly intended for vampire clientele rather than a living human. This place must be damn fancy by vampire standards. Or maybe it’s just that full moon excess at work.

I’m drooling, too hungry to fret about the details. If Liz thinks a little blood is going to put me off my appetite, I’m happy to prove her wrong. I demolish the whole thing in record time, ripping chunks of flesh apart with my teeth and happily sipping the mixture of blood and beef juices until I clean the plate and give Liz a little wink in response to her shocked expression.

“And here I thought a place like this would have an aversion to stakes.“

Vicky laughs uproariously. It’s a universal truth that no vampire can resist puns about themselves.

“I’ve never been so turned on in my life,” Liz says. “You’re telling me she’s really a—“

Vicky hisses an interruption. “Not here. Don’t yell at me about taking a stupid risk and then turn around and talk about it in public!”

I’ve inferred that if a certain someone in a position of authority were to learn about me being a vampire hunter in their midst, I’d be in real danger. I’m durable, but I’m not invincible, and besides, the last thing I want to do is to have to kill a bunch of vampires who think they’re just protecting themselves.

There must be a way to earn some measure of trust from the clan, show them that I’m not a danger, that I’m not like my hateful family.

“What if I found a way to prove myself?” I ask. “Make some big show of loyalty that can’t be ignored. It’s all well and good for me to repeatedly give myself to a couple of the hottest women I’ve ever met, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna believe that’s an act of altruism, per se.“

Vicky nods, stroking my cheek with affection. “You’re a freak for sure, but that’s not quite enough on its own.”

“You could wipe out one of, uh… your kind’s cells,” Liz suggests. “One that’s been directly a problem for us. That would go a long way.”

My heart skips a beat at the suggestion. Wipe out. She means doing some straight-up murder. There’d be no coming back from that, but that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what makes it a perfect test of loyalty. If I really want to make a difference, do some real good for the world, and spit on my family’s name in the process, here’s the perfect mission.

I lean back in the booth, turning my body to the side to face her directly. “Do you know of any specific one that would fit the bill?”

“It’s my job to know these things, my dear. Though I want to enjoy your company in full before I send you out on an obvious suicide mission. The cell I’m thinking of is run by a Boltman, which is a name that should strike fear into even your heart.” She squeezes my knee. “Of course, I wouldn’t blame you for changing your mind after hearing that.”

Vicky didn’t tell her, then. Or maybe she didn’t recognize the specific family affiliation identified by my tattoo. Not sure how to bring that up myself, so maybe I won’t just yet. Still, the name doesn’t change anything, really. It only helps me solidify my own feelings. I feel my face settling into an serious expression just shy of a scowl. “Quite the opposite.” My hand clenches into a fist. “I’m eager to take that family down most of all.”

---

There’s a difference between knowing of a hunter cell and knowing where to find it, of course, but I do have some advantages the vampires lack. I’m trained in several different hunter codes, naturally including the Boltman family’s.

Graffiti marks the location of safehouses, with special markings and modifications signaling how recently it was still believed to be uncompromised and whether other hunters are welcome. Some markings warn of nearby vampire dens with an estimated population count and risk level. Others hint at stashes nearby.

I meander the streets until I spot the first such sign: a stash. A false brick in an alleyway conceals some frozen sunlight and a silver chain. Smash one, pocket the other to pawn later, then keep looking. Where there’s one sign, more will be around the area.

The first safehouse I spot is unoccupied. Not too much of a surprise there; we keep plenty of redundant ones in case someone gets followed. Lucky break, though, someone has used it recently, and decoding the log book gives me clues about where to check next.

It takes only a few days to close in on the cell’s current location, and then no time at all to convince the guard to let me in. I know all the right words, and I flash them the tattoo that marks me as one of theirs. They have no reason to doubt me.

“Hey, Carlo!” The woman who lets me in shouts louder than I think reasonable. “This a cousin of yours or something?”

A shirtless man taking swings at the punching bag in another room stops what he’s doing, wipes the sweat off his face with a nearby towel, and approaches the two of us. He looks me up and down for a moment before responding.

“Not one I’ve met before.” He extends a hand. “Carlo Boltman.”

“Hanna.” I shake his hand. “Boltman too, that is.” I lift my shirt to show him my tattoo, a perfect match for his. I’m also dressed for the occasion in my hunter’s garb: strategically armored, belt full of essentials, and with knives and stakes strapped to me in easy to reach places. The leather gorget at my neck bears the seal of Clan Boltman, one repeated on my bracers and embossed on the back of my silver pendant.

“Hanna? Just like…?” Carlo turns and shouts toward another room. “Hey, Uncle Dan, come out here.”

Does everybody here feel the need to shout instead of walking over to—

“Well, well, well, the prodigal daughter returns to the fold. And here I thought you were content to steal from me and fuck off to a life of leisure.”

“Daniel. How good to see you well.” I keep my voice measured and composed, if icy, while addressing my father. I will not show him weakness. “I was unaware you considered it stealing to take the weapons and armor that were crafted for my measurements and with which I had grown accustomed during my training. I mistakenly assumed my father would bless his daughter with the tools she needs to strike out on her own and practice the family trade.”

He laughs. “Well, if you really have taken up the family trade in this godforsaken city, I may be willing to look past your transgressions. Tell me, how many vampires have you successfully hunted so far?”

“Five,” I reply without hesitation. “Two at once just a few days ago, in fact.” The smile of satisfaction I give him is even honest.

“Hmm.” He grunts. “Inadequate, but I do believe that’s within your capabilities. Be glad you didn’t try to lie to me.”

I almost pity Carlo, eyes darting back and forth at the two of us in our chilly confrontation. While it’s clear my father must have mentioned me before, it seems he wasn’t prepared for the truth of our strained relationship.

“I thought Carlo here would be the leader of this outfit, but I know you better than to assume you’d allow anyone else to call the shots when you’re around. So why don’t you tell me what you’re planning so that I can lend you my aid and we can part ways again?”

Daniel smirks. “No, this is my dear nephew’s mission. While I have graciously volunteered some input, I would never undermine the judgment of a fully trained and independent vampire hunter of our clan.”

We glare at each other for several silent seconds before I turn my gaze to my cousin. With a rueful grin, I say to Carlo, “I’m sorry about all this. You don’t deserve to be caught up in this kind of bickering. Would you brief me on what your group has planned?”

Carlo looks back toward my father, who gives a stern nod. “Well, first you need to know that we caught word Clan Sarthe is planning something big. ‘Resurrection of Dracula’ big, in fact.”

“You can’t ‘resurrect’ a vampire.”

My father snorts his disapproval with me. “Dracula is no run-of-the-mill vampire, girl. He’s the damn source of it all! And if you don’t want your job to get a whole lot harder, you won’t rest on your laurels hoping whatever ritual those bloodsuckers are planing is a dud.”

“Right,” Carlo continues. “We don’t want to take any chances. Which is why I called in a real veteran,” he gestures at Daniel, “and why we’re gearing up to hit the main hive.”

Leading me across the room, he unfurls an old-fashioned paper map of the city. That’s certainly my father’s influence; he is convinced all the tech companies are in the pocket of Big Vampire. I recognize a good number of the circled points on the map: several major dens I’m familiar with, including the Carmine. The circle he jabs at, however, is new to me.

“Warehouse district?”

“Right. The entrance is an unmarked building. We believe it leads to a network of tunnels that sprawls… well, we don’t know how far they go, but we’re pretty sure we can expose a lot of vamps to some surprise daylight with strategically placed explosives in the area.”

The plan is vile. The more he describes it, the gladder I become that I’m here to put a stop to this before they hurt any more innocents. I’m not even sure it would work, but a lot of vampires would die either way.

I nod thoughtfully and play my role, offering suggestions as though I intend to let them attempt this cruel scheme. I introduce myself to the other members of the cell, mostly ordinary people rather than true hunters. I don’t bother learning their names. The more time I spend around people like this, the more my own humanity disgusts me, the more apart I feel from all of them.

These people are not my real family. I know where I belong.

At night, most everyone falls asleep. The one exception, aside from me, is the guy keeping watch, just starting his night shift. The man doesn’t watch his back at all, and I quietly slip behind him and slit his throat.

It’s a nice safehouse, with enough rooms for everyone to have their own place to sleep even with six of us here. Better still, the walls are thick enough to muffle any brief struggle someone might offer, but I won’t need to rely on that as long as I hit them quickly and effectively. Fortunately, I am well trained in where and how to stab someone to prevent them from raising an alert.

Inside the first bedroom is the sweet girl who let me in. She sleeps on her back. I crush her windpipe, and in the same fluid motion I stab her through the heart. Her blood soaks the sheets without so much as a squeak of distress.

The second bedroom is where things go wrong. Carlo is awake, with someone going down on him. He’s too distracted to notice my entrance right away, but I don’t get far before he starts to yell.

My knife sails in a graceful arc from my hand into his eye socket. I dive forward, drawing another to stab through the sheets into the back of the nobody fellating my cousin. Carlo scrambles, losing blood, clearly in a panic, and I drive my second knife up through his diaphragm. Soon he too collapses.

That shout. There’s no way it didn’t wake Daniel up. After weighing my options, I choose to dash from the room yelling, “we’ve got company!”

Perhaps my father really is a sentimental old fool to the end. He bursts from his own room, armed with the famous family blade, and as I watch him scan the hallways holding that sword of his aloft, he shows no suspicion whatsoever toward me.

“How many, Hanna?”

“Two, I think. No idea how they got in.”

He swears under his breath, moving past me to peek into Carlo’s room, trusting me to watch his back. “Shit, Hanna. At least I’ve got you here. I never told you this, but—“

It’s all the opportunity I need to drive my dagger into his neck. I lever it back and forth to really shred his carotid artery and send his blood spraying like a fountain. Fuck that feels good. Oh, that really feels good.

On an impulse, I lean forward and catch the spray of blood in my mouth. It’s not like I draw strength from it like a proper vampire, but I’ve learned to love that salty, metallic flavor in my own way, and today it tastes like my freedom from this damn family of mine.

“Fuck you, dad.” I smear crimson victory across my face and laugh with sheer, manic joy. “I’d tell you to go to hell, but you always said that’s where all vampires go when they die for good.” I slice deeper, all but severing his head, then follow up by stabbing him again and again in each vital organ. Can never be too sure with a vampire hunter. “I’m sure, whenever I end up dying, that’s where I’m going too. And I’d rather not have you around while I’m spending my afterlife with everyone I ever loved.” I spit on his body. “If hell is my fate, then you can go to heaven or go to oblivion, but wherever the fuck you end up, go there without me.”

I grab my phone and text my family to let them know that there are some rapidly cooling bodies for them to enjoy if they’re feeling peckish. Also, I’ll appreciate their help taking some photos and videos to document my beautiful sins.

[all-about-kyu]

Summary: You already ruined your friendship and might as well ruin it some more. Pairing: Pixie!Yoshinori x fem Jikan Kitsune!reader Tropes: modern fantasy au Genre: smut Rating: R 18+ Warnings: magic (mind reading), language Smut Warnings: 69, face sitting, handjob, oral (f receive), mommy kink, hair pulling Word Count: 1,471 Host Tags: @sanjoongie @thelargefrye Before You Interact February Filth Masterlist

Listen to ♡ Villain by K/DA

“You really didn’t learn your lesson, did you?” You growl, bearing your teeth at your pixie friend.

Yoshi smirks, “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Yoshi tilts his head making his half white-half brown hair flop to the side. His glittery wings flutter with excitement. You narrow your eyes at him, your tails flicking in irritation. You know that you really aren’t irritated with him. You know exactly how to get him to behave again. He knows, too. It’s exactly what he wants to happen.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he thinks.

“We talked about this, Yoshinori… you better speak out loud if you want something.”

“Where’s the fun in that? I’d like to see you try to put me in my place again.”

That was the final straw. You surge forward and grab his jaw, squishing his cheeks together slightly. His eyes have a glimmer of defiance despite clearly not having the upper hand. His thoughts are quiet even though his face is clearly telling a different story. Leaning forward, you crush your lips against his in a harsh, heated kiss. Yoshi makes a small, surprised noise when you let your hand fall to his throat. You don’t put any pressure, but it’s enough to say that you’re in control here.

“Oh, god…” he thinks, “I need something… anything…”

“You ready to use your words, pixie?” You question against his lips.

“Fuck me, please?” His tone is whiney and needy.

You pull away, eyes hooded with lust. You show your fangs slightly and watch as Yoshi’s eyebrows furrow with desperation. Even though he also has fangs of his own, he can’t help but be desperate to see the pretty bite marks you leave behind on him. Grabbing his hand, you drag him to your room. His mind is running rampant with debauched thoughts. One, however, catches your attention. The idea of sitting on his face while simply toying with him, hardly giving him any relief, sounds so delicious to you. The fact that he’s thinking about it as well only adds to the idea that he really does want you to pick him apart until he’s a completely fucked out mess.

It takes all of two minutes to have your pixie friend stripped and lying back on your bed. Yoshi is already a fucked out mess with just a few kisses, and you can’t wait to pick him apart more. Leaning over his body, you leave barely-there kisses along his jaw. In your peripheral, you can see him bucking his hips up once in a while. Still, you won’t pay attention to what he wants you to.

“Please~” he whines mentally.

The fact that he’s intentionally not saying things out loud only makes you want to ruin him more. 

“Say it out loud, Yoshi.”

“M-mommy,” he whines, “Please, I want something. Anything, please!”

You smirk and nip at his skin lightly before pulling away. Stripping all of your clothing from your body, you make eye contact with the pixie. His stardust-covered wins leave glittery marks across your bedding. Seeing it sends a flutter of something through your chest. You wouldn’t mind seeing the glittery substance there all the time.

“Put your head up on the pillows.” You guide.

Yoshi moves up further on your bed. Trails of the stardust follow his wings as he moves. You saunter over to him and climb up on the bed. At first, you think about teasing him more, but instead, you straddle yourself over his face. You’re facing toward the rest of his body. His shimmery skin makes your mind and heart reel with different thoughts, some more debauched than others. You glance down at his upper body to ensure you don’t accidentally kneel on his wings before lowering yourself just out of reach of his mouth.

“Now, you’re gonna eat me out like a good boy, and maybe I’ll reward you for it.”

“Yes, mommy.” He whimpers.

Without further conversation, you lower yourself fully onto his mouth. Yoshi instantly starts lapping at your pussy as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Every once in a while, you feel his fangs brush against you. It’s not something you expect, but you aren’t entirely upset about it either. His mind is going a mile a minute with filthy content. He’s eating you out in a way that makes you see stars, too. You reach back with one hand and tangle it in his hair, tugging lightly. You push your tails out of the way to make sure he can still have some semblance of vision even though his eyes are closed, focusing on eating you out as best he can.

“You’re doing such a good job, pretty boy. Eating mommy out so well.”

Yoshi makes a small noise reveling in the praise with the accompanied thought of “Thank you, Mommy”. Hearing him call you that out loud or in his mind sends you through even more thoughts that are far beyond anything you should say out loud. You grind against his face a bit while tugging his two-toned hair. His hips thrust up again. This time, you finally decided to give him some attention. You let your body fall forward so your elbows are against the mattress just below the bottom edge of his wings.

“You want me to touch you, pretty pixie?” You lift your hips just enough to let him have some room to respond.

“P-please, Mommy. Want you to let me eat you out more.” His tone is high and desperate.

You chuckle, “Don’t worry, Yoshi, I’ll sit again. Do you want me to touch your pretty cock?”

He nods, his hair tickling against your ankle, “Please, Mommy.”

You sit down fully again and bring one of your hands to wrap around the base of his member. The natural shimmer of his skin mixed with the beads of precum coming from his tip makes your mouth water. You pump your hand around him slowly, relishing in his moans reverberating against your pussy. Taking your other hand, you focus on his tip. You spread his precum around the head of his member, making his already shimmery skin shine even more. 

“Fuck…” he groans mentally, “Feels so– fuck”

“Is mommy making you feel good, pretty pixie?”

“Yes, mommy, wanna make you cum.”

You grind against his face again, “Focus on my clit, pretty.”

Yoshi doesn’t need to be told twice. He focuses on the small bud, licking and sucking it into his mouth. You speed up your hands and gasp out a chuckle when he starts thrusting up into your hand. Between the desperation to please you and chase after his own pleasure, it’s safe to say he’s completely pussy drunk.

It doesn’t take long for his moans to flow continuously from his lips while still doing his best to eat you out. Your high bubbles closer each time he licks or sucks on your pussy. You play with his cock in just the right way to know he’s just as close.

“Can I–” he stops to moan, “I need–”

He stops speaking to start eating you out again. You moan at the feeling and press yourself against him harshly.

“Gonna cum, but I wanna keep eating you and, and– mommy!”

“It’s okay, pretty pixie.” You moan, “Cum for me. I’m almost there.”

He thrusts up into your hands until he cums across your hands and his belly. He sucks on your clit harder, making you see stars again. Your orgasm washes over you; your thighs quiver around his head, and moans fall from your lips like a never-ending melody. 

Once you calm down a bit, you get off of his face and see how glossy the lower half of his face is. From his chin, all the way up to the end of his button nose, are covered in your arousal. 

“We should clean you up, Yoshi.” 

“I wanna keep pleasing you.” He pouts, “Please, Mommy?”

You breathe in sharply before responding, “You know I’d love that, but we also both know that if we do, we won’t leave my room for the rest of the night.”

Yoshi smiles, showing his small fangs, “I see no issue with that.”

“The issue is that we’re meeting with Haruto and Asahi in about a half hour.”

Yoshi makes a displeased noise but doesn’t fight any further. He gets up and follows you into the bathroom and takes ahold of one of your tails, smoothing out the white and teal fur. You smile softly at him before reaching to grab two towels out of the closet.

“At least one more round in the shower?” He asks with sparkling eyes.

You sigh with a small smile resting on your lips, “You’re a bad influence, Yoshi.”

“You love me!” He giggles.“Maybe a bit.”

COPYRIGHT STARLITMARK 2024© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — reposting/modifying any fic or piece of original writing posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations are not permitted. 

Networks: @monsterfvckersunited @cultofdionysusnet @kwritersworld @k-vanity

Tag List: @bratty-tingz @yeosangiess @minjaeluver @abbietwilight @wooyoungmybelovedhusband

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Eyes and Ears

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: An AU where Barbara finds Jason instead of Bruce.

It's March and Jason's fifteen in this chapter.

Chapters: 40/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, Jim Gordon, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Sheila Haywood, Original Character(s)

Relationship(s): Jason Todd/Original Character(s), Past Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Older SIbling Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd-centric, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Jason Todd is NOT Robin, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Has a Crush, Adopted Siblings

Chapter Forty: In His Blood

The violent rocking roused him from his sleep. “How did you find me?” Sheila asked as she pressed a blade to his throat. His head ached, but he quickly got his bearings as he scanned the room.

“My arms are too heavy to fight back… What’s the blade for?” Jason asked. His tone was calm and distant, but his eyes were alert as ever. “He saved me from you, didn’t he?” 

“Jason—.”

“You were always going to hurt me… I used to wonder why Dad couldn’t look at me sometimes. I used to wonder why��? We have the same face, and you’re about to do something you can never take back,” Jason whispered. Sheila sat across from him in the dark and lit a cigarette. “Well? Spit it out, Mother.” 

Holding her cigarette firmly between her lips in a violent sneer, Sheila grabbed Jason’s face. “I would’ve made you into so much more. He was scared of you, Jason. That’s why he allowed Catherine to soften you—.”

“Don’t speak on her,” Jason interrupted, baring his teeth. “Don’t you ever speak her name again. What do you want to do to me?” 

Sheila blew a puff of smoke in his face.  “I’m not going to do anything to you… I want to get out of Greece… You’re gonna be a good little boy, and I’ll return you to your new family—.” 

“My real family,” Jason corrected her.

“I’ll return you to them unharmed once I have what I need,” Sheila replied. Jason’s fingers subtly twitched into a fist.

“What is so important to you that you’d take me hostage and risk my father and sister’s retaliation? They’re wondering why I’m not in my bed. They’re calling me… And I always answer,” Jason smiled, “You might as well start telling me what you’re up to… And explain why you’re pretending to be a horrible person.” Sheila’s cigarette fell out of her mouth. “That’s it. Isn’t it? You’re not kidnapping me because you want to. You’re kidnapping me because you have to.” 

“Jason—.” 

“Are they listening?” Jason questioned. 

“No,” Sheila sharply replied as she nodded. Jason swallowed hard. “Shut up and be good… And this ordeal will be over before you know it.” 

“Text my sister and tell her I’m fine… She’s worried sick,” Jason replied. He looked into her eyes. “Mom. Mom, please.” 

“Jason, settle down. If you behave, I won’t have to put you to sleep again,” Sheila warned him. She stomped out her cigarette and sat beside him, smoothing his hair. “Jason…” Sheila leaned close to his ear. 

“Can you move?” Sheila whispered. Jason didn’t answer. “Twitch your finger? No?” 

Jason’s eyes darted around the room, looking for a quick way out. “How long was I out?” Jason questioned. 

“Nearly six hours. I thought you’d be awake sooner, but I didn’t have time to account for your weight and tolerance level. I suppose—. I’ve given you too much. Are you woozy?” Sheila asked. 

Jason tried to twitch his toes in his shoes, but they wouldn’t budge. He shut his eyes. Sheila rubbed his hand with her thumb. “I need you to stay with me, Jason,” Sheila whispered. 

“I’m here… You have to tell my sister—.” 

“I can’t do that, Jason,” Sheila interrupted. Jason refused to panic. His situation didn’t seem dire. Not yet. “Jason, will you be good? I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re hurting me now… Don’t do this. Let me go, and I won’t say a thing. I don’t know what sort of trouble you’re in, but I’d like to protect you if you’d let me,” Jason offered. He meant it. “Mom, I want to help you.”

“You can help me by being quiet and behaving,” Sheila replied. Someone knocked on the door. “I’ll put you down to bed… You’ll be more comfortable there.” Sheila dragged his chair to the bed while the person outside knocked. “One moment! Jason, please. Lie down and behave.” She got on the bed and pulled him up. Jason winced. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re heavier than you look.” Once she got him settled, she answered the door. Jason lay on his stomach, completely immobile except for his fist, which he used to clutch the pillow under his head. 

“What does he know?” the man in the room asked. 

“Nothing… Jason’s harmless. He’s afraid and wants to go home,” Sheila answered, “I promised him we’d let him go after we get there.”

“Can he move?” the man questioned. “Good… Keep him that way.” 

Sheila returned to Jason’s side, gently rubbing his back. 

“It’s alright,” Sheila whispered, “I’m doing this for your own good.” 

Jason wanted to fight with her but needed time to uncover their plans. She injected him with something, and his fist loosened. Jason’s phone vibrated in Sheila’s pocket. Jason hyperventilated, and Sheila shushed him. “No, sweetheart… It’s alright. Jason,” Sheila whispered. She rubbed his back and said something to the man, but he was too tired to listen. Sleep took him quickly. 

*

The boat docked in Spain in the late afternoon, and Sheila bound Jason’s hands with rope and covered him with a blanket. She pushed him around in a wheelchair and checked into a hotel near the beach. Jason lifted his head drowsily as Sheila untied him. “Jason, how do you feel?” Sheila asked as she rummaged through her medical bag for an armband and needles. Jason spit up into his lap. Sheila frowned, balling up the soiled blanket and tossing it in the trash. “Jason.” She clicked her tongue at him. 

“I’m dehydrated,” Jason mumbled. She wiped his face and kissed his cheek. “Mom—.” 

Sheila nodded as she poured water into a cup with a straw. “Here… I have to go soon,” Sheila whispered as she held the straw to his lips. “I need you to be quiet and let me explain things to you. I might not get another chance to explain this to you.” 

Jason sipped water until she set it aside. She tied the band around his arm and prepped him for a blood draw. “When you were born, you were ill. Your heart was severely damaged… And—. I refused to let you die. So, I started working in the lab to develop a drug that could save your life or extend it until you were old enough to survive an invasive surgery. I made a discovery and decided to test it on you… For six weeks, I gave you injections and closely monitored your progress. 

“Then, you died. It was sudden, and it forced me to come clean to Willis. He was furious with me. We couldn’t report your death. He said he’d deal with everything. So, he took you with him, and four hours later, he returned. You were alive and laughing and healthier than you’d ever been. I ran tests, and Willis took you to a pediatrician. You were healed. It was like you were never sick at all. 

“Jason… You’re special. You’re not like any other person in the world. You can heal at the cellular level… Even to the point of self-resurrect—.”

“You experimented on me—.” 

“You sound like your father. Jason, I saved your life. I could save countless—.” 

“Mom, that’s not why you kidnapped me, though. What does that guy want? I know he doesn’t care about my blood. So, what is it?” Jason asked. 

“The less you know, the better—.” 

“Chemical weapons, right? Is that what he’s using you for?” Jason questioned. Sheila took a final vial of blood and offered Jason more water. He accepted her offer, tossing his head back. “I’m right… Aren’t I?” 

“Jason, I’m going to call your sister. We’re in Barcelona. Can you move your fingers?” Sheila asked. Jason twitched his pointer finger. 

“Yeah,” Jason answered. She took his phone from her pocket and allowed him to call Barbara. Barbara picked up immediately. 

“Jason, why haven’t you answered your phone? I’ve been calling you since last night—.” 

“I was unconscious… I woke up in Barcelona,” Jason interrupted. 

“Jason, how did—? Stay there. Dad and I’ll come and get you,” Barbara replied. 

“Can you bring my red backpack?” Jason asked. It was a code between siblings to let Barbara know that he’d been kidnapped.

“Is your wallet in there?” Barbara asked. Another code. It was Barbara’s way of asking if the other person could hear her. 

“Yeah,” Jason answered, “I’ll sit tight until you get here.” Jason watched as Sheila packed her medical bag. Barbara hung up, and his phone vibrated. That was all the time she needed to get his location. 

“Do they take good care of you?” Sheila asked. 

“Yeah… I won’t see you again after today. Will I?” Jason asked. Sheila shook her head. She kissed his forehead. “I still love you… And I hope you turn yourself in someday.” 

“Jason—.” 

“I know you’re not a bad person, Mom. You don’t want to hurt people. I know you don’t,” Jason replied, “I don’t understand how you got mixed up with these people, but I believe you can—.” 

Sheila struck him across the face. “Shut up!” Sheila screamed. “Jason, you’re still so young. You don’t know anything. If we see each other again, I’ll have to hurt you… Possibly kill you. It might not be permanent, but it’ll buy me some time.” Tears fell from Jason’s eyes. When he found the strength to lift his head, Sheila left.

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 18: Not Falling

Author's Note

Word count:

Read the rest here!

TW: This chapter contains mentions of suicidal ideation. I've put the paragraphs containing that content in red.

His footsteps sound sober, but he immediately brushes his teeth before doing anything else which sparks suspicion. You won’t be able to smell it on his breath now. Concerned, you open your door just wide enough to lean against the frame and watch him. Damiano breathalyzes himself, rubs his face roughly, and crouches down on the floor in distress. Once he lowers his hands from his face, you can see how distraught he is and your stomach drops.

You walk into the bathroom to check if Dami had done a drug test. It was set in the normal place, on the lid of the toilet. So far everything was negative, which didn’t mean shit. It took heroin several hours to show up. You couldn’t afford to stay up half the night with work in the morning. Of course that didn’t matter, since you wouldn’t be able to sleep without the certainty that he hadn’t used. 

“If you took something we need to go to the hospital right now.”

“I didn’t take anything,” he responds, sounding utterly defeated. 

“Even if you tested your drugs, you can’t be sure. I’m not comfortable watching you. I want someone with a medical degree doing that and they can take blood to get more information.”

“I didn’t take anything!” he shouts. 

“Do not yell at me,” you snap. “Don’t you fucking dare yell at me right now.” He hangs his head in shame. You check the breathalyzer for the most recent results. The screen reads 0.073. Driving in Italy with a blood alcohol greater than 0.05 was illegal.

“You could have been arrested.”

“Barely.”

“This is no ‘barely’ with being arrested. Either you get booked in and have your mugshot on the front page of the tabloids in the morning or you don’t. It is an either/or situation. Tell me what you took.”

“Fucking nothing! The only thing that's gonna come up positive on that test is marijuana and we already agreed that was fine. I swear on my mother’s grave that I didn’t do heroin or coke or anything else. Just booze!” Everything in you wanted to trust him and everything in you knew never to believe an addict. But he had taken the drug test. He wasn’t trying to conceal anything after all.

“I guess we’ll know in the morning.” Damiano scoffs and shakes his head, which nearly makes you lose it. “What the hell happened?”

“I – the weed was pretty strong and everyone kept saying how high they were and I was just like…” He stares at the ceiling. “How is this enough for all of you? I felt so alone and I just fucking craving something stronger. Being at a party without drugs and alcohol for the first time in forever was way more triggering and impossible than I thought it would be. It was too soon.”

“Where's your phone?”

“Take it.” He pulls his iPhone from his pocket and hands it over. “You can have my keys, too. I don’t want any temptation.” Based on his messages, it doesn’t look like Damiano contacted a dealer, but he could have deleted those texts. You put both in the safe for the night and try to calm down.

“I’ll leave them on the table when I go to work. If there's an emergency just come use my phone. Now you’re sure you didn’t use because –”

“I promised I’d tell you and I’m keeping that promise. I know you don’t believe me now, but you will when that drug test comes back.” He stands up and gets a sparkling water from the fridge. “I’m such a piece of shit. Should just do you a favor and throw myself off the roof.” Damiano mutters the second sentence under his breath, but you still hear. Time stops.

“Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” 

“How could you say something like that!?”

“Because I’m a piece of shit.”

“You had a setback.”

“Because I’m a fucking piece of shit.” His eyes water.

“Because you’re a fallible human being and an alcoholic.” Damiano sets his jaw and refuses to meet your eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

“I…had a beer so I’d stop craving the harder stuff. Seth and I got into a really ugly fight about it. Pretty sure he almost took a swing at me.” He shakes his head and takes a swig of the sparkling water. “He stormed out and then I did some shots with a couple guys I don't really know. The taste of the liquor was just…” Dami nearly gags then scowls in disgust. “It brought back so many horrible, messed up memories that I just regretted the whole thing. I got it out of my system so I wouldn’t feel buzzed and left before I did something even stupider. That's why I brushed my teeth. I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”

“I appreciate your honesty more than you know.” He’s completely drowning in self-loathing and you’re not sure what to do about it. Should you do anything about it? Maybe this was a natural consequence that would deter him from drinking in the future. Or maybe it would drive him to use more harmful coping mechanisms.  

“I don't know where to go from here,” you admit.

“Can I still sleep here tonight?”

“Yes, of course! This is still your home. I –” Damiano squeezes his eyes shut and a few tears fall. “I’m disappointed, but I love you.” He goes back to shaking his head, this time so hard you worry about his neck.

“Don’t deserve that.”

“Fine. You want anger?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you leave the minute you started craving hard drugs? Why didn’t you tell Seth? Call me? Call an Uber? Something else!? Clearly, you were looking for an excuse to drink.”

“Fine, I was!”

“So is that how you operate? Are you going to go through life, looking for an excuse to relapse, and take it whenever you can? Because that is not sobriety!”

“Maybe I’m not strong enough!”

“Well, tough shit, you have to be if you want me.”

“I wish I didn’t!” That one stings.

“What, so you could just do drugs in peace? Overdose and join the 27 club of tragic rock stars with endless potential who were too tortured to exist. If you’re still idealizing that, then maybe you are a fucking stupid as you say. Maybe you are as selfish as you’re afraid of being because I am not the only person that loves you.”

“I am a selfish piece of shit!”

“Yeah and you’re a lot of other things, too! Is none of that as good as the drugs?”

“I don’t know! I’m exhausted with waking up everyday, wanting to do coke, and feeling like I can’t tell you because you’ll get scared.”

“Of you ending up in a coma? Yeah, thats fucking terrifying and I get to be traumatized. You should be scared, too!”

“I am! I’m scared shitless that the cravings are never gonna stop!”

“And you really thought I couldn’t understand being tortured by your own mind? Of obsessing over something until you feel sick? You really thought that wasn’t within my capacity? Huh?” Damiano falls silent with wide eyes. “You said you would tell me! You said you weren’t afraid of my emotions!”

“I’m not afraid of your emotions.”

“Okay, then what the fuck? Because in a shocking turn of events, undermining the severity of your addiction has made you feel so isolated that you end up drinking. Not like that's ever happened before. Oh, wait, yes it has!”

“Congratulations on being right about me.”

“‘Congratulations?’ How about condolences? You said you would really try to stay sober. You said you would be open with me. Those are my –”

“– Conditions, yes I know,” he groans and harshly rubs his face again.

“So are you done trying?” Your hands shake so violently that you ball them into fists.

“No! I want our life.”

“But you wish you didn’t?”

“I’m a fucking addict, y/n.” He stares at you harshly. “Of course I want to drown my sorrows in drugs without being disturbed by my conscience. Because that's easy! If I try to have a life then, yeah, the happiness is more profound, but I also risk hurting people I really love. So yes, sometimes I wish the only thing I loved was drugs so I didn’t have to feel this.” He gestures between your bodies then claws at his throat. 

“Too fucking bad. Tell me what the cravings were like tonight.”

“I was afraid I was gonna hit someone on the way home because I couldn’t think about anything but getting high, even while driving. Then I hoped that I would get in a car crash because they’d give me morphine at the hospital. And if I was permanently injured, no one could get mad at me for taking pain meds. I’d have a built in excuse. I fantasized about being permanently disabled so I could get high and, for a moment, I even considered driving into a street light to achieve that. Happy?” The initial reaction is fear so chilling it turns your blood to ice water. Could Dami be trusted to drive himself places? 

“Tell me the worst of it,” you persevere with gritted teeth.

“Worse than fantasizing about causing a traffic accident to get drugs? Fine. I went to see my grandmother just to steal the pain meds for her hip surgery from her bathroom cabinet. When she told the pharmacy she’d lost them, they wouldn’t give her new ones and I kept them anyway, knowing she’d be in excruciating pain. My own grandmother. She took so much ibuprofen it gave her a stomach ulcer and I actually googled what kind of pain meds they prescribe for stomach ulcers.” You’d read a similar story by a former heroin addict online. The family had assumed the grandfather had memory problems and had him evaluated for dementia.

“Okay.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Not at all.” You take a deep breath.

“Why not?” he spits venomously.

“Because what you do as an addict is not representative of who you are.”

“But I am selfish and stupid?” He tries to turn those words back around to make you the villain in this circumstance.

“Right now? Yes, absolutely and if you’re feeling suicidal you need to tell me that as well. Like, right the fuck now.”

“I’m not going to kill myself over a beer and a couple shots of whiskey, y/n.” The way he rolls his eyes and dismisses you is bordering on an attitude Damiano swore never to take again.

“You say that like relapse isn’t a valid reason to be suicidal. I don’t care whether or not you think it's enough to warrant whatever you're feeling.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” 

“It means that if you don’t want to live, there isn’t a reason small enough that I wouldn’t take that seriously! If you feel like being alive isn’t worth it then…we need to do something about it.”

“I'm fine.” He brushes you off and turns away.

“Because I will not lose you! If that means inpatient psych treatment then –”

“I am fucking done with inpatient!”

“Then I will drag into treatment by your ear. I will sleep in a hospital chair outside the  door. I will find people and things that will make you feel okay again.” Dami clears his throat and wipes away tears, not quite subtle enough. Finally, something had given him pause.

“I hate myself, but I am not suicidal. I swear.”

“Okay.” Without rage or hypervigilance to keep you upright, you end up sliding down the wall, onto the floor.

“I’m sorry. This won’t happen again. I’m gonna…I’m gonna talk to my medical team. I have treatment tomorrow.”

“Okay, good.” Your voice cracks and you stare at a wilting basil leaf that had ended up under the counter while Dami was cooking dinner last night. Yesterday was a lifetime away. It was a familiar sensation, when he had a mood swing and you’d fight over something stupid. His moods had been better, you realize.

“I just wanna sleep. It took every molecule of my energy to leave that party and get home.”

“Thank you for coming home.” For the first time, your eyes meet without either party operating on bravado. The pain is so acute that it feels nearly lethal. This was just a reminder of how powerless you were when it came to Dami’s sobriety. He turns away and cuts a chunk of bread from the loaf on the counter. You decide to leave him to make his snack. Nothing was getting resolved tonight, you were both wounded.

Sitting in the bedroom, you read the same two sentences about a dozen times without ever grasping their content while listening to Dami. Everything sounds normal, even though it isn’t. He eats, gets ready for bed, gives Princess a treat. Cheeto recognizes the noisy, plastic bag being opened and looks up expectantly. You listen to each sound, weary of moving too much, since the rustle of the bed sheets might obscure something. If not for his confession, you may have never guessed that he’d relapsed alcohol-wise. Even though it took probably every ounce of his mental fortitude, Damiano had been honest and you’d punished him. 

On one hand, telling you was the bare minimum. Why should he be rewarded for the bare minimum? On the other, doing the right thing didn’t make the right thing easy. You spend some time on the emotional support websites for spouses of addicts, trying to discern if you’d reacted appropriately. At an exponential rate, you run out of patience. Empathy, forgiveness, kindness, understanding, none of it was enough for Damiano. He wanted anger just so he had an excuse to be bitter right back. It was reminiscent of the end of your relationship, when you either blamed yourself for everything and wallowed in self-hatred or blamed Damiano for everything and resented the hell out of him.  

Addicts prayed for a partner like you, someone who’d done the research and loved them unconditionally. Did Dami beg for forgiveness? No. In fact, you couldn’t even remember if he apologized. All his complaining about how he’d never be enough to the face of a woman who was made to feel the same damn way. You’d never have the right reaction, the right thing to say when it came to his vices. Poor, tortured Damiano was the one who had apparently put all this distance between him and his life partner. When all she desperately, deeply wanted to understand him and the plights of addiction. But no. You couldn’t possibly be capable. It was insulting to your intelligence.

  This self-righteous rumination is interrupted by a sound you don’t recognize. Dami was in bed with the lights off. The sound is somewhere between speech and whimpering, so muffled you wonder if you’re hearing it at all. If Princess wanted something she would be louder. You stand up and press your ear to the door. He was crying, which felt like a knife to the heart, but wasn’t necessarily your business. It made sense that he was upset and deserved the space to process that emotion. 

Feeling sick, you try to resume reading when the sound becomes louder. So much so that you can hear it from across the bedroom, through the wall, and across the living room.  According to what was once Damiano’s bedside clock, it’d been four minutes of sobbing. That kind of hysterical crying was only cathartic for a limited amount of time and productive for even less. Around the six minute mark you get both your anger and ego in check, inserting a bookmark. He was absolutely miserable and you ached to do something about it.

“Fuck all,” you mutter, switching off the bedside lamp on your way out of the bedroom. The two nightlights in the living room provide enough visibility for you to climb in bed behind Damiano. You scoot in close and spoon him, an arm across his chest.

“Hey, you are not falling. I’ve got you, okay?” He stops muffling the noise in the pillow and threads his fingers between yours.

“Feels like it,” Dami forces out between sobs.

“I know, but I am not letting you fall. I’ve got you. You are not flailing all the way to epic disaster. I fucking love you and I see that you’re trying and I am not letting you fall.”

“Okay,” he chokes with a painful gasp. “Okay, I’m gonna stop with the waterworks.” 

“By my calculations you have at the very least another 20 minutes ugly crying and eating your own snot, babe.”

“You haven’t called me that in forever.” At first he’s smug but that quickly becomes heartbroken. “Fuck. What the fuck!?” 

“Let me get you something to blow your nose.”

“Wait, no! Come back!” Dami sounds so childlike again. It’s the same way he spoke hours before you’d checked him into rehab.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” You reassure him while returning with a box of tissues. He blows his nose as he waits for you to lay back down. Before you can turn sideways, Damiano tucks his head against your neck and tangles your legs together. You wrap your arms around him and just let him sob, laid on your chest. 

“Not falling,” you whisper against his greasy hair. “You are not falling. Your control freak of a girlfriend has an ironclad grip and will stab anyway that tells her to let go.” He nods through the tears which is good. “Stabby, stabby. No more falling.” You squeeze him hard enough to hurt and Dami groans. 

“Oof. Girlfriend? Not nesting partner?” You huff in exacerbation, more towards yourself than Dami.

“Fruedean slip. Speaking of Frued, focus on my titties. Those should make you feel better.” He scoots down several inches to be closer to the asset in question.

“You’re right, they’re wonderful,” Dami sighs and nuzzles enthusiastically. The tears mostly stop, then something makes them start up again. It's what you expected, for the self-loathing and grief to come in waves. It's preferable to hearing him drown in it. Just holding Damiano is also really nice and kinda therapeutic. You can feel your own fear response to this evening’s news become mangable. The fatigue from before he came home returns and you decide not to fight it.

“How bad is it gonna fuck with your head if I fall asleep right now? Being in the same bed is just –” You’re interrupted with a yawn. “Weirdly calming despite the, y’know, crying.”

“I’d love for you to sleep here tonight even though I don’t deserve –”

“No, sleepy,” you whine. 

“I can’t have a self-hatred crisis, you’re too tired?” Some adamant nodding makes Damiano outright laugh. “Fair enough. How about you be the little spoon and I’ll hold you?”

“Mm, yes please.” Without opening your eyes, you reposition, sighing deeply as scoots in snuggly. “We need to cuddle more.” 

“I didn’t know that this was an option.” Something tugs at the edge of your consciousness.

“Wait, are you okay? Because this went from me comforting you to me falling asleep inappropriately.”

“I’m sleepy, too,” hums. Still, something bothers you. There's an insistent voice saying this might be a bad idea, but you decide to tell it to shut up. It felt so right to you and Damiano, both. That was a good reason. It didn’t all have to be intellectualized to hell and back.

“I thought platonic cuddling would be more platonic.” You let out a pretend gasp.

“Is your dick in me and I just don’t feel it?” Dami clutches you close while he snickers. 

“No I just mean –”

“Just because you want to fuck me in this position, doesn’t make it non-platonic to cuddle.”

“Okay, well when you put it like that.” He fusses affectionately: playing with your hair, pulling up the blanket, adjusting the sleeve of your t-shirt. “Thank you for coming out here. Sometimes my emotions are like getting a rib tattoo. I know it’s gonna hurt so bad and for so long that I might not be able to handle it. So I just never start, because I’m too intimidated.” You nod while Dami caresses your ribcage. His heavy, warm hand ends up on your lower stomach and he pulls you back against him. 

“But you got an entire dragon tattoo from armpit to hip bone in one sitting.”

“Which tells you how terrifying my emotions are. I just spent a lot of months only crying when I couldn’t contain it anymore, which was pretty often, and I was just alone and hating myself.”

“Baby, no,” you coo, aching with empathy.

“It's alright, now. I want to be alright.” 

“Damia, that type of anguish leaves a scar. Substance Abuse Disorder is traumatic for the addict, too.”

“I’m going to therapy literally every day, y/n, you don’t need to worry about me processing emotions. Fuck sake, I’m kinda exhausted with examining myself.” 

“Been there.” 

“Yeah.” He speaks kindly and kisses the back of your head. “I know.”

“Right. Because you probably had to talk me through that panic attack.”

“And you had to talk me through my mood swings.”

“You know, if we didn’t have mental illnesses, we would be unstoppable.” He laughs again and it ruffles your hair. “That’s probably why we’re both so fucked in the head.”

“Yeah, without debilitating mental illness we’d be too powerful.”

“That’s the spirit.” He nuzzles and lets out a content hum, hand venturing under your pajama top to rest on your bare stomach.

“Woah there, cowboy.”

“Isn’t this my shirt?”

“And that's your excuse for getting fresh?”  

“Mhm.”

“Explain that logic to me.”

“No, thanks.” This time you’re the one laughing. Dami kisses the back of your head again and a few moments later, lets out a relaxed sigh. The hand on your stomach pulls you closer, fingertips rough with the beginning of calluses. Thomas was teaching him guitar again. Damiano’s body heat seeps through his clothes almost immediately and he feels so solid behind you. You’re glad it's dark, so he can’t see you blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers. It takes your breath away. “Sorry if this is the wrong time to remind you of that. Fuck, it is absolutely the wrong time. God damn it.” You smile and you know he can feel it, because he starts smiling too. “Out of curiosity, which other types of crisis would compel you to hop into bed with me?” You click your tongue in disapproval and lift Dami’s hand while pulling your shirt down, so the embrace is no longer skin on skin. He makes a sound of objection. 

“Hush, you.” 

“Okay, I’ll be quiet.” You fall asleep quickly after that. Eventually, a slumbering Dami gets too hot and turns onto his back. Forgetting there's someone sharing his bed, he kicks the covers off. All the movement after months of sleeping alone brings you about a third of the way to consciousness. One eye fluttering open briefly, you recognize Damiano and follow him instinctively. Both bodies adjust so you can lay comfortably on his chest. This is where you wake, when the bright light of morning rouses you. Dami is used to it and stays asleep, allowing you a few precious minutes to watch him. The harsh slopes of his face, his long, chestnut-brown eye lashes. Months of hard partying and lacking self-care had given him the beginnings of wrinkles on his forehead, but not between his eyebrows. Propped up on an elbow, you run your pointer finger down the bridge of his nose.

“I’m in love with you, also.”

Notes: Aw, yes. Some more light reading with FilthForFriends. Sorry if you weren't prepared for such a heavy chapter, but I'm kinda proud of this one.

-XOXO Eden

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[barnavilleemily]

Monster pt.2

Warning: smut, p in v, sort of forced sex, dom!rick, breeding kink

you stood there, shocked. The man you saw as you husband, your life long partner had changed. You handed your daughter to Rosita hoping she would be safe.

“we’re leavin’ now!” Rick roared at you.

you began to follow him out of the house without Judith because you knew what came next.

“what ‘re you doin, go get Judith for fuck sake” he said to you, his tone dead serious.

you nodded not wanting to cause a scene. You walked back in, head hung low and took Judith from Rositas arms

as you two walked quietly back to the house you kept your distance from him. He swung the door open and went straight to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“go put Judith to bed, I’ll be up in a minute” his words already slurring from the alcohol

You took Judith upstairs and put her into bed. As you closed her door you also locked it, incase anything happened tonight that you didn’t want her to see

you heard ricks heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Your heart pounding in your chest

“Rick can we please just talk about this” you tried to reason with him

he came closer to you, caging you against the wall of your shared bedroom

“you looked so good tonight with Judith, your amazing with kids so how bout we have another” you couldn’t hear that he was drunk but you knew this was not something he would say sober

“It’s late-” trying to get that idea out of his head

“but baby, look at what you do to me” he grabbed your hand placing it on his cock.

“Rick” your voice barely above a whisper

“I know baby, I know. I’m sorry for everything. I just, I guess I don’t understand you ‘cause your younger than me sweetie and I can’t keep up with you” his breath hot on your cheeks

“rick, your own daughter was terrified of you after she watched you rip a man’s throat out with your teeth for gods sake” you tried to push your way out of his cage but he wasn’t letting you go

“I know, I understand why you took her from me, now let me make it up to you”

“rick your drunk”

“no I’m not, now show me that pretty pussy sweetie”

trying to stay mad at him was hard when everything he did made you horny. The thoughts of him fucking into you ruthlessly made you let out a soft moan, but you came back to your consciousness and tried to walk away

he grabbed your hand tightly

“I’ve been patient with you but you just don’t seem to get it, now your gonna let me fuck you or I’ll shoot you”

“rick your being insane”

he pulled down the straps of your dress, letting your breasts fall out of it.

“fuck, I could get drunk off these tits” his mouth attaching to one while his hand fondled the other

moans falling from your mouth, giving him everything he wanted

without another thought he ripped your dress off your body making it fall to the floor in pieces. Your black lacy underwear now on display for him

“sometimes I forget your so much younger than me” he laughed

your body going against your mind, you began to unbutton his shirt. Now you both stood naked before eachother.

rick forced you down on your knees, coming face to face with his rock hard cock.

“open” he said as he pushed his cock into your mouth.

gagging as it hit the back of your throat. He fucked your face mercilessly. Your hands firmly on his thighs attempting to push him away

once he came in your mouth, you spat it out making it fall all down your breasts.

“normally I’d be mad you didn’t swallow but fuck me, my cum looks good on your tits”

You couldn’t help but blush

he dragged you to the bed, pushing your face down into a pillow, hands on your hips as he pushed his cock into you tight cunt

you let out a scream as he began thrusting into you, not giving you time to adjust. His thrusts ruthless causing the room to fill with skin slapping together. You felt his hand grip your hair, pushing your head further into the pillow to completely stop your screams. He couldn’t keep a steady pace, at times he was going slow and others he was going fast. You felt his thrusts get sloppy, you knew he was close finishing. He began groaning loudly, gripping your hair and waist harder. He finished inside you

he flipped you around to face him and then pulled you onto his lap, his cock still inside you. You wrapped your arms around him and rested your head on his shoulder. His arms automatically wrapped around your waist. You say that way for several minutes.

he got up and left your lifeless body on the bed. He showered and came back to his beautiful “wife” lying on the bed stuffed with his seed.

he bent down whispering into your ear “now you know how much of a monster I can be” before embracing you in a hug

[lesvegas]

New Vegas - Now Under New Management!

In 2301, the city of New Vegas had been a raiders’ paradise for nearly twenty years. In the Jackal-run Ultra-Luxe hotel, with Cal's help, Auguste continues investigating the murder of his dog.

Chapter 3: You’re Gonna Go Far Kid [ao3 link]

I was never allowed in the Tops’ Presidential suite. It had been claimed by Fresno when they took Vegas, and they only ever let my father or the cleaning people in there. My father and I shared a two-bedroom suite with a view, several stories up but not quite at the top. Fresno would’ve given him the Presidential or the High Roller or any other fancy room at the snap of his fingers, but he wasn’t picky. All he wanted was some windows and for me to have my own little space.

Cal took one of the old Gomorrah boss’ suites for himself, but he was almost always sharing it with someone. Unlike Fresno, he didn’t go wasting all that space on just himself. There were three other big suites by his, and they were usually occupied. By who, I had no idea. Judging from the all the noise I’d hear whenever I visited Cal’s room, it was probably more than one raider at a time with as many whores as they could afford.

I knew the Ultra-Luxe had the biggest, fanciest suites to match the rest of it. I’d never seen them myself, but one would have to assume from the name alone that they were the best of the best. And like every other raider I knew, naturally, the Jackal matriarch had taken the biggest, best-est suite for herself. At the very top of the Ultra-Luxe hotel was the Penthouse suite, and it was at least twice as big as Cal’s room and three times as big as my father’s. There were armed guards outside of the elevator, and armed guards at every corner as we passed through the corridor and bedroom. I had to wonder what she was so afraid of. These guys weren’t stationed here because she knew we were coming; we barely had to wait two minutes before we were brought up here. Maybe she just liked having a bunch of men watching her at all times. She didn’t even bother to get dressed for us, still laying nude in the pool in the middle of the suite. Shit, I’d kill to have my own pool. “Oh, wow…” She said when she saw me, sitting up in the shallow water, her feet floating. “I haven’t seen you since you were…” She lifted her hand out of the water, holding it a few inches above the smooth surface. “This little. I think it was your birthday. I gave you a teddy bear. Do you remember?” No, I didn’t remember. I’ve got three teddy bears in my room, and two of them used to belong to Brutus. And all three of them were from my father. I also don’t recall having ever seen this woman before in my life. I think I would’ve remembered the sharp teeth, missing eye, and the odd hollow scars along her arms. But instead of saying any of this, I kept my mouth shut and looked at Cal. He’d insisted on doing all the talking, so I was gonna let him. “I don’t think he does. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be this shy.” Cal teased, then put a hand on my head and ruined my hair. I kept my hands in my pockets and bit my cheek before I could do anything stupid. I won’t let him hear the end of it the second we’re out of here, though. “He might get all upset if he starts talking, though. I’m sure you've heard.” She hummed, and took her hair in her hands, squeezing and wringing it out. It reached just below her shoulders and looked natural. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a raider with nice hair before. “No, I don’t think I have. You’ll have to enlighten me.” “Well…” Cal glanced at me, then continued. “Someone shot his dog while he was taking him out for a walk about a week ago.” She gasped dramatically. “Oh, that’s horrible!” “It is.” Cal went on. “And the shot could’ve only come from your hotel.” She was still for a moment, then flung her hair over her shoulder before her hands went under the water again. “Callipho, dear, you’re not saying what I think you are, are you?” “Dee-” “Dia.” She cut him off. "Dia.” He went on. “Your hotel is huge. You’ve got hundreds of men. You’ve got dozens of rooms anyone could rent out with a view of the whole Strip. I’m not saying you had anything to do with it, personally, but someone in the building last week did. And as you can imagine, this place is our only lead. So, if you could help direct us to, I dunno, a guest book to start, that’d be great.” She beckoned one of the men as she stood up, and he brought a towel to her immediately. She wrapped it around herself, but not before I could notice more of those weird scars along her legs. “We don’t let anyone rent out our rooms. We’ve filled them all ourselves. We live here.” She explained, her voice darker now. “If you insist that someone in our hotel shot the mutt, then you’re insisting it was one of us.” “He wasn’t a mutt!” I snapped. “He was a Belgian Malinois, one of the last purebreds around, and he was easily the smartest and most loyal dog anyone could ever hope to have!” “Easy.” Cal put a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back a little. “She’s not gonna help you if you’re rude.” I smacked his hand off my shoulder. Why the fuck was he treating me like a child? Dia sighed almost wistfully. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry you lost your puppy.” She went on, stepping out of the pool to stand before us. She smelled almost sickly sweet. “But I promise we had nothing to do with it. And I would never let some stranger stay in my hotel. I do wish I could help, but…” “Then help.” I said sternly. “I just want to know who did it. I don’t care who else was or wasn’t involved, just-” I swallowed. Fuck, this was useless, even if she did know, why would she tell me anything? I didn’t even know what questions to ask her, and neither did Cal. This was a pointless trip, I was never gonna find out who killed Brutus, and I wasn’t even sure Cal would be able to, either. “You’re not gonna cry, are you?” Dia asked, sounding all concerned, touching my cheek. “I couldn’t bear it if you did.” “This has all been a lot for him.” Cal said quietly. “That dog was the only friend he’s ever had.” “Oh, I can imagine…” She ran her hand through my hair, and I refrained from giving her a look as she tried to fix it. “Well… I can’t make any promises, but I suppose I could tell you what I know. I got a noise complaint about a week ago, maybe even on the same day as the… you know. It was said to be gunfire, shot somewhere on the twelfth floor.” “From one of the residents?” Cal asked. Dia hesitated. “If I had to guess, I’d place my bet on Rocco.” She said quietly. “He has a room all to himself with a view of the Strip. That was his only request; a room with a view. His favourite pastime is marksmanship. Now, I’m not saying it was certainly him, but…” “It’s as good a lead as any.” Cal said, putting an arm around my shoulder in a half-hug. “Thank you, Dia. You’ve been a real help.” “Don’t make me regret this, dear Callipho. Get what you can from Rocco, then leave. We have enough issues as it is without outsiders making things worse.” Dia said firmly. Then she gave me a smile. “And Auguste, sweetheart… you should come visit more often. It’s a shame we don’t get to talk more.” “I will.” I said quietly, probably lying. I’d rather never come back here again if I could help it, but I was starting to realize Cal had the right idea bringing me along to meet her. I was like the cute kid door-to-door salesmen brought along to prevent poor saps from slamming the door in their faces. Cal and Dia said their goodbyes, she reminded him again not to make her regret this, and we were led out of the suite and back into the elevator. The man tending it was about to take us back to the ground floor, but Cal politely requested being dropped off on the twelfth. The Ultra-Luxe’s hotel wasn’t nearly as winding as Gomorrah’s, but I still felt lost. Each floor felt nearly as wide as the hotel was tall, with hallways the size of streets and a sitting area around every corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if every room was half the size of the Penthouse suite. There were a lot of people lounging around, well-dressed enough that they almost passed as tourists, but they were all clearly Jackals. I got a lot of stares. Cal did not. He also seemed to know exactly where we were going, leading the way to the far end of the twelfth floor, all the way to the last door. He stopped right in front of it, and I nearly bumped into him. “This is important.” He spoke in a hushed, serious tone that sounded odd coming from him. “I need you to let me handle this. We don’t know how dangerous this man is and it’d be better if I did all the talking. If you don’t think you can keep quiet, wait out here for me.” I just nodded. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, but if I didn’t act compliant here, he probably wouldn’t let me into the room at all. I stood by and waited for him to pick the lock or pull out a master key or something. Instead, he knocked. “‘S open.” The voice was muffled by the door, but not far from it. Gruff and deep enough that it could only be a man’s. I looked up at Cal as he slowly opened the door all the way. This wasn’t a suite. It was a broom closet. A big broom closet, but a closet nonetheless. It was just a little bigger than my own, and most of the space was taken up by a mattress on the floor and a shelf up against the wall with a few metal boxes on it. Cal stepped around the mattress and I followed, closing the door behind me. At the other end of the closet, oddly enough, was a window, open wide with an older man sitting on the ledge and looking down. Next to him, in the corner up against the wall, was some sort of scoped rifle. “Are you Rocco?” The old man didn’t even look at us. Unlike the rest of his crew, he wore ordinary clothes; slacks and a simple button-down shirt that wouldn’t be out of place in a pre-war catalogue for the common man. There was nothing formal about him, but he didn’t quite look like a typical raider, either. He leaned further out the window and spat, then grinned as he must’ve hit something or someone. “I’m Cal, proprietor of the Gomorrah. My friend here is Auguste, son of the courier. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” Cal went on, as casually as he could, trying the get the geezer’s attention. “I saw you come in.” He said, still not looking at us. “Could’ve nailed you then, if I wanted to. But I didn’t see the point.” I bit my cheek to keep my mouth shut. Not yet, not yet… “Thanks for sparing us.” Cal said lightly. “You must have quite a view from up here. Mind if I take a look?” “Get any closer and I’ll jump.” He said quickly, but with a grin. “Then you’ll never know.” Cal showed his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, we’ll stay right here… So you are Rocco?” “Whatever.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Are you Rocco or not?” I barked. That made him finally look at me. He didn’t look as old as he sounded, but he was dirtier than I first thought. Maybe they gave him a closet to himself for a reason. His eyes were a cold, steely grey that narrowly focused on mine. “Rocco, I am. The fuck do you want, you uppity little whelp?” Cal put a hand on my shoulder, barely containing me as he took over again. “We were told you might’ve shot a dog from up here recently. That true?” “I ain’t talking to you, Gomorrah. I asked the runt a question.” I took a breath before speaking again, doing my best to ignore the smell of dust and something stale. “Did you or did you not shoot my dog?” I asked, firmly. “He was a Belgian Malinois, a big dog, we were walking back to the Tops from Vault 21…” I tried to look past him without leaving my spot. We were pretty high up; all I could see from the door were signs and the top of nearby buildings. “Yeah. I shot a dog.” Rocco casually admitted. “Is that all you came here for?” “Of course not.” I snapped. “I want to know why you shot him!” Rocco chuckled lowly, letting his head fall back against the window sill. He looked at me sideways. “Why? ‘Cause I missed, that’s why.” Missed. Missed? Missed the shot? Tried to hit something, hit Brutus instead, missed… I opened my mouth to ask the next question, but it didn’t come out. I didn’t make a sound. It only made Rocco laugh more. “Oh, you stupid, spoiled little shit.” Rocco went on, staring right through me with that signature Jackal sharp-toothed grin. “I wasn’t aiming for the fucking animal. I was aiming for you. And I missed.” He said with a slight shrug. I forgot how to breathe. My heart felt heavy and my whole chest felt tight, but my hands were twitchy and fast. I went for my gun faster than Rocco could laugh at me again, but Cal was even faster, pinning me to the door with just one arm, his other hand gripping my wrist, keeping my pistol pointed to the floor. “Auguste, look at me, now.” Cal said quietly, but I couldn’t just look away from the murderer. “Step out and wait for me, alright? Just let me take care of him.” Fuck no. If I let him out of my sight for even a second, how the hell would I know for sure he was dealt with? I needed to shoot him. I needed to put a bullet through his head, watch the brain matter splatter all over his filthy mattress, watch him bleed out until there was more blood out than in, then throw his corpse out the window for good measure. I needed to kill him as many times as it took for him to stay dead. For Brutus, and for my own damn life. But the more I pushed back, the harder Cal pinned me against the door. Rocco picked up his rifle with one hand and pointed at Cal with it. “I believe the boy still has his questions.” He said. “Let him ask.” Cal hesitated, but not for long. He kept a close eye on that rifle as he loosened his grip and slowly backed off. I still had my back to the door and didn’t move. If I lifted my gun, even a little… “Now you know why I shot the dog.” Rocco said, turning his whole body so his back was to the rest of the world, facing us, letting his feet rest on the tiled floor. “I really didn’t mean to. I’ve got no reason to kill any innocent animals anymore. There’s plenty of meat around here.” “Why me?” My voice was small and pathetic and not nearly as composed as I’d like it to be. “Why not?” Rocco shrugged again. “I don’t like you. You’re loud. Your clothes are loud. You walk up and down the Strip like you already own it. You piss away all your time and money the same way everybody else around here does. You look even more disgusted looking down from your ivory tower than you do when you’re walking amongst the great unwashed. You can’t even let yourself enjoy the view or the music. You’re a spoiled little nepotism baby with no purpose, a frivolous waste of life. Every single filthy fucking raider you hate so much has done more for the human race than you ever will in your entire fucking life. Even your own mother hates you. It’s a fucking miracle for you that no one else has tried to kill you first. That answer your question?” I wasn’t sure if I was more angry or scared. All I really knew is that he’d been planning it for a while, and it really was a miracle that he missed. A really fucked up miracle. It almost made me think I didn’t deserve it. Brutus sure as hell didn’t. “Is that all?” I asked after a moment. Rocco’s body jerked a little as he half-laughed. “No, that’s not all. I was always content with waiting for the day you die some stupid death. But somebody else sure wasn’t.” Cal perked up at that, but kept quiet. It was my turn to handle things. “Who?” I asked. “I dunno.” Rocco said. “Man didn’t give me a name. Just a few thousand caps and a polite request to blow your brains out. He just walked right up to me while I was taking potshots at some Fiends outside of Freeside. Honestly, I probably would’ve done it for free with how nice he asked.” A few thousand caps. Just a few thousand. Three thousand? Four, maybe? That was all my life was worth to someone. What was pocket change to me was more than enough to motivate almost anyone to kill me. Why wasn’t I dead yet? “Did he tell you anything else?” Cal asked when I couldn’t talk. “What’d he look like, what was he wearing?” “You’re not gonna figure out who he was with what little I know.” Rocco insisted. “He came up to me, complimented my aim, and asked if I was interested in some work. Thought it was odd, but I listened to him anyway, and he just really seemed to want the ‘courier’s kid’ dead. He gave me the caps upfront and didn’t really say anything else. Whoever he was, I think he just wanted to see some chaos. A bit misguided, though. No one would actually give a shit if you died. Hell, if anything, people around here might celebrate.” “What did he look like?” Cal repeated. “I dunno. I didn’t look at him.” Rocco said. “I was staring down my scope the whole time we talked. He sounded funny, though. Talked like he was on official business. Used big words.” “You seriously didn’t get one look at him?” Rocco was still talking, but I stopped listening. He finally stopped staring me down, actually looking at Cal as he spoke to him. It was easier to move when he wasn’t fixing me with his gaze. My hand twitched, just a little, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to move. Like it wanted to see how perceptive he really was. When he didn’t notice, I let him talk for another moment, then raised my gun and shot him. Then I shot him again. The first bullet narrowly missed, grazing his shoulder, tearing his shirt, but it startled him enough that he dropped his rifle. The second shot went right through his pec, and I didn’t even know where the third bullet went because it knocked him down and out of the window faster than I could blink. He didn’t even scream on the way down. Cal didn’t yell at me right away. He went over to the window, looking down to see where the body fell, then checked out the rifle he dropped. He opened the magazine. “It wasn’t even loaded.” He muttered, then set the gun down in the corner. “He was gonna kill me.” I tried to say, but I choked. I covered my mouth and stared at the floor, bit my cheek until it bled, almost as hot as the spot behind my eyes. I could feel pressure building, threatening to make my head pop as I tried to blink the tears back. I couldn’t keep my eyes shut for more than a second without getting another glimpse of cold eyes and sharp teeth and ripped flesh and- “Kid?” I just choked again. Squeezed my jaw shut as hot tears streamed over my hand and down my neck. My other hand lost grip of my gun, dropping it. Instead of giving me shit, Cal just came over and picked up my gun. He didn’t give it back to me. He pocketed the gun and put a hand on my shoulder, gently. “Ten minutes, then I’m taking you home. Alright?” I didn’t look at him. It didn’t stop him from stepping out and closing the door behind him, leaving me alone. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let go and gasped. Looking up at the window, at the blood on the sill, it made it difficult to breathe. My head was starting to pound louder than any music or yelling coming in from down below, and I really didn’t feel like alleviating that tension. I dried my eyes on my sleeve, relieved that they seemed to stop crying. There was no way in hell I’d be able to walk out of here sobbing like a bitch. I took a step closer to the window. How far down was the drop? How high up did you have to fall from to die? Did he land head-first on solid concrete? Maybe I wasn’t the one who killed him. Maybe it was just gravity. He was sitting on the ledge, looking down, maybe he was already planning on doing it himself. His rifle wasn’t loaded; he didn’t have anymore bullets to shoot himself. Maybe falling was the next best thing. I wasn’t even halfway to the window when I stopped. The yelling from outside was different, less rowdy and more… angry. If I looked down, I knew I’d be met with ants looking back up at me. I’d see a mangled old murderer in a pool of blood. I didn’t feel like losing what little lunch I’d had, so I didn’t step any closer. I instead opened the door and went back out into the hallway. Cal looked surprised to see me, but he didn’t say anything. He just started leading the way through the hotel again, and I paid even less attention to where we were going, eyes on his back. I was more focused on avoiding the stares and keeping my back straight and my stance confident. If people were gonna know I killed a man, they were gonna know I did it on purpose, and that it didn’t scare me at all.

[snaillamp]

I liked thattt hehehe cutest nickname I've ever got

How much gore can you stand in writing? I know you're studying to be paramedic, but with time, I noticed it's just different as text and looking at it through screen. I can barely stand to see dissection in person, but reading it (often through medical mysteries involving ER and detailed autopsies or operations) is another matter. I can just read it through pages or watch a very visual show. Just not that smell, lol (see? Squishy is just as crazy as you. And i warn you, i will bite. Love bites with my two vampire teeth.) Anyway, and will we ever get those kinds of food writing?

Oooo ok so. Real life, love gore. I freak people out when I say this but the property my family owned for a long time used to be a goat farm. I’d play with goat skulls for ages as a kid. My uncle is also a very Austrian farmer and would literally butcher anything he could eat for dinner. My dad was a biology teacher in a high school for years and as a kid I’d dissect any dead things I found for fun. I actually found two dead fliddler rays at the beach yesterday and had an awesome time looking at them.

I also lovvvve dissecting stuff at uni (you’re right about it the smell tho that shit stinks) it’s so fun I have so many pictures of my dissections on my phone. I also had leg surgery as a kid and one of my scars went necrotic, that was fun. I got to stick my fingers in rotting, black flesh to apply silver nitrate cream :,) ahhh memories

In whump, I don’t really write as much gore, cause I don’t really write stories like that much. However, for a few months now I’ve been working on the origin of Enjar, and telling the story of how he got his scars. I wouldn’t say it’s massively gorey, but hoooooo boy it gets gross. Also the medical malpractice is soooo bad in that story poor En is gonna go through it.

I do have multiple stories in progress and a ton of backlog I just haven’t had the time or energy to edit, but some of it is gorey. I do wanna write some really gorey stuff, which I’ll do when I get around to writing Cameron and Keh-yah again. Keh-yah is tortured terribly it’s gonna get gorey.

The only thing I will never write is a plane crash. My aunt was killed in one, and there was one that impacted my community pretty badly this year, and really put me off writing whump for a while hence the lack of updates (I am writing again I just haven’t edited shit lmao). It just doesn’t feel right to do plane crashes. I might write one eventually, maybe as a tribute to her or The Long Dark (fucken great video game btw) but it’ll be a while, idk. Also I’ve said before I’d never base a story off my patients that I end up having cause that’s super fucked up to do. Ethically that’s so gross

But I’m super into gore otherwise, and would love to write more :)))

[fulcrumstardust]

Watch me breathe 👀

*hums every breath you take*

fun fact: it's not a wip, it's finished but I still haven't posted it because I don't know if I love it or hate it . . .

my starting point was an undercover meeting crossing moral lines but Jyn wasn't the one playing the honey pot for a change. In the aftermath they are forced to talk about their feelings, which neither was really ready for I guess. Happy ending still!

random snippets (sfw but serious themes involved):

The three of them slam their cups on the table, universal gesture of celebration. Jyn is eager to close on that deal and bug out. She can’t take much more of this pointless chit-chat.

“Is he yours?”

The unexpected question sends a cold shiver down her spine. The taste of alcohol lingers in her mouth, bitter and strong. She’s dying to reach for a weapon. Not to kill anyone, not yet. To occupy her hands—and maybe to illustrate the threat.

“He’s in my crew.”

“That’s not what I meant,” the Rainmaker mocks her, “and you know it.”

“Yes, he’s mine,” Jyn snaps, baring her teeth on the word.

“That’s too bad…”

The woman eyes Cassian like a candy she’d like to melt on her tongue.

He doesn’t react, patiently waiting for Jyn to handle it. He trusts her way too much, more than she trusts herself. Just thinking of those hands on him, stroking his hair like she did earlier, is enough to throw Jyn into a loop of blinding rage.

“He’s too old for you, forget it. Now, shall we get on it?” she urges, all attempts at politeness gone. “I’ve got places to raid and shit to steal.”

Jyn knows the look of a woman that isn’t used to being told no. Her gleeful expression cracks, showing signs of the fury underneath. For a minute there, Jyn sees the scene unfolding in front of her—and it doesn’t end well. But the Rainmaker doesn’t make the call. She flushes away her irritation and the soft, enticing manners are back. It’s chilling to the bones.

.

.

.

“We’re okay, Jyn.”

“Are you sure? What I did—”

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t tell you to do,” Cassian cuts in, mildly annoyed. “Now, drop it.”

“We should… talk about it, I think.”

“Why? What is there to talk about? Do you think I’m gonna break down because you touched my dick? Come on,” he sneers, “that was nothing.”

Something in his choice of words cuts deep. More than it should.

It’s not entirely her fault if she isn’t a well-adjusted adult—blame it on her upbringing, on the war, on the head injuries—so maybe she can be forgiven for the sudden anger swelling in her chest. Jyn doesn’t take elegantly being pushed away when she’s trying to use her words, for blasted once. Isn’t he the one lamenting that all she does is shoot first and talk later?

Jyn drops from the gurney, pulling her mother’s necklace under her tank top.

“Okay, good to know,” she says on the verge of hostile. “For the record, if you’d put your hands in my pants, I’d need to talk about it… But I’m glad you’re such a tough guy and nothing bothers you. I’m gonna get some sleep, good night.”

When she doesn’t hear footsteps coming after her, Jyn knows that they are, indeed, not okay.

.

.

.

“If the roles were reversed, I wonder how you’d feel.” At that, he winces, tearing his eyes away. “Yeah, exactly! I’m not going to pretend like I don’t care about you just to make it easier on you. And if you have a problem with that, you can fuck right off!”

“You’re still on my ship,” he roars back.

Jyn’s temper short-circuits. She straightens her back and reaches for the closest blade, throwing it across the cockpit with a furious growl. It lands in the middle of a reinforced panel that will now require additional maintenance before they can raise ship. Genius.

Cassian is livid, his neck and face a darker shade than usual.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“I threw it at the wall,” Jyn answers with just as much spite, showing teeth. “And don’t look at me like that. The day I throw a knife at you, you’ll need to patch the hole.”

A gasping sound escapes him, as if he can’t decide between outrage and incredulity. He gestures at the knife sticking out of the ship’s interior like a misplaced handle.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Loose screws, remember?” As soon as she says the words, a crushing weight lands on her chest, stealing the air away. She’s the one averting her eyes now, mumbling in a pathetic voice: “You loved it not so long ago.”

You loved me. But she doesn’t say it. Maybe she really fucked up this time. That’s just so like her, who is she kidding? She’s not good at this, not good for anyone.

“I still do.”

“Only when I’m not an inconvenience to you,” Jyn says, defeated.

Cassian starts pacing circles, going back and forth between the front seats and the sleeping compartment, hands linked on top of his head. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this… agitated.

“Blast! You keep poking at me and expect that I spill my guts to you as if I didn’t spend twenty years avoiding my fucking feelings!” he finally explodes, stopping dead in front of her. “Of course, I push back! What did you think would happen, uh? Tell me!”

That’s… a fair point.

[khaloymes-a]

Chris Klemens Starters !

Sentence starters inspired by this Chris Klemens video. Feel free to change wording or anything else to fit your needs!

“Can you tell that I’ve been crying all morning? I’ve been crying all morning.”

“No, we’re fine, guys. We’re fiiiine. We’re fiiiiiine.”

“That house was literally so dark, there was no fucking light. It was like a log cabin in a horror movie.”

“Food is something I take too seriously.”

“Never has anyone ever been so excited to not collect a check.”

“Girlboss Mode Activated!”

“What the fuck is good, Kyle?!”

“I can barely remember what I did yesterday, let alone what someone said in a 2014 Vine.”

“I have Takis, I have jalapeños, and I have real ass cream cheese.”

“Do other people have this much trouble, or am I just extra Caucasian?”

“I have this hollowed out and we’re just gonna put some laxative in.”

“That was so sad, from start to finish. That sentence was devastating.”

“Hey Houston? We have a fucking GINORMOUS problem.”

“My mouth is watering, it’s like ‘Give me more, bitch!’”

“What the fuck are we doing here?”

“Well Philly Cream Cheese, we meet again.”

“I don’t like it, but I need to try it because I need answers.”

“It’s a dead watermelon, why am I so fucking scared?”

“It’s like when I lived in New York and it struck midnight: I’m doing two lines now.”

“Oh my god. At first I thought I was eating a hot dog, then I was like it’s cold and it’s also watermelon.”

“Fuck, and I mean FUCK, whoever came up with this.”

“Next up on this nonstop thrill ride, we have nacho Dorito chips dipped in marshmallow cheese sauce.”

“Yep, yep, yep. Wow!”

“I got laxative number two of the day: Cheese Whiz.”

“This is a sight I never thought I’d see in my lifetime, let alone yours.”

“I hope this microwave doesn’t give me radiation and I just drop dead on the spot! That would suck.”

“Nothing screams party like putting marshmallows in queso.”

“Can you believe I gave this any sort of optimism?”

“It’s not even gross, it’s just off-putting.”

“I’m done giving my energy to this!”

“I love peanut butter and I love pickles. What I don’t love is this bullshit.”

“I have pickles in my fridge, but I really like those ones, and don’t want them ruined, because no offense to that man, some fucking idiot on the Internet.”

“I’m not proud of this, but when I was younger, I used to drink pickle juice.”

“I was gonna say I had hope for this, but look where that fucking got me.”

“What in the Jimmy Neutron? Gotta blast!”

“Hello? Is anybody there? Where is everyone? What the fuck was that?”

“You will never catch me dead with a pickle and peanut butter. If you do, that’s the saddest way I went out.”

“I am sorry to the person in the Tiktok who I called an idiot, you are not as big an idiot as the fucking watermelon person. Unless you also came up with that. In that case? Idiot.”

“I think I’m making a mistake, but my hopes are incredibly high.”

“I’m a blue raspberry bitch!”

“This is gonna take out a tooth.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve always wanted a lollipop in the shape of a foot!”

“We’re gonna take some of these crack rocks and-“

“Ew, it has like wig hairs coming off of it. Okay bitch, me too!”

“It has some terrestrial vibes. Like, Saturn who?”

“Oh. Oh! Ow. Oh?”

“That was enjoyable.”

“If I wasn’t so scared of becoming Jack Sparrow and losing three teeth, that’d be a 10 out of 10.”

[leave-eddie-alone]

Equilibrium (An Eddie Munson Fanfic)

Summary: There’s fresh blood in the water and the shark tank of Hawkins is just salivating to tear the new meat to shreds. Though this one isn’t quite as defenceless as the others. This one has teeth of her own. 

Genre: Romance / Thriller / Sci-Fi

Tags: Fluff / Angst (maybe more)

Ship: Eddie Munson x Fem!OC

High school. 

What an idea. 

Put a bunch of unstable hormonal almost-children in a closed and sterile environment to be shaped by obsolete ideas and pressured into a certain pigeon hole to ensure you have a future. 

Truly a marvellous invention, that.

It's a strange sight to see, even from the safe distance of the parking lot. There are so many colours and patterns and different outrageous hairstyles, some of which border on inconvenient. There's all sorts of noises, like giggling, screaming, groaning, car honking, and the general walla of large crowds.

I should go inside.

Fuck.

I have to go inside.

Small tentative steps, one at a time, I made my way to the front doors of the suffocating-looking building, and glanced through the glass. 

There's so much more noise inside these walls, colours seem unnaturally bright, the noise is echoed, bounced back and multiplied, and those bright synthetic white lamps are not helping.

"Excuse me, we're trying to get through." a high voice near me interrupted my downward spiral. It was slightly passive-aggressive but to be fair I was blocking the entrance. 

"Yes, sorry." I barely turned to the girl as I stepped aside to let her through, though I did see a mop of golden blonde hair with a bow on top.

Pretty.

I finally gathered the courage to step through the aquarium doors as well, and oh stars, was it so much worse then I could have possibly conceptualised. 

The bouncing and reverberating and mixing of all of that uncontrolled noise made me queasy, breathing picking up, the tips of my fingers tingling with the rise of adrenaline levels.

One foot in front of the other. Come on. You've been through worse. 

Yeah, but that other stuff was survival instinct, this is worse. 

My own mental bickering was not helping the fact that I was just about shaking by the time I got to, what I was told is, the school secretary office.

She was supposed to give me… something or other, I wasn't sure, Dad mentioned it, but I could hardly follow everything he said after he dropped the bigger news.

"Oh, hey." chipper, high-pitched, grating, "You must be Gwendalyn." 

"Just Gwen." I respond, my voice slightly raspy from misuse. I finally raised my eyes to look up at the woman. She looked young, prim and proper, though weighed down by stress. There were tiny darkened circles under her eyes, though mostly covered by whatever dry powdery substance she'd covered her skin with.

"Well, Gwen, I can tell you're slightly nervous, but there's no need. We're very hospitable here in Hawkins." 

I could tell she genuinely believed what she said, this wasn't some lie she was maliciously spreading, but it was still a lie. In the week I'd been in town, everyone was always turning to me, staring, murmuring, gossiping, and then there were the mean comments I'd heard about myself just today in the parking lot.

My silence probably ticked her off slightly, but I sincerely couldn't think of anything to say.

I must learn how to engage in small talk. I'm drawing more attention to myself like this.

"Okay!" she broke the awkward silence I initiated with an even more chipper and artificial noise, starting to pull out some papers and things I had yet to see, "So, I'm just gonna give you your schedule and class list, so you can get on with your first class for the day, okay?" 

I simply nodded. 

"Okay!" she seemed to be getting more and more unnerved by the second and I struggled to see why. "So, your first class is English with Ms O'donnell, and her classroom is just down the hallway, then to the left, third door on your right, okay?" 

Is this a coping mechanism she has or is it something else?

I nodded again. 

"Okay!" it finally sounded like some of the tension in her voice was dispersing, "You have a good day, Gwen!" she was eager to get me out of that room, though she remained polite, or fake maybe, who knows. 

"Thanks, you too." 

Forward, to the left, third door.

I repeated this like a mantra in my head as I dodged the numerous bright and colourful students of all shapes and sizes, trying to not lose sight of my objective.

Forward, to the left, third door. 

Forward, to the left, third door. 

Smack! 

Someone pushed my shoulder from behind with such force I was shocked I didn't fall. My arms threw out in front of me, dropping all the things I was holding, which was only just a few papers realistically.

"Sorry!" some other feminine voice shouted, just as a bell rang, making all the other students scurry like mice in a maze.

Isn't that the same mop of blond ringlets from this morning? Why was she behind me, she went in before I did? Maybe this school has indeed a maze-like structure and she'd just gone someplace else.

I managed to quickly pick up my things, just to see the hall almost deserted. In the span of maybe two minutes I'd needed to recompose myself, the white synthetically-lit halls had cleared like a beach after a shark sighting. 

Forward, to the left, third door.

And now I'm late, and everyone will stare.

As if they weren't already. 

The door clicked open and prayed to the stars that this was the right one.

"Ah, you must be the new girl!" 

That sounded about right.

I nod, hardly looking the middle-aged woman in the eyes. Though I could tell they were very warm and gentle, there's nothing to fear with this one.

"Well, you go on and take a seat, okay? There's one over there in the back." the tulip sleeves of her big billowing shirt lifted to point at a single chair and desk at the back.

Well, that is something, I wouldn't have to pretend not to feel eyes on me the whole time.

Though I could feel the eyes on me as I walked between desks towards the back of the room.

I sat down on the small restrictive chair that didn't seem to be made for an almost-adult, and pulled out a pen and a notebook.

Like a good little mouse.

Though I could hardly focus. By the time I'd halved the class, the first page of my notebook was entirely covered in ink, as was part of my hand, but who cares. 

Ms. O'Something said something about introduction to whatever and then started with her lesson, the class was mostly silent, and thank fuck for the grey but still bright weather outside, that those horrific white lights weren't needed.

"Would you like to continue, Miss Lloyd?" it wasn't a question. 

Shit, I hadn't been paying attention.

I don't even have my books out. Fuck, it's just the first day I can't be screwing up already!

She said something about Shakespeare in the beginning, I thought. Based on popularity, she probably started with Macbeth. Realistically, she couldn't have gotten that far into it.

"This is the sergeant

Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought

 ’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend!

 Say to the King the knowledge of the broil

 As thou didst leave it."

She didn't seem displeased, per se, mildly impressed if anything, though slightly irritated.

"You missed Duncan's lines but overall… very good."

Good save! 

Dumb luck.

"An English accent helps as well." 

English. 

"I'm Welsh."

"Ah, like Cymbeline then." 

Is she testing me?

"More like Imogen."

Her lips drew together in a somewhat impressed mouth-shrug as she turned to return to front of the classroom.

"It'd be a pleasure to have you in my class, Miss Lloyd."

Then she carried on with her lesson.

A deep, mocking chuckle next to me. Instinctually, I turned to follow the sound. It seemed to come from a boy, no, a man more like, with long frizzy hair and a leather jacket. He didn't see me looking, I don't think, but the sound of laughter felt almost like a stab wound.

Brilliant, it's literally the first class and I've already drawn far too much attention.

Once this Shakespearian nightmare was over, I tried to pick up my belongings as slowly as possible, no one would pay attention to the last in class, and I still needed to figure out where my next one was. I could probably ask for directions.

"Ah, Miss Lloyd, can I have a word?" the teacher's voice cut through the near silent room as the last stragglers scurried off to their next class.

Fuck me! This is it! The jig is up!

"Yes?" I mutter, voice lower than grass, as I approach her desk, leaving a foot of distance between us, stacked with all sorts of papers, books and assorted knick-knacks.

"I know this must be a huge shift for you, New country, new people, new school, especially at your age, but I want you to feel safe in my classes, and in this school." she took a deep breath, looking down at some of her papers before reinstating eye-contact,"I know your classmates may seem a bit on edge, maybe even hostile, but this town has been through a lot lately. Just…" she seemed to measure her words for a bit, “try to not take anything too personal.”

What the fuck kind of advice is that? What is she preparing me for?

Second period was Precalculus.

I refrained from asking for directions, she seemed on edge for some reason. I had to find it myself.

Well, at least that doesn’t require a lot of talking.

The path to my next class took loads of stumbling around rooms, looking at room numbers, dodging other students, some rowdy and cheerful, others with their heads down, just trying to get from point A to point B.

Room 164. 166. 168. Okay, but where the fuck is 173? On the other side of the building?

With my luck, I shouldn’t have been shocked that, yes, the room was indeed, on the other side of the building. The bell rang, everyone scurried off back to their designated places and I was, once more, stuck in the hallway, by myself. Though that did partially help, as it was somewhat easier to find the room numbers without a flurry of heads and colours in the way.

Here we fucking go…

Opened the door, stepped in, and waited for the teacher to acknowledge me so I could be seated. While everyone kept fucking staring.

“I don’t know what was like in your old school, Miss Lloyd, but we don’t tolerate tardiness here.”

Oh, is that right, cunt?

“I had trouble finding the classroom, sir.”

He finally turned to face me and I was greeted with the sight of an oily, lizardy-looking man with humongous glasses, that about tripled the size of his eyes, and one of these ugly “academic” sweater vests I despised looking at.

“I’ll overlook it this time, but let it not happen again.”

“Of course, sir, thank you.”

Knob.

His big glassy eyes, more akin to those of a rat than a human, attempted what I could only identify as an intimidation look, though his hollow skinny face made it look more like one caused by constipation.

“Take a seat.”

Once again, there was an open spot waiting in the back, and I began to think this may all be one gigantic setup. But, there was no point in arguing, so I just made my way to the back of the room, wide steps making haste of my walk amongst staring eyes. I hated this school already, and all these people, while I may not know them, they must know it’s rude to stare.

“So, class, this year we’ll be going into Precalculus.“ Mr. Knob’s nasally voice started droning on as I took my seat, drawing some of the attention away from me, “And we’re gonna dive right in with an introduction to functions and domain.”

Really? Huh, this may not be so bad after all.

“Miss Lloyd, has the United Kingdom taught you the magic of functions yet?”

So, that’s how it is, huh?

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes, anxiety replaced with mild anger and distaste. This asshat would just pick on, what is virtually, a child just for kicks, it seemed. And as the freshest meat in the classroom, he chose me. He sure did seem like the type of pest to harass his juniors just to feed his own insecurities.

Well, fuck you, Mr. Rat, two can play this game.

“Yes, sir, a few years back.” I responded calmly, holding steady eye contact, unnerving as he may have been.

He seemed slightly surprised at this for some reason, and I could distinctly hear some of my new classmates murmur something.

“Then, I suppose you could tell us the types of functions there are.”

“On what base, sir?”

I could almost hear his teeth screech together, and honestly, if he’s afraid he’d been upstaged by a senior student, he deserved whatever humiliation he thought this would bring him.

“Domain.”

Stars, you test my patience.

“Algebraic, Trigonometric and Logarithmic, sir.” steady eye-contact was never my favourite but I was well prepared to hold it, though I was not entirely sure for how long.

“Hmm.” he scoffed through his crooked nose, “Right.” he turned once more to the blackboard with a piece of chalk in hand and started scribbling something that looked like a series of squiggles, “Well, for the rest of you, functions are the…”

Blah blah blah… whatever you say Mr. Rat…

I had a sense that me and this absolute bellend are only going to have more run ins throughout the year and, as satisfying as watching his face go red with anger was, it was probably going to get old very quickly.

I breezed through this one as well, no more condescending comments from this poor excuse of a teacher, though I wasn’t sure I was out of the woods yet. And that was simply good instinct.

The bell rang, everyone started picking up their stuff, and in less than a minute the room was mostly clear. And I thought, so was I.

“Miss Lloyd, do you mind if we have a chat?”

Twice in just two classes! Do I have a fucking ‘Pick on me!’ sign on my back or something?!

Once more, I approached the desk, I looked him dead in the eye, standing my ground, as much as I could while he’s holding all the cards.

I’m fucked.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Miss Lloyd.” he looked down at me from the slightly raised platform in front of the blackboard, silent anger clear as day in those cold blue eyes.

“Sir, I don’t understand-”

“Do not talk back, young lady!” had it been Dad using that tone, I may have shrunk into my frame, virtually caving in with the amount of disappointment and anger in that voice, but this man was a fucking weasel, and I refused to do so.

“She was just defending herself.” it was a male voice, deep but youthful, coming from somewhere behind me.

I turned and was greeted by the sight of long frizzy hair, black leather jacket and a multitude of different patches and pins on the denim vest over it. It took me a second to realise, judging by all of that, that this was the guy from English who’d found my knowledge of Shakespare so fucking funny.

And what does he want of me?

He looked odd, not exactly the type to jump to someone else’s defence or play good samaritan. He seemed to stand out from the rest of the crowd, his clothes were dark, torn in places, he wore loads of metal accoutrements, most of which seemed to be designed to look aggressive.

“This is none of your business, Mr. Munson. You are dismissed.” he was seething, that man. I could hardly grasp why - I get insecurity and being publicly defied, but this was something else entirely.

“Well, she’s my friend, and it’s her first day at Hawkins High, so it is kind of my business, Mr. Miller.”

So, that’s that rodent's name.

Wait, “friend”?!

Mr. Miller seemed to think it over for a second, and he finally dismissed us, me scurrying out of this place as quickly as I could without running, and that Munson character just calmly gliding by on his white sneakers, as if he had no worries in this world.

Once out in the hallway, the noise and flurry of motion actually seemed to calm me down for a bit. It was better than the alternative.

As I caught my breath from nearly being… well, I don’t know what, but it felt threatening, I saw that same volume of frizzy curls pass me by.

“Hey, wait!” I squeaked before I could second-guess myself.

He turned and I was suddenly greeted by the warmest charcoal eyes I’d ever seen. A smug, though not arrogant grin stood strong on his soft lips and his head tilted slightly as if in question.

“Yeah?”

“Uhm…” I hadn’t planned that far ahead, really, what was there to say, other than, “thank you. For…” I had no clue what to name it so I just pointed behind me to where the door to Mr. Miller’s classroom stood.

“It’s fine, he likes to pick on people, he’s just an ass.” he chuckled, almost to himself, while giving me a cheeky sideways smile.

“I figured as much.” I had no clue what to follow up with, but I supposed I should at least find out his name, “May I ask the name of my ‘friend’?”

He gave me a full laugh and a smile so infectious, I could hardly help the smile from spreading on my face as well.

“Eddie. Eddie Munson.” He outstretched his hand to me, and it took me a second to realise what he was offering, “And yours?”

I took his hand, it was firm and strong though he held mine gently, I could tell these thin fingers were trained in precision though I wasn’t sure what for, “Gwendalyn Lloyd. But I prefer Gwen.”

Despite his odd accessories, and what looked like religious paraphernalia, his eyes held no aggression, no anger, not even irritation.

Suddenly he made an elaborate gesture with his arm, then bowing deep, looking at the floor then back up at me.

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Gwen of Wales!”

I couldn’t help but give a small chuckle at his excessive, but humorous gestures.

“You can rise now, I’m not Diana.”

He rose from his bow, wearing a comically confused expression on his, admittedly handsome face.

“Who’s Diana? You got a sister?” he seemed genuinely curious and that made it all the more hilarious.

Of course they don’t know about Princess Diana, this is America. Only the English can be fucked to care about the royals!

“No, I do not.”

And then suddenly I remembered I had somewhere else to be.

“Shit, I have to-” but then a thought hit me. I still didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t know the building or the grounds, and he seemed friendly enough, “Actually, could I bother you with one more thing?”

His expression shifted, though I couldn’t tell how, his brows furrowed slightly and his head tilted even further to the side.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Uhm, I need to find my next class, and I struggle to tell anything apart in this building with everything being so…” I didn’t want to say anything too insulting, as he may actually really enjoy this building, and I didn’t want to aggravate him.

“Samey? Monotonous? Like one of those mazes you put mice in?” he suggested, and I could not have asked the stars for a better first friend. 

“Yes, that.” I giggled shamefully, looking down at the tiled floor.

“Sure, I know this school better than I want to.” Well, maybe he doesn’t actually enjoy it here… “What’you got next?”

“Uhm,” I gracelessly mumbled, looking down at the schedule and class sheet I was handed just some short hours ago, “I’ve got… History with Mr… Brown. Says here room 245.” It all came out like a question, like I was unsure of myself, which was not completely false.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll show you.”

Just like that?

“Really?” I asked back, confused as to why he’d waste his time on me.

“Yeah, I told you, it’s like a mouse-maze in here.” So I figured, “Come on.” he nodded his head towards a flight of stairs and started walking, leading me to what I was hoping was just a class where I would not be harassed and picked on. Until a thought hit me.

“Wouldn’t you be late for your next class though?”

He chuckled sincerely at that, confusing my perception of his character even more. What’s so funny about that?

“Nah,” he dismissed out of hand, “I’ll be fine.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t saying but I felt it may be inappropriate to pry.

Eddie showed me the second floor every once in a while throwing in little commentary like ‘Here’s so and so’s Biology classroom, where they teach you to torture frogs.’ or ‘This is the spot where horny couples get some alone time’. He seemed to have the whole school figured out, and he’d somehow turned into my very own tour guide around Hawkins High. There was much to learn from this boy Eddie.

“This is it.” he finally stopped in front of a basically empty classroom with the door wide open where a very tall and young man with one of those stupid sweater vests was scribbling something on a blackboard.

“Thanks again, for… everything.” I couldn’t tell why I was suddenly getting bashful, but his warm gaze felt curious, exploratory, though not invasive. How strange.

“No problem, Gwen of Wales."

Well, he's a charmer.

Shut up!

And he turned on his heel and left just as the bell rang.

The rest of the day I'd had no issue finding my classrooms, Eddie had been nice enough to show them to me as we passed them on our way to Mr Brown's. Lunch was an event, however. Meaning, it was 30 minutes, I'd spent on the trimmed field outside the school building, running over my notes from the day. I hadn't brought a book with me, I hadn't thought I'd need one.

"You know," the sudden voice startled me, nerves on end, adrenaline running once more, until I turned to the source and found who else, "if I didn't know better I'd think you were stalking me."

A strained chuckle escaped me at that, due to my body still being tense for battle, and looked out at the field once more, to avoid his far-too-perceptive charcoal eyes.

"On the contrary," I croak out, voice once more low from misuse, "you've shown you know your way around school, know all the spots, how do I know you weren't the one following me?"

He scoffs humorously at that, eyes rolling theatrically, as he made to sit down by me, about a foot's distance between us.

"Ya got me there. I could totally be stalking this weird new girl I find" his tone changed to an even more dramatic and comedic one and I am loath to say, it worked, "so very fascinating."

Another stab of fear shot through my stomach and trying to maintain my grin became a battle. I gave a humourless scoff, worry and anxiety starting to bubble underneath my skin.

"Nothing fascinating about me."

That was a slip up and a half.

Fuck, I hope not!

My anxiety picked back up at the thought he had picked up on my far-too-quick response. I was being far too suspicious, and that may cost me my life if I didn't reign myself in.

He didn't seem to find my response and immediate guilty look down at the ground unnerving, however. He just scoffed humorously, and in my peripheral vision I picked up a mop of messy curls shaking left and right.

"Whatever you say, Casper."

Huh?

"I…" I wasn't sure how to respond, but I thought a clarification was in order, "It's Gwen." I mumbled once more, unsure if he'd at all bothered to remember my name. The thought somewhat stung, though I wasn't sure why.

He seemed to take in my sombre mood and doubt-filled gaze and for whatever reason, found that hilarious. A burst of laughter broke out of him, seemingly powerful enough to make him double over with mirth. It felt like it went on for a while and at a point I started wondering if he was laughing at something I said or at me. And while I'd only just met the lad I didn't love the idea of being his laughing stock.

He shook off the remainder of his laughter and looked at me again, once he'd regained his composure. And then the mirth and joy left his eyes, replaced with confusion. 

"Wait." he mumbled, as if unsure himself what to say, "You serious?". The joy and laughter in his face quickly morphed into shock and confusion. Uncertainty gripped my heart once more, afraid that my utter oblivion to anything outside my own little bubble had shown me up to be a fraud. Though through rising fear, I prodded him, best to know what it is I’d missed so I can perhaps try and isolate the issue.

“Serious about what?”

He hastily stooped from his standing position to sit down on the bench facing my way with giant brown eyes that exuded warmth even in the chilly september noon.

“You’ve never seen Casper the Friendly Ghost?!” exasperated and excited simultaneously, he stared long and unwavering into my eyes, as if I’d admit that, yes, this was all a trick. So I pressed on, hopeful in finding a way to cover up that inadvertent disclosure.

“No, I have not. Why?”

“What do you mean ‘Why’?!” he waved his hands around dramatically, “It’s like an iconic show from the 40s’?!”

I was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t as serious as his theatrically exaggerated expressions made it out to be.

“And?”

He shook his head as if in disbelief or perhaps to ‘shake off’ the shock my statement had put him in, all the while his wide charcoal eyes never moved away from mine.

“And?! Where were your parents in the mornings if you’ve never seen Casper? That’s like… quintessential to a child’s development or whatever!”

‘Parents’. Well, there’s the big word of the day…

“They were busy.” at that point I was more than sure that whatever this minor drama was could not possibly ruin my whole plan, and would hopefully be shut down quickly. I simply didn’t want to engage in that conversation anymore. I was hoping that perhaps my distant response would be enough to make him disengage the topic without freezing him out completely. He was, after all, my only ‘friend’.

“Oh.” Eddie looked down towards the bench as if ashamed, “Sorry. Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

That was far from the response I expected. Oddly comforting to know that if I wanted to avoid a topic he’d allow it in the name of my comfort.

“It’s alright.” I mumble in response, unsure of what else to say, though still feeling slightly anxious from the emotional trip I’d just experienced.

Eddie’s eyes suddenly jumped back to mine, reinvigorated with new electrifying energy.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he jumped back up on his feet, arms stretching out in an exaggerated welcoming gesture, “Why don’t you sit with us tomorrow? You know, since you’re new, and seem to need some guidance through the hellhole that is Hawkins High.”

Only one thing struck me as significant.

“Us?”

“Oh, yeah. Me and the other boys from Hellfire.”

“Hellfire?” I repeat.

“Yeah, it’s our Dungeons & Dragons club.”

“Dungeons and dragons?” I repeat once more, getting progressively more perplexed by the second. Whatever it was he was talking about, it sounded mystifying and terrifying simultaneously.

What are the odds that my only ‘friend’ is an occultist?

At my repeated shock and awe of his response, something seemed to dawn on Eddie and he suddenly regarded me with a sceptical look.

“You’re not gonna freak out about it, right? I mean, it’s just a game.” his voice dropped a notch from the warm and exciting tone he’d spoken about that Kasner thing and his club with. Whatever he was talking about must have been important to him somehow, and he was getting defensive.

“I…” how do you respond to that? I can’t say I’m fine with whatever he’s talking about - I don’t know what it is… “have no idea what you’re talking about.” So, complete honesty it is…

“Oh.” his eyes shifted for a second, pinned to the yellowing grass of the field, faraway in contemplation, “So, you haven’t heard the rumours?”

“What rumours?”

The boy perked up at that, excitement suddenly invading his system again, and he sat back down by me, once more regarding me with curiosity and intrigue.

“Oh, nothing.” he skimmed past the previous topic as if he hadn’t just been so riled up about it. “So?” he clapped his hands, and gave another wide smile, “ Will you be joining us for lunch tomorrow, Gwen of Wales?”

I need to blend in, and to blend in, I need my own… clique? So…

“I don’t see why not.” I smiled back, hopefully well enough to cover up how anxious the idea of being surrounded by so many people at once was.

Returning home after class was a sordid affair in and of itself. The wet roads and chilling wind of early October made the walk from the large brick building towards the outskirts of town slightly uncomfortable, but the constant glances, murmuring, the noise, the traffic made it absolutely unbearable. Either that or the weight of what was to come.

Dad always said to not delay or neglect my duties as that would make them even harder to complete. He said that the walk through an unpleasant chore may sometimes be worse than a sprint through Hell. I’m not sure if this sort of after-class engagement fits the definition of an unpleasant chore, but it surely felt like a slow and endless drag through a fury-cold pit even before it had begun.

I dutifully marched through the cold and wet woods as the sky was preparing to cleanse the earth once more with an icy drizzle of rain, so I needed to hurry. Down the stony lane, over the threshold and through the door, waiting for me was the cold, dark empty chasm of an almost abandoned cabin. I dropped my belongings, or what I called ‘my belongings’, onto the dusty wooden floor and a small cloud raised in the process.

Huh. I might need to do some more cleaning. I’m not a savage after all.

Slow but steady steps lead me through the small cabin only partially lit by the rising moon behind the clouds. I end up in the small garden behind the cabin. It was overgrown and unkempt, it needed attention more than anything though there are the signs of crops planted by a long-forgotten owner. It had potential, it just needed some care.

Off towards the creek, my shoes made small steps as if to prevent me slipping on the wet and muddy forest floor. There by the waterside lay my unpleasant chore.

“Good night, Dad.”

That night the soft and slow cracking of fire, the smoke rising into the heavens, the stench of burning life was disguised by the rain.

[tlacehualli]

@atrappedwolfwill

“And you came into my house in the middle of the night to tell me this.” She speaks through grit teeth, hissing slightly from the stripe of pain across her neck. It doesn’t feel very deep, but speaking is still an unpleasant process. Unfortunately, it looks like the time for out-and-out fighting has passed for the moment, so she knuckles down and resolves to clean it out later. And try to figure out how to bandage it without it looking really weird.

“I’m gonna be brusque. You are a terrorist. I don’t care what reasons you’re doing it for, your actions get people killed. Honestly, I’d be doing the world a favour by shooting you.” But, even as she says so, her gun hand dips further, muzzle drifting to the side enough that Sombra is now fully outside its cone of fire.

“…but at the same time, we both know cuffing you isn’t gonna solve anything. You’ll be out by the end of the day. I’m not stupid. And as much as I want to solve this hands-on…” She bares her teeth for a moment, then huffs and shakes her head.

“…that isn’t how we do things. Especially not now. You ever come into my house again, and I’ll tell the cameras it was self-defense. In fact-”

Is she bleeding? Her eyes widen, then one narrows slightly. She’s trying to figure out whether this is a joke, the taller blonde standing in silence for what feels like too long to answer an obviously rhetorical question.

“…were you expecting me not to be?”

"Would ya rather I caught you at brunch today?" A wry grin crossed her expression; she did enjoy the ease with which she got to know things about people. It was definitely creepy but we don't choose our gifts. "You seemed kind of busy and I hate to interrupt. Anyways, I got a nasty bruise about it now so call it even."

The hacker's expression showed literally no remorse or surprise at the revelation of the litany of her crimes. It seemed rather amused, really, cause boy did this woman not know the half of it. She was trying to behave, though; she'd poked at the tiger long enough and if she went any further, she was quite certain the AI in her spine would detach itself and walk right out.

So, she stayed silent during the monologue about how she was so bad, actually, and how the world would be better off without her. Maybe it would. But Emily wasn't gonna be her judge. That was between her and God, if anything.

"This is apparently gonna shock you terribly but yeah, I didn't actually mean to cut you." She rolled her eyes. "You're just wriggly as fuck. Don't do that if someone's got something sharp on you. Actually - uh, might wanna put pressure on that."

[cj-can-art]

my final thoughts on shadow the hedgehog 2005

overall, i enjoyed it! took about a week to finish but that’s honestly not that bad in terms of how long it NORMALLY takes me to finish a sonic game.

now onto more critical stuff. keep in mind that this is about the gamecube version.

gameplay: holy FUCK the controls are slippery. the left stick control is way too sensitive for my taste (or i’m just bad). the lock on mechanic is shitty, so i usually ended up shooting the wrong enemy or nothing at all. triangle jump sometimes just decides to drop me off over an abyss. and only over an abyss. camera can’t decide whether it wants to be adjustable or not, ESPECIALLY on the poles you can scoot up and slide down. the levels are tedious as hell but i didn’t actually mind them that much, and was usually able to finish a route in under two hours. and the level design was cool but for the love of god they needed less fucking exposure on glowy bits. i would like to see what i’m doing sometimes. boss battles are… forgettable? if i remember any it’s because of the snapcube dub. i’ll be honest my favorite was the egg dealer because something about pressing buttons on a giant mech is satisfying to me.

animation: barely expressive in most of the cutscenes. i feel like they put more effort into quill physics than anything else on the models. the cutscenes that were fully rendered looked nice and were well animated, but those were few and far in between. character animations during gameplay i thought were a little better, but that may have been just because they were farther away from the camera. then again this is a game from 2005 and im not sure why im nitpicking it so much. why did they animate eggman’s teeth like lips.

voice acting: not bad? i know it’s pretty much entirely made up of the sonic x cast, but i already liked them anyway. i.. do feel like the voice direction could have used some work.

soundtrack: i really liked the soundtrack, not much else to say about it. it’s a sonic game you know it’s probably gonna be great. i do feel like a lot of them did NOT fit their levels at all though.

story: fine in the beginning, but got more confusing the further into the route i went. the endings and paths kinda blurred together and didn’t feel very impactful. ask me what the semi-hero dark ending was and i could NOT tell you. the last story was a little better but i’d like to know how they got to that point. because shadow still collected all the chaos emeralds but… what did he do to get to that point?? is there a specific route that is canon? i don’t know. anyway eggman straight up lied to shadow the whole game and i think it’s kinda funny.

character writing: oh boy.. this was the game that did irreversible damage to shadow’s character for the foreseeable future wasn’t it…. personally i think they leaned a little too far into the “edgy” persona. i dunno. at least they’re making an effort to fix him now?

final rating: 5/10

and even after all that, they could still never make me hate this game

is it good? no. did i like it? yes. will i come back to replay any of it? no.