#in a fucking SUIT and dark lipstick and with a fucking CANE no less

[missoneminute]

Highlights from the UTB shows

Cardiff

We (myself and Sarah, @suchasinistergame) waited around outside the venue for absolutely hours before the boys arrived quite late for soundcheck on a bus all together around 5.30pm. Andy warned us we shouldn’t stop them as they were behind schedule, but Gary came off the bus first and came up to us all for a hug and chat so that went out the window haha. Peter came off the bus next, and he was looking very dapper in his suit and carrying a cane. He was rushing so I just handed him the gift I had for him – an old cigarette tin with a few dozen old cigarette cards in it which I had legitimately spent the entire pandemic slowly collecting. He called it a ‘dream gift’ and leaned in for a hug. I gave him a side hug because I didn’t want to get my red lipstick on his shirt, as he’d kind of collected me into his middle, which, honestly, I was just dying to squish into. He’s so soffffft. John came off the bus next and stopped for a quick chat, and he was more chatty than usual, before Carl appeared in his sunglasses looking quite cool. He fussed about whether he should have removed them for the photos we took with him as if it was a little pretentious to have them on haha, but I assured him he looked really cool. I handed him some gifts we had for him, including the pfennig necklace from the Netflix series Dark (which he’d said he enjoyed so much when he was on that livestream the boys did during lockdown) and an old shipwreck coin from a wreck that had gone down near Margate. He didn’t immediately recognise the pfennig from the show (he told Sarah last night he felt really bad about that and loved it when he worked it out, what a fucking sweetheart to worry about something so inconsequential – but he had remembered it by the time I next saw him in Edinburgh anyway). He also joked that he had doubts about coins that came with authenticity certificates, which the shipwreck coin did. It’s very much the real deal thanksverymuch, I have a few of my own so I assured him it was legit. I also said that we wanted to find him a cool coin after the ‘coin debacle’ (see Sarah’s posts about that – he gave her crap no less than four times because she had given Peter the same antique Good Old Days gambling token that she gave Carl, and he was annoyed Peter had one too when he tried to show it off to him - but trust me it’s been the funniest saga and she’s not offended haha). Carl was deeply entertained over my reference to the coin drama, he did one of his hard to describe dramatic reactions along with a very sweet chuckle. We took some pics with everyone then headed into the show, which was excellent albeit fairly rough – a lot of shoving and a fight broke out. They played really well and P+C appeared to be getting on excellently – lots of smiles and eyeball communication. After the show, we caught Carl again and he introduced us to his two cousins who were with him. Peter appeared too and schooled me on which cigarette cards I had given him that he liked and which were reproductions – he said he’d been ‘caught out himself’ before. He literally held up cards he liked to explain which I had done well on, it was so fucking funny, the entitlement (what is it with those boys, they’re like submitting something to Antiques Roadshow haha!) He was also surprised when we said the crowd had been quite rough. We mentioned that we wanted to go to his solo show in Tynemouth in a few days but had missed out on tickets, and he said ‘you want tickets? Andy!’ he called out, pointing at him, and sent us over to talk to Andy, who called us over to the doorway of the bus. He headed off onto the bus after that. Andy was there with the other road crew having a red wine, and quickly organised for us to go along to the show, which we were so immensely grateful for. While we were talking to Peter, I had left my tour shirt that I had bought laying down nearby and someone nicked it. I went off to look for it when Andy caught wind of what had happened. He said don’t worry we will get you another shirt (he never did get around to it but I was perfectly happy to buy another and it was an incredibly sweet offer –  everyone in and around this band is the best fucking human). We stood chatting to Andy for a while. Gary came wandering out of the bus while we were standing there chatting and showed us a magazine he had been contributing to, and he had a chat to us about how important the sense of community is around the band, and he very sweetly complimented us on having that energy on our Instagram account. Suddenly a very drunk Carl appeared on the steps of the bus, smiling madly. I have zero memory of why this was brought up but Carl started talking about watching The OA, a show Sarah and I happen to LOVE. He broke into the interpretive dance that is critical to the plot, which was so amusing. I think that marks the third time I’ve had Carl break into an impromptu dance in front of me for… reasons. He then told us that he and Peter had been comparing the monetary value of the gifts we gave them to work out who got more, which was, oh my god we cannot stop laughing about this, it’s just the pettiest possible level of competitiveness, so fucking cute. At some stage I showed Carl my tattoos of his lyrics, and had showed Peter some earlier too, and he read out the one on my arm that said ‘at the palace gates’ in a lovely soft voice. I can’t remember why I was flashing them haha, it’s actually something I find quite embarrassing but I’d had a few drinks. I cannot for the life of me remember what else was said, but Carl gave us both a hug and we headed off after that on a total high.

Tynemouth

We were kind of starstruck getting to see Peter at such a small venue. Well I certainly was, it was just surreal. We stood right in front of him and he was literally inches away belting out songs to maybe 60 people max in this tiny little café in this strange little town by the seaside. It was a dream and so wonderful. We were we glad that we sucked up our pride and asked for tickets, because this was once in a lifetime stuff. For me especially, I couldn’t believe my luck that this was announced right before I came. At first when we missed out on tickets we sort of said oh well, it’s an extra several hours drive and we can miss it, but the closer it got the more I thought this may well be the one time in my life that I ever get to see Peter do a solo acoustic at such a small venue. We figured we would ask Peter directly and he literally just pointed and called out ‘Andy!’ and sent us over to sort it out. It was so cool, honestly, I can’t get over it. He was insane live, his voice is so gorgeous just on its own, just that voice and a guitar, and you could see he absolutely relished playing to such a small crowd, and I think that was more evident to me than ever, how much he just loves to do those sorts of tiny shows. He was immensely passionate and every song was delivered so beautifully. We said no more than a quick hello because he was rushed in and literally sped out in a van just minutes after he finished the gig by Andy, so they could get back to Edinburgh on time. Massive kudos to Andy, that man runs a tight and infallible ship. I was keen to share video but most of the time I just had the phone down, I just wanted to live it so badly and more than anything to be present. One of the coolest things that has ever happened to me hands down.  

Edinburgh

We arrived a few hours early hoping to catch the band, but the problem fan was there waiting too, so we were told that none of us can come near the band because ‘that stalker is here’. It was a really stressful situation for them I think – they put the band behind barriers over near the back entrance, and the other band members came off the bus and waved to us but Carl was literally hidden behind a screen, since he’s the target of this person’s obsession. There were a lot of fans waiting who we got talking to, and it was so disappointing for them that they didn’t get to talk to the boys because of this person. We were really sad for everyone and for Carl too having to deal with this all the time. The show was amazing – P+C were really cuddly and playing so well, some of the best versions we have heard of certain songs like Plan A (we told Carl how good that was later and he seemed pleased to hear it). Carl stunned us all by planting a kiss on Peter’s lips and Sarah and I, predictably, had a meltdown haha. It was so fucking adorable and I could not be more delighted to have seen that in person. We sadly didn’t get any footage and it happened so fast, but another fan did and she kindly let us share it, which was such a relief, we wanted y’all to see it so bad! After the show Peter and Gary got onto the bus without coming over to us all, but John came by for a chat (about Bingley and the canal Sarah tells me as I cannot recall!) They were placed behind a fence so no one could hassle them. Carl came out quite late and did come through the gate and talked to everyone waiting. He said he had waited as long as possible to come out so he was sure the problem fan had left. We chatted to him once more about various nerdy things such as my theory about the OA being about OCD. Carl didn’t agree (“jury’s out on that one!” he said in a very comical fashion) but he said he also does those rituals people do to stop bad things from happening. He said he had “saved us all so many times” that way, which we found really touching and candid. Sarah tells me he did the dance from the show AGAIN but I had forgotten that haha. We also got talking about manifestation, and he said he is a huge believer in it. ‘It’s a science!’ Carl stated with extreme seriousness. ‘Erm, I don’t think it is?’ I replied. ‘It is, it’s a SCIENCE’ he said again. Seriously Sarah and I have not stopped losing it over that statement and his deep conviction regarding it, and since we are huge nerds for manifestation we super enjoyed learning that he’s also prone to various forms of magical thinking. He called himself a massive nerd at some point too, which he has lately really been into saying about himself haha. He said he has watched so many Netflix shows that he can’t remember what he’s already seen - relatable. Carl also spoke about a new medication he was trying for his mental health but admitted he’s not great at staying on medication, and I said I could recommend some haha. I asked him if he could write out his favourite lyric he’d ever written so I could tattoo it, and he said I already had one of his favourites (“sew it up kid have some clout”) and he took my arm to look at it quite affectionately while running his thumb across the lettering, which was lovely and I had BIG EMOTIONS over. I said I was glad he actually wrote that one as I wasn’t sure, and he reacted with extremely dramatic mock horror. “Well it’s a band! It’s a democracy!” I insisted, and he agreed haha. He struggled over it a while trying to think what to write, then wrote out “you’ll find me somewhere over the railings” on my forearm. He gave me and Sarah both a hug and a kiss at the same time, which was so sweet. It was a super fun chat, I wish I could remember more of what we all said but Carl was on fire, he was being so fucking funny and animated.

 Margate

Oh boy. Oh boy. This was madness. We had booked to stay at the Albion Rooms on the 17th of August months and months before that show was announced. When we spoke to Carl in Edinburgh and said we were heading for the Albion Rooms, he told us to DM him and that he’d do something special for our visit, honestly what he meant was kind of unclear. Then we got a tip that said BE THERE ON THE 17TH and something special was happening. We were literally already booked to stay that day! It was NUTS. We didn’t dare to dream that it would be a show, but low key we both desperately hoped it was. It seemed too big to hope for, but we kept our eyes peeled every day for an announcement – and then one was made. We bought tickets immediately in the middle of the street and were just, literally screaming haha. By then my boy BFF was with us as well having flown in from LA so it was just so perfect for him, too, since we had never seen the Libs together and he has never met any of them. On the day we waited out front hoping to run into the band arriving. Gary turned up and chatted to us for a long while, about his holiday to France with his family, and showed us the various books that he had bought in Margate for his sons. Andy turned up too and had us googling gluten free food in Margate for him to eat haha which we found very amusing. The problem fan was there again, which was just exhausting, so Carl snuck in the back way. Peter came in the front later, wearing shorts and a shirt with Katia in tow. My boy BFF was coming down the stairs as Peter was coming in and literally collided with him – and that was his first time meeting his hero haha. The band hid in the studio for some time together doing a rehearsal. We waited for them to leave the hotel but were warned that they weren’t coming out till everyone left, likely to again avoid that certain fan, so we headed to the bandstand and then they just came barreling down the stairs and played that blessed show. It was a really small show ultimately, the bandstand was barely full and we were able to just stand on the steps of the bandstand to watch. It was short and sharp, just the hits, but searing fun and widely covered – NME, Channel Four and others were there including a documentary crew so imagine there will be lots of material. P+C seemed fantastic again, lots of mic shares and sweet looks. They ran back to the Albion Rooms after the gig and went back into the studio, with fans herded off to leave them be. We waited around outside and a surprisingly helpful security guard told us ‘if you’re waiting for what I think you are, head to the bar now’. We ran for it, and arrived right when Peter and Carl walked in. My boy BFF took centre stage here – Sarah took photos while I filmed, we really wanted him to have a moment with his hero and he did, he told Peter how much he meant to him, then Peter eyed his beer and asked for a sip haha. I took over chatting to Peter then about the cigarette cards, and asked if he liked any of them since I didn’t recall which ones he had shown me in Cardiff. I must have looked sad because he gave me THE most sympathetic look that I felt bad for making him feel bad! He listed off the war medals and hats as his favourites, and said to be ‘wary’ of the ones that are too brightly coloured or clean cos they are reprints but again said it was a dream gift. He is so fucking funny with the reprints (in fact the first time I gave him a stack of cigarette cards, in 2019, he asked immediately if they were reprints - they were not and he was thrilled with them, hence me collecting more for him). My boy BFF also got to speak to Carl and said he was ageing like Dorian Gray - he said Carl was very pleased with the comment hahaha. P+C then headed to the stage with John and Gary and played three songs real quick – it was absolutely mental. There was maybe 100 people crammed in that room, and P+C were absolutely smushed up against each other on the mic and just, god – in a few weeks of dream experiences this one took the cake. Seeing them play in a tiny room, let alone in the Albion Rooms, was beyond special. Sarah and I were just turning to each other like WHAT IS HAPPENING and I love those moments, they are weirdly what I always remember most: When someone you are at a concert with turns to you with those glazed, excited eyes, it’s a look like nothing else, and you just know you are looking back at them the same way. Once they were done with their songs the band all climbed out the window – a cool little reference – as it was easier than going through the crowd again, and it was such a brilliant moment. We went out front to catch them jumping on the tour bus and Carl gave us a hug and Sarah said to him, ‘Manifestation works!’ since this show had happened. ‘I manifested it for you!’ Carl said, and he was bundled off onto the bus with everyone else. And that was that, just the most insane few weeks of my life. I don’t think I will ever top it.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

our little life (rounded with a sleep) / chapter 1

our little life (rounded with a sleep) chapter one / AO3

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful detective. She had blonde hair, green eyes, no family, and she was good at finding people; in fact, she proclaimed this on her office door. “Swan and Humbert,” it said. “Private investigations, missing persons, and bail bonds.”

Only lately, she's been thinking that maybe it should say "Emma Swan: Loner, Loser, Complicated wreck."

Her partner's been killed on a case after she made a deal with her landlord to find what had been taken from him. But when she tracks a possible perp to a bar on the outskirts of town, Emma will find out exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.

(a FULL rewrite of "the stuff that dreams are made of" completed as part of the 2020 Captain Swan Big Bang Rewrite-a-Thon)

--

with awe and infinite thanks to @captainswanbigbang and the team of mods there ( @optomisticgirl,  @phiralovesloki, @spartanguard, @shippingtheswann)   for running an insanely first-class event.  thanks also to the crew in the discord, who helped me plug MANY a plot hole, and especially to @shireness-says who kept me accountable on so many nights when i was floundering.  

i lost track of how many times i begged @thisonesatellite, @profdanglaisstuff and @katie-dub to read or re-read sections of this; especially to @thisonesatellite who’s been working with me on this story since before the event was official and dedicated many countless hours to suggesting--gently--that i stop banging my head against the wall.  @profdanglaisstuff came through and saved this story AT LEAST three times.  (that is probably a lowball estimate TBH)

--

CW:  canonical character death (minor character) rating:  T/M (mild implied violence, language) AO3

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful detective.

She had long, blonde hair that curled just so at the edges of a face with skin as fair as snow, save for the hint of a blush across the apples of her cheeks.  Her eyes glinted green, like emeralds in the sunlight, and the fall of her lashes was thick and dark.  Emma Swan looked like nothing so much as a fairy-tale princess, but if Emma Swan knew one thing about her life it was this: nothing about it was a fairy tale.

Her hair, for starters, was the product of nearly an hour’s work in front of a mirror most days, curling it and drying it and styling it just so. Twenty minutes perfecting the “no makeup” aesthetic with no less than three base layers before the foundation swept across her cheeks; the thickest mascara wand she could find and the darkest shade of black available completed the look unless she was feeling particularly ambitious and added lash primer.  Contact lenses instead of glasses, though her eyes were naturally green which meant that at least one of her parents probably had green eyes, too, not that Emma knew for sure either way.  But she was beautiful, which was a thing she did know for sure, capping it all off with a carefully curated collection of leather jackets and knee-high boots, black trousers and jeans and pencil skirts, for a look that said very clearly do not fuck with me.

Emma was her actual given name, or at least it was according to the one tangible thing--besides her eyes--that she knew she had gotten from her parents. The letters had been lovingly stitched into the hand-knitted blanket in which she had been found near a diner by the side of the road in Bumblefuck, Maine sometime in the first few hours after she had been born.  Her last name, Swan, had been attached by the one family who had considered adopting her, and had stuck on every piece of official paperwork that followed her from foster home to foster home after they had traded her in to have their own kid.  Sometime around her fourteenth or fifteenth birthday, soon after the first time she had run away, Emma had decided she might as well keep it as not.  Something about believing in herself and saying ‘fuck you’ to fate because no one else was going to do it for her.

No fairy godmothers in this world.

Emma Swan also had a talent:  She was good at finding people, and she proclaimed this fact on her office door.  “Swan and Humbert,” it said.  “Private Investigations.  Missing Persons.  Bail Bonds.”

So, Emma Swan was twenty-eight, as of today; beautiful, but prickly, which was the nice way that people said it.  “Unfeeling bitch” was what Graham Humbert called her, and most days, he meant it as a compliment. 

Last night he had meant it to wound her.  “Heartless bastard” was what she had called him in return after he’d crossed a line she had never intended them to cross.  As Emma pushed the office door open, she was wondering if she should change it to “Emma Swan:  Loner, Loser, Complicated Wreck” before deciding that would probably scare potential clients away.

And for now, at least, she still had a partner.  If she hadn’t scared him away, too.  Emma was furious just thinking about it--their partnership was supposed to be easy and constant, one of the few reliable things she’d found in this life she’d scraped together for herself.

“He’s not here, is he?” Emma asked, sighing, as she walked into the outer office.

“Mmmm?” Ruby murmured, not looking up from her makeup mirror as she fluffed her waist-length, red-streaked black curls until she was satisfied with their volume. “Graham just phoned, actually, said he was gonna be late.”  She pouted into the mirror, testing the longevity of her red lipstick, and finally looked up.  “Whoa, Em,” she said, gesturing at the cropped red leather jacket Emma had selected for the day’s ensemble.  “What’s with the battle armor?  You can’t be like this today, you have a client waiting.”  Ruby snapped the mirror shut and nodded at the inner office door with her chin.

“Like what?” Emma challenged.

“Nope,” Ruby said.  “Not going there.”

Emma glared, just for a second, and cracked a small smile.  “Sleazy divorce case?” she asked, almost hopefully.

“Ah.”  Ruby nodded, like that explained something. “You’re in that mood.  Explains the outfit.  So we’re not solving the mystery of True Love today, then?”

“No mystery,” Emma said.  “Sooner or later, the people you love let you down.  Life lesson from me to you, Ruby.  At least then, they end up here--and we need the eighty bucks an hour.”

“You make it sound so tawdry,” Ruby complained.

“These are our people, Red.”

Ruby paused, eyeing Emma up and down one more time, lingering on the red leather.  “What did he do?” she asked, lowering her voice.  “Do I need to, like, rip out his throat or something?”

And--it wasn’t like Emma hadn’t felt a flash of something when he’d kissed her in the office late the night before, it’s just that it was easier to feel nothing when what you were feeling, most of the time, just plain sucked.

Emma didn’t answer and the silence stretched out until Ruby expelled a breath.  “Okay,” Ruby said, not sounding happy about it.  “Whatever. But--trust me, Emma.  We need this client.”

“He just needs me?”  Emma asked.  “Or, I guess, just one of us?”

“Actually,” Ruby said.  “He said he wants you. He was specific,” Ruby said.  

Emma had a good reputation for someone her age and especially for someone whose resume most closely resembled one of the people she was trying to track down.  But the truth was that clients who came in with a specific personnel request generally went straight for Graham.  

“Right,” Emma said.

“But lower your shields a bit and, you know, smile--but not the kind where you show your teeth because you don’t want to scare them off.”

Emma pushed the corners or her mouth upward with her middle fingers and made sure to bare as many teeth as she possibly could.  “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

Ruby gave her a wink and an air kiss.  “Any time, babe, you know that.”

Emma laughed, breaking into a real smile.  “I’ll leave that to Victor, I think.”

“It’s cute,” Ruby said, “that you think he’d care, except to come and watch--or maybe help,” and smacked her lips again when Emma rolled her eyes and turned toward the door marked ‘Private.’  She ran a hand over her hair to smooth it, squared her shoulders, and straightened her jacket.

“Shoulders back, chin up, tits out, Em,” Ruby muttered.  “It’s worth way more than a sleazy divorce case, I can smell it.”

Emma braced herself, opening the door and shutting it behind her.

Her visitor stood in the center of the room, facing the window and leaning on an ornate walking stick.  He turned around at the sound of the doorknob and smiled, a sickly, fake thing that flashed just a hint of a gold tooth.  “Ah,” he said. “Miss Swan.  It’s nice to see you again. I’m Mr. Gold--”

“I remember,” Emma said, “sir.” Sir because if what her landlord charged for this place was any indication, to say nothing of what his made-to-measure three-piece suit must have cost, Ruby was right:  they needed this case.

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Swan,” he said.  “I need your help.”

--

Emma sank slowly into her swivel chair, turning to face her visitor and smiling politely--the tight, thin kind that showed no teeth.  She took him in:  his charcoal grey suit with a hint of a sheen on the fabric, the blood red dress shirt underneath, the black tie streaked with gold and just a hint of purple with a matching pocket square at his breast.  

“It would appear,” he said with no preamble, his voice low and soft, “that I’ve been robbed.”  He spoke with a smoothed-over accent; Scottish, perhaps, but every few words there was a syllable with a cadence so foreign Emma couldn’t even begin to place it.

“You seem unsurprised,” Emma remarked cautiously.

“Other attempts have been made in the past,” he said, tapping his cane lightly against the heel of one of his polished leather shoes.  The walking stick, it turned out, was quite genuine, as the man had hobbled slightly when crossing the room toward the visitor’s chair at Emma’s desk.  “I am a man of means with collections representing many varied interests and there are always those who come to me for--” he paused, and Emma sensed the deliberation with which he chose his words, “--help.  Sometimes I am able to oblige them; other times, I leave them to their own devices.”

“You’re saying that you’re a target,” Emma said, “and that something has been taken from one of your collections?”  He nodded, and his hair nearly brushed the tips of his shoulders.  It was long for a man of his apparent dignity, with strands hanging around his face and nearly in his eyes.

“What can I say, Miss Swan?” he asked rhetorically.  “I’m a difficult man to love.”

His eyes had clearly been following hers as she made her mental evaluation of him, and the effect he gave was almost that of a reptile.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Gold,” Emma said, keeping the smile intact and speaking softly.  “A missing object, stolen from your shop--it sounds like the kind of job the police should handle.  Though I understand why a man in your position might choose discretion above all else, I also know that a man of your means would typically have no cause to approach someone like me directly--which tells me that whatever has gone missing is something of such value that you can’t even take the chance that anyone knows it’s missing.”

His gold tooth glinted again as he parted his lips and nodded his head, almost as if in appreciation.  Emma took it as a confirmation--not that she needed it. Her life had taught her many things, and her skill at reading people had gotten to the point where if she was concentrated and detached, she could tell a lie better than a polygraph.

“What’s been taken from me, Miss Swan,” he said, “has been in my possession for longer than you’ve been alive.”

Emma nodded.  What he said was not a lie.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on her desk.  “So tell me what I’m looking for.”

“You misunderstand me, Miss Swan,” he said, tilting his head at an angle as he, too, shifted his weight forward.  “I have no need for you to retrieve my stolen property.  I merely require your assistance in apprehending the man who had the audacity to violate me in such a brazen manner.”

Emma gave Gold a long, hard look.  “Robbery is a public menace.  You’re asking me to aid in what could be construed as obstruction of justice.  And you won’t even tell me what--?”

“Let’s just say,” he said, “that it’s a precious object and leave it at that.  Further, I will give you my assurances that it poses no danger to anyone as long as I get it back as quickly and quietly as possible and that it remains my secret.  But it is imperative that I find this person sooner rather than later.  I am, you might say, on something of a schedule.”

“You have a funny definition of justice, Mr. Gold,” she said.  

“My dear Miss Swan,” he said, the tooth glinting, “who said anything about justice?”

“What did they really do?”

“They stole,” he said, and nothing else.

Emma sat back and crossed her arms.

“I would hate to think that I’ve made a mistake in coming to you, Miss Swan,” Gold said, his voice still low, the words turning silky. ”It was my understanding that you are quite...dedicated in your chosen profession and have, for the most part, a record of success in finding those whom you seek.”

Emma managed not to flinch.  He couldn’t know that much about her from the cursory background an internet search would reveal; couldn’t know that she never had found her parents, because the kind of assholes who hand-knitted their kid a blanket and then left said kid on the side of the road were also the kind of assholes who had left absolutely no trace of their identity in any system Emma had access to.   

Had they ever even held her?

She’d never let herself hold her son, because Emma knew exactly what kind of asshole sent their kid out into the world on their own:  the kind that couldn’t be a parent.  The kind that needed to give that kid their best chance.

If she’d held him--if she’d given herself at least that--maybe it would have been easier.

Hell, it certainly couldn’t have been any harder.

“Miss Swan?”

Emma drew in a deep breath and set her shoulders.  “And you have a history with this person, I take it?”

“Miss Swan,” he said, and the laugh that accompanied it was a distinctly unpleasant one, “you will find that there are very few people in our little corner of the world with whom I do not have history.  And this man, I am sorry to say, has an unfortunate history of taking what is mine.”

Emma nodded, slowly.  “Okay,” she said, with some reluctance.  “I’ll check him out.”

“I’m sure you will,” Gold said smoothly. “In return for this service, you will of course expect payment.”

“Our hourly rate is--”

Gold was uninterested.  “Of no importance,” he said dismissively.  “You may invoice me, assuming I don’t find him first.  If I do...let’s just say that bad things happen to bad people.”

“Is that a threat?” Emma asked, incredulous.

“More of an observation, or perhaps an incentive,” he said, and the sickly smile was back.  “Do we have an understanding?”

She nodded again. “Deal,” she said.

“Grand,” Gold said, licking his lips.

“What’s going on in here?” said a voice from the doorway, lilting and accented and familiar.

“Graham,” Emma said, “Mr. Gold would like us to take a case on his behalf.  Mr. Gold,” Emma turned her attention back to their new client, swallowing her reservations because she was good at her job.  She needed that comfort--that belief--because her job was all she had, no matter what Graham thought he wanted.  “This is my partner, Graham Humbert.”

As Graham stepped forward and offered a hand, there was a look on his face that Emma had never seen before.  His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept properly--or at all--and his gaze focused on Gold as if he was the only thing in the room.

Something flickered across Gold’s face before he offered Graham his hand to shake.   “Indeed,” he said. “Miss Swan and I have just struck a bargain.”

Emma was sure she imagined the flash of fear that briefly overtook Graham’s features.

--

There were flowers on the table when Emma got home--she grabbed them and dumped them straight into the trash.

“Oh!”  Her roommate, Mary Margaret, walked in.

It all came down to the number seven, which was the number of addresses she’d had in the past ten years, assuming that eleven months in the Arizona Correctional Facility for Women counted as an address.  Graham had hired her, and she’d stayed, in spite of the lack of dental or any other benefits.  Mary Margaret Blanchard had not been looking for a roommate, but they’d met each other and there was the offer of the spare room that wasn’t even properly a room, more like a lofted open space just big enough for a double bed and a small wardrobe, before either of them was quite sure what had happened.  Something had clicked, and Emma had unpacked the three cardboard boxes that contained all of her possessions and tucked the one small cigar box that held her life, such as it was, away in a corner of the office.  

She had a roommate and a job and friends and she hated Graham for putting all of that at risk for something that would never work.  Because if Emma were the type who allowed herself to believe in such things, she’d have said that finding Mary Magaret--and Ruby, and Graham and her job and her life here--had been like coming home; as if she had always been meant to be there.

“Can you believe this shit?”  Emma gestured at the flowers.  “Graham think this is gonna work on me?”

“Yeah, no, those are mine,” Mary Margaret said, then corrected herself:  “Were mine.”

“From the married guy?  Seriously?”

“I know,” Mary Margaret said, then:  “Wait.  How did you know?”

“You’re an elementary school teacher,” Emma said flatly.  “I’m a private investigator.”

Mary Margaret sighed.  “It’s a disaster,” she said.

“It can’t be that bad if there are flowers,” Emma said, eyebrows raised.

“No, that was--no,” Mary Margaret said.  “I just can’t seem to--I feel like a different person when I’m around him.  It’s like I can’t help myself, like I have this need to be with him.”

“Trust me,” Emma said.  “Married guys are never worth it, no matter how good the ‘flowers’ are.” Emma made exaggerated air quotes with her fingers.  “If you need an itch scratched, stick to one-nighters with no attachments, like I do.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you’re--”

“Because I’m what?” Emma’s eyes flashed green in challenge.  Unfeeling bitch, he’d called her, then walked in on her meeting looking like shit, but otherwise as if nothing had happened between them.  

That fit with what she knew of him; Graham was a kind, good-natured guy, and most days Emma felt lucky to have him in her life.  It’s easy, between them.

“Never mind,” Mary Margaret said.

“No,” Emma said.  “Tell me.  What do I do?”

“You’re just,” Mary Margaret said, gesturing expansively, “protecting yourself.  With that wall you put up.”

“Just because I don’t get emotional over men--”

“You don’t?”  Mary Margaret was not the type of person who snorted derisively, which Emma was grateful for more at that moment than she might ever have been; especially since Mary Margaret had no real notion of exactly how much Emma was, in fact, protecting herself from.

Because she did not get emotional over men.

“All I���m saying,” Mary Margaret said, “is that the floral abuse tells a different story.”

“Come on,” Emma said.

“I mean it, Emma,” Mary Margaret said.  “That wall of yours might keep out pain, but it will also keep out love.”  Mary Margaret was all about “mawwaige” and “Twoo Wuv” and refused to give up hope that Emma would find both of those things. 

God, was there something in the water today?  This felt like the second time, at least, she’d been forced to endure some version of this conversation.  One more minute and she was likely to start screaming about patriarchy and freedom and submitting herself to an institution that fails as often as it succeeds, and for what?  A bullshit ideal of fairy tales and happy endings?

Certainly Mary Margaret’s sordid affair was a horrible ‘Exhibit A’ in the case for True Love.  

“He kissed me,” Emma confessed, watching the progression of emotions cross her friend’s face:  happiness, confusion, disappointment, resignation.

“And?”

“It wasn’t a bad kiss,” Emma admitted, watching Mary Margaret’s eyebrows shoot up. “It was nice, I guess.  Easy.”

“And?” Mary Margaret said again.

“And,” Emma emphasized it, “I’m neither of those things?” She threw her hands in the air.  “It’s not what I want, Mary Margaret.”

“Are you sure?”

There was a knock at the door before she could respond, and Emma went to answer it.  Sheriff Nolan’s hand was poised to knock again as she opened the door, and Emma spared a glance at her roommate, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the married guy her friend had been not-so-secretly seeing.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Emma said knowingly, and was surprised at David’s hand on her shoulder.

“I’m here for you, actually,” he said.

--

Heartless bastard.

Emma would have laughed, except she was crying and trying not to throw up at the same time.

--

@kmomof4 @stahlop @katie-dub @imlaxdris71 @snowbellewells @mariakov81 @shardminds​ @carpedzem​ @anne-and-gilbert​ @teamhook @winterbaby89​

[creation-is-chaos]

‘The Enemy of My Enemy Sings Songs Of Poison Melodies’ | Mad Alt Plot

Clandestine is the night of secret rendezvous in the cover of darkness. Most lucrative times for unsavory activity but this is mere business. Always in the eyes of the man who walks with midnight on his shoulders, coat tail swinging in his fluid steps, he lifted a gloved hand to stop the approaching figure. At the time time it seemed to be rather innocent. Despite leaving his Camaro parked outside of the gate it loomed undercover. The black sheen does make for a perfect getaway in times of these. Nighttime is his time. 

“H-hello,” the figure stuttered out into the crisp air. 

“Chilly this evening.” Corvus had commented on the weather as if he were not in the middle of a private affair. An affair never of passion’s lust but passion’s just violence. “Does it affect your speech pattern? Teeth chattering? Or are you simply here to insult me?” The questions rang with impatience, voice dark in the scrutiny of the other man. No, not a man. 

As Corvus soon stepped forward under the single light cast from an iron lamppost he saw them clearly. His brow furrowed slightly. A boy? 

“What are you doing here?” Demanding it quickly, he curled fingers onto the silver wolf head of his cane. Eyes darted over the expanse of the enclosure, brick scuffing beneath his soles as he moved closer. “You boy.” Gripping him by the shoulder, he glared, lip curling up over his teeth. “Who did you see come here? Who?!” 

“Careful Dear DeVille.” A voice cut the air smoothly, feminine alluding to another who watched from shadows. He enjoys to blend as a dark hubris among the clouds. She steps out in stark white tiptoeing the contrast of all. “We wouldn’t want to scare the child would we?” 

Corvus yanked the boy to him. Pulling the thin sword from the cane holder flashed the blade up and center of this decoy’s throat. He twisted his leather hand in a threat. “Perhaps I will spill his blood instead. If you do not tell me your reasons for being here....Frost.” 

She took a step. Heels clicking in tandem to short cautious steps, the woman donned a coat over her shoulders, tailored to match her suit. Stylish even among the decree of vile back alley deals. At least they shared the same taste. No filthy alley but a lovely gated property owned by the very man he expected to find. 

“This is all rather simple, DeVille. I am here to greet you for our mutual friend. Mr. Farmer wishes he could see you but he is a bit - uncertain of your intentions.” She waved a hand at the current hostage he had. “It seems his caution was warranted. Considering you have his nephew.” 

Nephew? Corvus’ eyes flit down at the boy breathing hard in his grip. His right eyebrow arched at the woman. Not just any unknown woman but one he knows well from past dealings. Holland Frost. She does perform with appropriate frigidity. “A man who sends a child, his kin no less, leaves something to be desired.” Corvus nudged the boy aside. He sprinted away but the man hardly paid attention. Instead his dark gaze remained with Holland’s ice. 

Holland laughed briefly. “Oh my,” she teased him, clapping hands together. “You let him go? My you are growing soft. Though I imagine it all has to do with your lost baby.” Holland lets it hang in the air as his expression transitions from emotionless to a glimmer. Oh but a glimmer of emotion is worth a thousand words.

Corvus drew the sword outward. Pointing to the woman who stood far enough on the other side of the circular alcove, he snarled. “Cunning bitch.” 

“Am I? Do not act so surprised. You and your boyfriend Kamski are not the only two who have a set of eyes on this city. We’re not the only players in this twisted game we weave Dear DeVille. You should know that better.” 

“I know plenty,” he corrects. “I know you are one of the better snakes in Detroit. It is quite enjoyable to see you again, Holland. A shame I cannot say so often. Though you do have me at a disadvantage.... for once.” 

“If you mean that little detective you and your almost lover fuck then I consider it an accomplishment.” Holland did not mince words. Her lips purse looking over his stance. “I enjoy a man who likes their swords. And has a sword to use properly.” She paused, reaching into the bag in her hand.” 

Corvus jabbed the sword in a motion to stop her. “I suggest not moving. Or I will slice directly through your throat.”

She smiled. “Do you think I would be so careless to carry a gun openly? My my. You forget I am better at surprises. She on your mind? Or he?” 

The glare on his face is answer enough. Both Elijah and Jesse have no idea what he is doing this evening. He does not speak of his business unless absolutely necessary not even to his Raven. They are both this way. When one needs the other they rise to the call. However there is nothing to persuade him to involve Elijah in this. Holland Frost is his problem. At least she was in the past but it seems the past has a way of emerging into the future. 

Her knowledge of Jesse is one he must broach with him. “What do you want?” 

“Cutting to the chase,” the woman tutted, removing a compact mirror. Flipping it over to show him he no reason for his threatrics, Holland popped it up. Her eyes remained on him. “My surprises are much better.” 

Corvus’ head turned at footsteps on his left. Several men appeared as they did on his right. Curious set of circumstances it would appear. “You chose a bad night, Frost.” 

“Did I?” She twisted a casing of lipstick open in a casual appliance. “Never bring a knife to a gun fight.” 

He took a stance, shifting his left foot behind him, leather fingers curled tightly over the sword handle. “Oh but my odds are very good,” he mocked, twirling the weapon when they came at him. 

Kicking one of the men in the chest propelled him with a hard splat to the brick he danced over. The blade of his sword jabbed through flesh, sinking into the frontal apex of another’s throat. Sneering over perfect white teeth offered a grotesque irony. Vicious in the severing of their arteries, he held the blade steady as they dropped to their knees. Ripping a handgun out from inside a holster hidden underneath their jacket, Corvus aimed behind him, firing into the head of the third man.

Blood splattered with the violent crack. Sending matter blowing out the back of his head, Corvus paid no mind to the loud thud of body dropping behind his polished heels. Instead he drew a foot up to press into the chest of the man gargling on his knees. Pushing him slowly back off his blade, Corvus straightened, twisting around to meet the final one. The man took one look at the others lying in a mess of blood before taking off. 

He sniffed at the cowardice. “Lovely people you have working for you.” Corvus’ lips curved briefly. Satisfied with what he has done, he moved closer to the woman, blade twisting in his hand but pointing down. 

Holland stood still. She did not even attempt to flee. Her thumb pressed at the side of her compact. Expelling powder from a tiny opening blew directly into his face. Forcing him to stall immediately, covering his burning eyes with his hand, the sword dropped.

“Argh!” Corvus stumbled backwards. The sting blinded him.

She used the tip of her white heel to kick the sheathed weapon away. “Grab him.” Her command is met with an influx. Grabbing him by the arms, dragging him in his struggle, Corvus’ will to fight is beastly. A pure animal who must be taken down. Oh but she enjoys his moves. Such a sight to watch him murder men with guns with a blade. Holland always appreciated his prowess. A shame she cannot have a taste. 

Down on his knees they force him and that is just fine for her. He cannot see through the pain. But she grips onto his dark locks to pull his head back. 

Corvus growls. “Bitch!” 

“I love it when you talk dirty, Corvus.” She teased before the pierce of needle in her hand. 

He winced, grinding teeth at the obvious burn. Immediately he felt the sear begin to spread, arms becoming lax in her guard’s grip. Corvus huffed. Swallowing hard, his head bobbed, eyes squeezed shut to prevent further damage to them. 

“No worries now. I will clean your eyes up. Make you presentable enough. After all with this little concoction,” she trailed, placing the needle back in her bag. Her hand cupped along his jaw, fingers smoothing along his raven goatee. “...you will not remember a thing....except waking up warm and strapping in your bed. Save me a kiss next time, Dear DeVille.” 

Blurred, slurring, drooling. 

Corvus groaned. 

Dizzy with a strange taste in his mouth, his face pressed to the pillow that morning. Body splayed face down among his scarlet sheets, satin sticking to his sweaty skin. His head slowly lifted up. Only the pain in his neck was a sign of something off but he could not place it... he could not think... straight.... 

mentions: @creatorofclay @rxseguided

other muse: @syntheticfrost

[theartofalf]

For Michelle

Usually people expect horrors to come out at night. They expect them to wait in dark, unlit places patiently biding their time until they can creep from their isolated planes of existence with the speed and grace of night.

Not all horrors work that way. Some of the most evil things in the world walk in the daylight.

One of things I have always loved about Las Vegas is that time seems to cease to exist once you walk inside a casino. It’s done that way on purpose of course. There are no clocks on any of the walls, dim lights are strategically placed everywhere to give the constant feel of a summer evening, fresh air is pumped in to make a person stay awake just a little longer than they normally would, and the outside is world is purposefully cut off with the intent of keeping the gamblers from ever leaving the relative comfort and safety of the casino. They are lured to stay there for hours, days, even weeks on end … as long as they have the money, this life can go on forever. Or at least that is the dream they are selling.

Once they do finally retire to a room for the night, that’s when I am usually called in to continue the fantasy. Well, at least by those who have an incredible amount of money, and don’t mind paying for the best.

Tonight though, the meter isn’t running. I’ve taken a few “personal” days off, even though I haven’t left the city. I am on my own mission for once.

A few nights ago one of my girls never came home after going out on a call. She was a beautiful young thing straight from out of the farmlands of Idaho. Blond hair down to her ass, athletic legs a mile long and a smile that most guys would die for to have turned their way … or kill for. For the past several months she had been getting paid nearly as much as I do. Something I’m not jealous of, because I found her and I trained her in all the tricks that would insure that men found her irresistible. I was her mentor. Her mother. Her lover.

A few days later they found her body out in the desert, half-buried in the filthy dirt and some sagebrush thrown over the top of her. Animals had their way with her and shredded every piece of that beautiful skin so bad it had taken dental records to identify her. It wasn’t those animals I was concerned with though. It was the two-legged ones that put her there that I vowed to make pay.

The cops had investigated the “John” that had hired her for the evening, but nothing could be proven against him. His tracks were pretty well covered. That’s what happens when you have enough money in Vegas. Not only do the casinos help you cover your tracks, but so does the casino-owned police force.

I had spent the last week fully investigating his background, even having to resort to some of my own “special skills” to obtain information. Not that the clerk minded. I got what I wanted and he got what he had always dreamed about, and would probably continue to dream about for many nights to come.

The “John” was Trevor Hannity, a 28-year-old trust-fund baby from Upstate New York who had recently graduated from an Ivy-league school where he had been suspected of, but never proved or convicted, in the rape of two coeds. He had also coincidentally been the suspect in several other investigations ranging from his hometown clear down the East Coast.

Seems like the heat got too hot for him on the eastern coast and now he not only set his sights on being a western predator, but he seems to have upped his game from rape, to rape and murder. That happens a lot with this kind of person. They can’t seem to sate their desires with something they have already done a dozen times, so they take it to another level. Unfortunately for him he had intruded into my territory and harmed someone that was mine.

I don’t have a problem with predators. No really, I don’t. I am one myself. What I do have a problem with, is when their predatory behavior conflicts with my own livelihood and loves. See, I’m not a call girl for the same reason as others. I have chosen this calling because it best fits my needs of what I am, and keeps the rest of the populace safe from me.

Tonight, Trevor Hannity was going to find out what I was keeping the rest of the world safe from.

He wasn’t hard to find. The fucking cock-sucking bastard thought he was so untouchable that he didn’t even bother to change hotels, or rooms for that matter. He was used to having the best of all things, and in this case that meant he couldn’t have anything less than the suite at MGM Grand’s Skylofts. $25,000 a night meant he could show off his daddy’s fortune while living in the lap of luxury, impressing the other trust-fund babies with how much money he never earned a day in his life.

Also, he would be able to order the best call girls in the city from there and they would come running, much as my little Michelle had.

The police report had indicated that not only was Michelle raped repeatedly, she had been tied up and tortured. Which, honestly was something that she excelled at. She loved being tied up and flogged and used like a dirty little slut, as long as it was agreed upon beforehand and safe words were used. In this case though, I’m pretty certain she screamed her safe word many times before a long cylindrical object was forced down her throat and lodged there, cutting off all her air.

I imagine that she had try to cry out for me as she realized that she was going to die, and that imagining just fueled my anger more. Anger that I had to keep off my face as I approached his door and lightly knocked.

Earlier in the evening I had found out from an acquaintance that a call girl from one of the other firms in town had been hired by Mr. Hannity and she was to show up at his room promptly at Noon. Like I said, evil doesn’t always need the dark of night to cast it’s shadow.

A few phone calls, and some surreptitious money passing accounts, by way of the Cayman Islands, and the girl he had hired was dismissed and I had taken her place. Not that Trevor would ever know. With just a little bit of juice from the girl, I could look enough like her to pass for what was found on her webpage.

I have to admit, my short meeting with her had impressed me. She tasted lovely, and had an incredible essence to her. With just a little of my mentoring she would soon surpass what I had lost with Michelle. But that was for later. Right now there was other business to attend too.

A rather large goon opened the door at my knock, gave me a once over and looked at the goodies in my bag that I had brought with me. There was nothing untoward that he wasn’t expecting in the bag, just the usual canes, whips, floggers, butt plugs, dildos, Magic Wands, cuffs, zip ties, gags, and hoodies. Good thing I had feasted a little earlier, because that damn bag was heavy, and a slight girl like me would normally have had trouble bringing it with me.

While Mr. Too Tall Goon was looking through my bag, I took the opportunity to place a hand on his arm and smiled coyly at him. I’ve been told that my smile is rather captivating, usually by kings, presidents, and despot rulers. He was no different than most men when I turned that gaze on him. He turned to putty in my hands as I led him over to the coat closet and suggested with a slight push of my hand that he step inside. Then I closed the door behind us and placed my mouth over his. He seemed quite willing and didn’t fight until the very end, long after it would have done any good as his dry husk crumbled all over some really expensive shoes and coats. I didn’t feel an iota of remorse for him. He most likely had something to do with Michelle being dumped in the desert, and he deserved a fate far worse than what he got.

Trevor would find out what that fate was though.

Oh damn was I feeling the rush of that goon. That boy may not have had any brains, but he had some serious life force. I could feel his strength coursing through my veins, and for a fleeting second wished I’d kept him around for when I needed a sudden fix. Oh well, such is the life of a succubus. You just never know what you are going to get until you drained them.

Not that I usually needed to drain anyone dry. I only needed small bits of life force to sustain me, hell most people never even noticed the tiny amount I took from them. They may lose a couple of hours of life with how much I could sustain myself on for weeks. So, it’s not like I ever NEEDED to drain anyone. Some people deserved it though. That is the great part of the life I set up for myself in Las Vegas, I constantly had new sources for my feeding and no one got hurt and no one knew any better. Just the way I liked it. I could keep myself young for months off what I had drained from that goon.

Closing the closet door, I brushed myself off, retouched my lipstick, picked up my bag and sauntered into the penthouse suite. Talk about opulence. Over 10,000 sq feet with a hot tub filled with what looked like champagne. I wasn’t impressed. In the millennia I had been alive, I had seen much grander from a certain Sultan in the mid-East. Now talk about insatiable lovers, that man had it in spades. Wish he was still around.

Trevor Hannity was reclining in the champagne-filled hot tub when I walked in, appraising me as I walked across the room, inspecting the merchandise he thought he had paid for. I didn’t mind, I was used to being looked at.

Without being invited, I set down my bag and slipped my shoulders out of my little red dress and let it fall to the ground. I kept my high heels on as I turned away from him and bent far, far over and I placed my dress in the bag. I could feel his hot gaze upon my exposed womanhood. I looked over my shoulder while still bent over and let him know I knew he was watching me, and I liked it. Then I slowly raised up, turned and walked to the hot tub, crossing my legs intentionally as I walked across the room.

No words had been spoken. No words were needed. I was here for a job, and I was expected to perform a certain way. That’s the kind of guy Mr. Hannity was. He had certain expectations in life, and no one had ever denied him his expectations.

I blame his parents.

At the tub I slipped out of my six inch red heels and slid my body into the water across from him. I let my hair fall into the water as I bent over backward, luxuriating in the fizzles of the warm champagne as it caressed my body.

Apparently that’s all it took for Mr. Never Been Denied. He didn’t need anytime at all to get worked up into a frenzy. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into a straddling position over his youthful cock. One hand quickly grasped my throat really hard as he shoved me down on him, impaling me.

To be honest, it kinda hurt. He was larger than average, which wasn’t a problem, but he had not allowed me any time to warm up and build up any lubricant, on top of which, had I been wet at all, the champagne would have washed it all away. This was all to be expected with a true sadist. He not only didn’t care that it hurt me, he wanted to feel that power as he asserted his dominance over me, and with one move was telling me that HE was the one in control here and he would get what he wanted, whether I wanted it or not.

What no one had ever bothered to inform young Mr. Hannity about, is that in a true dominant/submissive relationship, the submissive holds way more power than the dominant. Not that men like him cared about silly little things like rules. They had never had to abide by them, so why should they now.

Trevor didn’t know that I let some of my power creep out, engulfing his cock as he thrust it into me. Power that just tantalizingly sucked a little of his life force out.

I almost began gagging from that taste drawn in through my pussy. I had never felt something so completely evil and dirty inside of me, and I had the overwhelming urge to get this over quickly, so I could go to the bathroom and purge him out of my system with a large amount of throwing up, followed by hours and hours of hot showers. I covered the retching with a long moan that was sure to make him feel like a real man.

It wasn’t long before he tightly wrapped his fingers in my red hair and forced me off of his manhood, and then pushed my head and face beneath the champagne, forcing me to take him in my mouth, then forcing me down as far as I could go, which, between you and I is a fair bit as I had learned how to control my gag reflex centuries ago. Men throughout time have loved the same thing when it comes to their phallis. They want women to admire them for it, but mostly they want us to gag on it and prove to them what a real man they are. I obliged by faking some gagging, while at the same time slowly draining him.

He let me up for air, in what I am sure, to him, was a gesture of kindness. Not that it was needed. A succubus can stay underwater for hours as long as we have a steady supply of life force. The only person he was hurting by keeping me under was himself. Not that he was going to miss the few hours I stole from him.

“Let’s go see what you brought me to play with,” Trevor spoke as he drug me out of the hot tub by my hair. That actually got me a little wet. I do like a good hair pulling.

Looking over at the bed, I saw that some of my toys weren’t needed as it already had cuffs attached to the four posts. He did seem to take extreme interest in my canes though. Of course.

He forced me to the end of the bed and clamped my wrists in the cuffs at the top, then each of my ankles, and finally a waist belt attached to the footboard of the bed. I was actually impressed by the set up, and wondered if he had convinced the hotel to spring for it, or if he had brought his own bed with him.

“I’d ask what your safe word was, but I don’t care,” he said. “I bought and paid for you, and you are mine.” A sharp crack of a cane punctuated his words. As I opened my mouth to yell, he shoved a a ball gag in and then secured it behind my head.

There was no warm up. There was no caring what I thought. He only cared about the muffled screams he could try to work out of me. Silly boy. I had been worked over by Torquemada himself during the Spanish Inquisition. There was little that this frat boy could do to make me so much as whimper. I think that infuriated him as he kept swinging the cane harder and harder, until it broke across my upper thighs.

He went to the bag and brought out my cat of nine tails with metal balls on the end and proceeded to flog me, which finally got me wet, but still didn’t make me cry out. Grabbing my hair he yanked my head back and ripped the gag out of my mouth.

“I’m gonna make you cry bitch,” he screamed at me.

“I don’t think so little man,” I replied as I caught his gaze in mine and held it. “Now it’s my turn.”

Caught in my spell he had no choice but to untie me, and watch helplessly as I tied him up exactly where I had been, with the exception that his semi-rigid cock was facing me instead of his tight little frat boy ass. Once tied and gagged sufficiently, I let him loose from the spell and really, really enjoyed the confused look on his face as he at first wondered how our places had been switched, then watched it turn to fear as his mind ran through what might happen to him, and finally to anger that he was no longer getting his way, and that he was now at my mercy.

I grabbed his cock hard, wrapping my fist around it and squeezing. “Remember a little blond named Michelle a week ago that you had some fun with?” I asked as I continued to squeeze harder. The confusion returned to his eyes for a second, then his eyes hardened as he realized what this was about. He tried to speak around the gag, but I have no idea what he was trying to say, because I don’t speak gagged evil frat boy trust-fund baby. Maybe I should learn?

I strolled over to my bag and took out a nice long dildo, one that I wouldn’t normally use. One I had, in fact, bought just today, specifically for him. Then I knelt in front of him and wrapped my red lips around the head of his juicy young cock and used one had to slowly rub his balls and pull them out of the way. I know, the cock sucking was unneeded, but hey a girl has to have some fun. Then I placed the head of the rather large dildo (I think it was named “The Hulk”) against his puckering asshole and slowly, ever so slowly began to work it in. Such a shame that there was no lube on it, but then I figured he could appreciate the irony.

“Michelle was a friend of mine,” I told him once the head of the dildo was firmly implanted in his ass. “In fact more than a friend. She was my protege, and my lover.” I could feel his cock stiffen slightly at the thought that quickly ran through his head imagining her and me together. He probably even for a moment regretted killing her … at least before he got to experience the two of us together. That’s the extent of remorse that this kind of filth would have.

“Unfortunately for you, you came into the wrong town. You should have stuck with staying on the east coast,” I told him. “Although, I’m sure there are people there that are never going to miss you.” With one hard shove I placed more than twelve inches of Hulk-girthed dildo up his ass and reveled in the bulging eyes that nearly popped out of his head.

“Normally, I wouldn’t give two shits about a sadist like you. I’ve known many worse than you in my life,” I said, “but in this case you not only fucked with someone I loved, you fucked with my livelihood, and I just can’t abide that.” Just for fun, I twisted the dildo side to side and then left it in as I stood up and walked back over to the bag.

He had rather large nipples for a man, which I appreciated as I attached sharpened roach clips to them. This was a fun little device that I reserved for the truly masochistic clients. Not only did the clips draw blood, but they were hooked up to a tiny little electric taser that looked like a mascara case. A little touch on the bottom of the mascara case produced a little charge that ran though the wires and nipple clamps right into his chest.

Watching him buck and scream was truly joyful and made me more than a little moist. I’d played the bottom for so long, I forgot how much fun being a top could be. I wasn’t easy on him either. I kept it up until I thought he was going to pass out, then gave him a slight reprieve before beginning again.

He was drooling uncontrollably around the ball gag, and his eyes had lost some of their fire and returned to the state of fear. Oh my god that got me horny.

I got the Magic Wand out of my bag and pulled a chair over across from him so he would watch as I pleasured myself. Nothing gets me off quicker than a Magic Wand combined with my own fingers. He had to hang there and helplessly watch as I fucked myself to a very loud, moaning, panting orgasm, and I could see even though he had twelve inches of dildo shoved up his ass, it didn’t affect his ability to get rock hard. Which is what I wanted.

After I finished I didn’t bother to wipe up or clean off, I just stood and dripped across the floor as I approached him. I softly placed my hand on his young throbbing manhood and stroked back and forth, just teasing the head until he was nearly to orgasm, then I took the gag out of his mouth and before he could scream, cry or anything I placed my own mouth over his and slowly, ever so slowly sucked his life force out of him. I could feel the first few dribbles of warm cum on my hand and using both hands I grabbed him around the base of his cock below his balls and I twisted … HARD!

When you know the trick, and have the strength of a succubus who had fully fed earlier, ripping a cock off a body isn’t really that hard. Not that I had done it that often, but once in a while it is needed. This guy needed it.

Peeling my lips from his nearly drained face I whispered in his ear, “This is for Michelle,” as I proceeded to shove the cock down his throat until he could no longer breath.

Then I just stood there and watched as he choked on his own blood and penis. Full fear returned to his eyes as he realized what had just happened, not that it mattered. He had lived a life of preying on others and causing them fear, now it was simply his turn.

He took a while to actually die, I’ll give him that. After which I cleaned up. They never did find the body of him or his goon, but if they had bothered to check one of the vacuums in the maids quarters, they may have found an extra amount of dust that could have been tested and proved to have their DNA. They didn’t though, because this is Vegas baby, and people up and leave all the time without saying goodbye and when the casino stops getting paid, they stop caring.

I walked out into the daylight, no one the wiser that I had ever been here.

Like I said, not all horrors stay in the dark. Some are in the light of day.

[justcannibalthings]

tfw canonically queer alana bloom