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notlongtolove · 18 days ago

Text

away from home

you tried to focus, really you did, as introductions were made but the the air, heavy with expectation, proved to be too distracting. instead, you stood quietly as the introductions were tossed around, nodding politely, offering a smile where you could, silently trying to piece together who was who and how you fit into all of this. this work is part of the little red cap series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: flangst?

content: mentions of crime scenes and blood. lit student reader meets the team as she helps them understand poems leading to a startling discovery.

word count: 3.5k

note: thank you for all the love on part 1! i hope you enjoy part 2! please exercise a willing suspension of disbelief... #imjstagirl

a line: “Reid,” Hotch’s voice cut through the silence, calm but with an unmistakable sharpness, “You brought her in without briefing her?” The disbelief in his tone was clear.

The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods Away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place Lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake My stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer Snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes - carol ann duffy

The glass facade of the FBI headquarters gleamed intimidatingly in the cold of the morning light—too polished, too perfect. You tugged awkwardly at your sleeves as you stepped through the doors following closely behind Spencer.

Inside was cooler than you thought it would be, though that made sense. Spencer had warned you without warning you, really—his rows of sweater vests and cardigans, each more sensible than the last, each dripping with practicality, had spoken for him.

Your turtleneck—cream, plain, nothing remarkable—had seemed like the right choice this morning, though now you felt absurd for caring. It was a little something you’d like to call the ‘Yes, I study literature, and yes, this is my life’s work, but if I get a detail wrong and someone else dies, please don’t throw me in jail’ look. Somehow it felt like the best you could manage under the circumstances.

The elevator ride was a tense, quiet affair. For a moment, neither of you spoke, till his fingers brushed yours—timid, tentative. A flicker of the timid Spencer you’d met many months ago—a nervous presence in the corner of a book club, flipping through pages with a reverence you still found endearing. The same Spencer who’d spent weeks tiptoeing around conversations about book spines and hardcovers, so cautious and shy, that you’d eventually asked him out yourself.

Today though, you’re the one on edge.

“You’re nervous,” he observed softly. "Don't be."

“Wow, Sherlock, how’d you crack that one?"

His quiet laugh melted some of the tension, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. You tried for a small smile, but you were certain it came out as more of a grimace. Sensing your apprehension, he pressed on.

“They’re only going to ask a few questions after you’re done,” he said, his thumb brushing light, soothing circles against the back of your hand. “I’ll be there the whole time.” Before you could reply, the elevator stopped, doors sliding open with a quiet hiss.

One last squeeze, then his hand slipped from yours.

The bullpen—Spencer called it that once, you remembered—wasn’t what you’d imagined either. It was smaller, somehow, though not cramped. Papers stacked high on desks, smell of coffee lingering in the air. Maybe even a little quaint, albeit no less intimidating. A blonde woman by one of the desks looked up at the sound of your footsteps. She smiled, quick and warm.

“Hey, Spence.”

Oh. You didn’t know they called him that too.

Before her gaze could settle on you, Spencer stepped forward, the two of them exchanging in hushed conversation. You hung back, trying not to look as lost as you felt, your eyes roaming over the room as fragments of their conversation drifted your way.

“They’re all in there,” the woman said, jerking her head toward a nearby door.

“And the photos? I don’t want her seeing—”

“Took them down this morning. They’re only in the briefs.”

“Right, okay. Thanks, JJ.”

Spencer glanced over his shoulder at you then, a hint of something soft in his eyes before his expression shut down again, unreadable. “Let’s go.”

You managed a shaky exhale, pressing your lips into a tight line. Now or never, you thought.

The meeting room was dim, suffocating in its stillness. Blinds drawn, a table littered with files and mugs of what you assumed to be coffee—some half-empty, their rims stained. Names were exchanged, though too quick to catch. You tried to focus, really you did, as introductions were made but the the air, heavy with expectation, proved to be too distracting. Instead, you stood quietly as the introductions were tossed around, nodding politely, offering a smile where you could, silently trying to piece together who was who and how you fit into all of this.

It wasn’t until the blonde lady, who you now knew as JJ, spoke up again that your focus snapped back into place.

“...and she’ll be joining us for this case,” she said, gesturing toward you.

A man—Derek, you thought—grinned, leaning back in his chair. “As Pretty Boy’s plus one, or...?” he asked, his tone teasing.

Pretty boy? That’s a new one.

“Morgan,” the man at the head of the table cut in—sharp, commanding. That would be Hotch, you assumed.

Spencer’s answer came swiftly, without hesitation, “As a consultant.”

“And how exactly did you come across this... consultant, Reid?” A dark-haired woman purred. Her tone was light but edged with teasing curiosity. It was evident in the way her smile glinted, playful, though the man—Hotch, you were certain now—shot her a look that suggested restraint.

“At a bookclub,�� you smiled, the words coming out steadier than you’d expected. It was a feeble attempt to navigate the tension or rather, to just get through it. Say something, say anything. It reminded you of school, moments when you’d latch onto the simplest question with the most straightforward answer just to feel like you were part of the conversation.

“Book club,” the woman echoed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Of course.”

“Reid,” Hotch said, drawing all attention back to the task at hand. “If you’d both like to start.”

“Yes, please,” Spencer said, the words slipping out a little quicker than he probably intended. “Garcia is the—”

“Pulling it up right now!” the redhead interrupted brightly. “All three Duffy poems annotated and transcribed as you requested—coming on the big screen in…”

You watched as she typed furiously for a moment before pushing a button. “Now!”, she finished.

Just like that, the familiar words flashed across the screen, casting the room in a soft, muted glow. “Printed yours on classic paper just for you, boy genius,” Garcia chirped, nodding toward the neatly arranged file in front of Spencer. He shot her a small, grateful smile. And while you made a mental note to ask him about the nicknames later, you couldn’t help but think how easy she—Garcia, you heard Spencer say—was to like.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The entire team seemed to sit straighter, their attention sharpening as the poems appeared on the screen. You forced yourself to meet their collective gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement.

“Well—” you began, standing slowly, but the word caught in your throat.

Taking a step forward, you willed yourself to focus, but the moment quickly faltered when your foot caught on a loose wire. The stumble was embarrassing as it was fast—awkward and ungraceful. Before you could even think about catching yourself, Spencer’s hands were there, steadying you with a firm grip around your waist. If you hadn’t been blushing already, you definitely were now.

It was—compromising, to say the least.

it was also impossible to ignore the subtle ripple of awareness that swept through the room. When you finally settled back into your chair—deciding that yes, sitting was definitely the better option—the awkward tangle of fingers and gestures only made it worse.

“Maybe I need to join a book club,” an older man teased, mock seriousness hiding his amusement. The flush on both your cheeks and Spencer’s was hard to miss.

Your cough broke the tension. “Right, um, well,” you said again, this time striving for steadiness. “I guess—Uh, I’ll start with the overall themes of the poems.” You winced internally as the words came out more like a question than a statement. Spencer met your eyes with a small, encouraging smile. You took a deep breath, grounding yourself.

Turning toward the screen, you were more than thankful for the familiar cadence the poems provided, a welcome anchor amidst your nerves. “Each of these poems,” you managed, your voice gradually finding its strength, “They explore different facets of longing, connection, and disconnection. They’re unified by Duffy’s ability to convey intimacy in a way that feels both personal and universal.” You shifted slightly, gesturing toward a specific line. “Her use of metaphors—like here in the second stanza of Warming Her Pearls—is subtle but evocative.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave you. You clung to his silent reassurance as you pressed on. “Note here, the words: ‘Slack on my neck, her rope.’ All three poems carry this underlying theme of violence—sometimes concealed, sometimes blatant.”

“Except in the last note.” Spencer added. You nodded fervently in agreement.

“All alone. Little Red Cap. There’s nothing subtle about it anymore. The violence in there is raw and deliberate,” You continued, glancing back at the screen. “As he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw. The glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.” You quoted the lines onscreen. “She’s angry. Vengeful, even.”

“It’s a significant escalation.” The older gentleman noted. Rossi, you ventured to guess.

“Right. The shift from subtle tension to overt aggression isn’t just thematic anymore.” Spencer added. “It mirrors the unsub’s own behavior in the crimescenes.”

Derek’s chair creaked as he leaned back, his arms folding thoughtfully across his chest. “And we’re thinking these poems are, what, a roadmap? A way to track how she’s falling apart?”

You hesitated, considering the question. “I wouldn’t necessarily say they’re a map, they’re not a reflection of her so much as an extension of her unraveling,” you said slowly. “We use this term often—It’s almost like a manifestation of how the violence is spilling out, consuming her.”

You glanced up at them, searching their faces for understanding. Hotch gave a subtle nod of approval, eyes fixed on the screen.

“And what’s most compelling,” you continued with growing confidence, easing the conversation back into analysis, “is how Duffy’s structure mirrors this emotional push-and-pull. For example, the enjambment here mirrors a lack of closure, a yearning that doesn’t quite resolve.” You point to another stanza, drawing attention to the jagged rhythm of the lines. “The abrupt stops and starts in her verse mirror a loss of control—”

“Sorry, enjamb—what?” Derek tilted his head, the unfamiliar term halting his question halfway.

“Enjambment,” Spencer interjected smoothly. “It’s when a line of poetry flows into the next without a pause or punctuation.”

The woman with dark hair—Emily, you learned—leaned forward, her brow furrowed as she studied the stanza on the screen, absentmindedly toying with a pencil in her hands. “So you’re saying the way the lines break—how they don’t resolve—it’s deliberate. It’s supposed to feel... incomplete?”

Spencer nodded again, eager to explain. “Yes, exactly. It’s a structural choice to keep the reader moving forward without any pauses.”

“Actually…” You paused, then glanced at him with a sheepish smile. “Yes and no. It’s not just about the movement. It’s also about the unresolved feeling it creates. The lines break without closure on purpose. It sheds light on the emotional chaos the speaker is experiencing.”

The room went quiet for a beat, everyone turning toward Spencer, who seemed momentarily taken aback.

“Well,” Rossi broke the pause with a dry laugh, “This is a first.”

Spencer blinked, surprised, then chuckled softly. “I guess I stand corrected.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Don’t worry, Spence. We all have our moments.”

“Correcting Reid and cracking jokes?” Derek said, his tone teasing, “Oh, I like her already.” At that, even Hotch let out the faintest hints of a smile.

Once you found your footing, it was surprisingly easy to keep the momentum going, almost as if you were back in one of the classes you’d TA-ed for—a familiar, comfortable flow. It came with a blur of of questions, some serious, others lighter. That line, she meant it literally? No, Derek, we don’t know if Carol Ann Duffy actually gave her lover a real onion for Valentine’s Day. And yes, Garcia, I wouldn’t be too pleased either if that was my gift. Spencer’s gaze met yours time and time again. His smile was a little fuller, more open, and—dare you think it—proud.

As the meeting wound down, Spencer’s focus remained on you. You were speaking with Hotch by his office, nodding intently at whatever he it was he was saying. Spencer leaned slightly back against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes following your movements. Even when Hotch’s phone buzzed, cutting the discussion short and pulling him away, Spencer’s gaze lingered on you.

“She really knows her stuff, huh?” JJ said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Garcia leaned forward, eyes sparkling with approval. “Oh, I adore her,” she declared with trademark enthusiasm. “Smart, funny—Spencer Reid, how on earth have you been keeping her under wraps?”

Emily quirked a brow, her smirk teasing. “Hey Reid, remind me again which book club this was? Might have to drop by myself.”

Spencer barely shifted, barely acknowledged their teasing. They’d caught him mid-thought, and his response was subtle but telling—a smile he didn’t bother to suppress.

“Pretty too,” JJ mouthed quietly, eyebrows raised, giving Spencer a playful thumbs-up as Hotch called her over with a sharp nod. She offered you a small smile as she passed you.

When you finally crossed the room to where they were standing, Spencer straightened, taking a step closer to meet you halfway. The fondness in his eyes was a quiet but telling softness that gave him away entirely. He couldn’t hide it even if he tried to—The way his expression softened as he watched you was answer enough.

“Hey, you,” he greeted, his voice softer now, his hands sliding into his pockets as you stopped in front of him.

“Hey,” you replied, your smile mirroring his.

“You did great in there,” he said, his eyes holding yours.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile playful. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Spencer’s lips twitched into a small, lopsided grin, his tone carrying just the faintest touch of humor. Before you could roll your eyes at his cheesiness, he added, “No, seriously. Hotch had that smile—you don’t want to know what happened to the last consultant who didn’t impress him.”

You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice. “He called me by my last name and all. That’s good, right?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Spencer chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “That’s basically your official BAU initiation,” he said, earning a laugh from you in response.

Nearby, Garcia and Emily exchanged knowing glances, their collective amusement barely concealed. There was an ease between the two of you everyone could see—comfortable in all the right ways.

“I’ll see you tonight?” you asked, leaning a little closer, your voice dropping into something almost private. “We can order in.” Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but Hotch’s sharp tone cut through the air.

“Reid. Meeting room. Now.”

Spencer’s head snapped toward Hotch instinctively, but not before he casted a glance toward you, worry etched faintly in the crease of his brow. Hotch’s gaze was intense, brows furrowed in a way that signaled urgency. JJ was close behind him, her own face taut with concern. Before Spencer could speak, Hotch’s eyes flicked toward you.

“Both of you.”

Spencer’s expression shifted instantly, his lips parting as though to say something else in protest, but the force in Hotch’s tone left no room for delay. Without a word, you followed them into the meeting room, Spencer falling into step beside you. He brushed his shoulder lightly against yours, just for a second—a brief moment of reassurance—before stepping ahead to hold the door open.

JJ wasted no time. She set the tone with her first words.

“The last note we received wasn’t the last crime,” she began, her tone marked by an undercurrent of urgency, “It was the first.”

The room fell into a stunned silence for a moment, then erupted into a flurry of questions.

“How the hell did that happen?” Emily asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was sharp, impatient.

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he replied grimly. “Pathology assumed the timeline was linear because the crime scenes were discovered only a day apart. But the toxicology report just came back—trace amounts of formaldehyde were found in the last one. Enough that it went unnoticed at first.”

“Preservation,” Spencer murmured, his brow furrowing. “The unsub kept the body.”

“So everything we’ve been assuming about the escalation—it’s off?” Derek asked frustratingly as he ran a hand down his face. “If the last note was actually the first crime, then we’ve been looking at this all wrong.”

You watched as Spencer leaned forward slightly, nodding in agreement. “The progression isn’t linear.”

“That changes everything,” Rossi said, “If this is just the beginning, then the escalation’s going to happen a hell of a lot faster.”

“That puts Warner first, doesn’t it?” Emily asked, “She was found along the trail off Route 74. So, that would mean her note is ‘All alone.’ Which poem was that from again?” she added, turning to you for clarification.

“Little Red Cap,” Spencer answered, finishing the thought for you.

“Who’s Warner?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew it was the wrong move. The room went unnervingly still, every pair of eyes shifting toward you.

For a moment, no one spoke. Hotch stopped mid-motion, his hand hovering over his face as if he had been expecting this but still couldn’t quite believe it. He let out a long, measured sigh, the tension in the room discernable.

“Reid,” Hotch’s voice cut through the silence, calm but with an unmistakable sharpness, “You brought her in without briefing her?” The disbelief in his tone was clear.

Spencer froze, his posture stiffening, a mix of surprise and guilt flashing across his face. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then tried again. “I—uh,” he stammered, clearly flustered. “I thought— I thought it wasn’t necessary because—”

Hotch raised a hand, effectively silencing him with just a glance. “JJ,” Hotch added, his tone expectant. Without another word, she slid a case file across the table toward you. It was a clear, unspoken message. There was no turning back now. You were in this—whether Spencer liked it or not.

Hotch’s gaze softened ever so slightly when he turned to you, the reprimand fading from his tone. “Take your time. I understand it’s a lot to process.” You swallowed nervously and managed a small nod.

Hotch’s eyes flicked back to Spencer, narrowing slightly. “You know better,” he said, the reproach lingering in his gaze. Your heart tightened as Spencer winced visibly, his lips pressing together in an almost imperceptible sign of distress. His usually composed demeanor seemed completely undone, now clearly as rattled as you by the situation.

The team continued their discussion, voices overlapping in a controlled urgency as you turned your focus to the case file. The photos stared back at you, streaked with deep crimson, each image more brutal than the last. You flipped through the pages with bated breath as you fought to process the sheer violence of it.

Three crime scenes. Three murders. Three bodies.

Joni Munroe.

Nicole Jayson.

Eleanor Warner.

All women in their twenties. Young. Living alone. All stabbed.

A waitress. A dog walker. A student.

"Was there a connection between the—the victims?" you asked, the words awkwardly halting as they left your lips. It was a struggle to piece together the overwhelming flood of information let alone find the effort to form a coherent question. God, how does Spencer do this everyday?

JJ answered you, as if she’d been expecting the question. “They all attended Virginia West University,” she said, her tone steady. “But none of them had any ties to each other. Warner was the only current student. The rest had graduated, different years, different classes.”

You nodded slowly, trying to offer her a small, understanding smile. The room buzzed continued to buzz around you as Derek broke through the haze, his voice charged. “Babygirl, check reports for any bodies found in the past 48 hours.”

Babygirl? Okay, you definitely had to ask Spencer about the nicknames later. For now, it was a welcome distraction though, momentarily diverting your attention away from the unsettling splotches of maroon staining the photos in front of you.

“Bodies? No, the unsub wouldn’t have acted that fast,” Spencer corrected, his tone almost automatic. “Check for missing persons instead.”

Rossi didn’t miss a beat, nodding sharply. “Garcia, cross-reference recent missing persons reports. Check for females.”

“On it,” Garcia said, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. The clacking of keys filled the momentary silence. “Okay,” she said after a pause, her voice tight with focus. “I’ve got two reports from the last 48 hours. Marsha Williams, 63, homemaker, retired professor. And Jeanine Wayland, 26, worked at a gas station.”

“Wayland—She fits the profile,” Emily said, leaning in toward the glowing screen. “Young, low-income job. Garcia, do we know if she was from Virgina West too?”

“Give me a second.” Garcia’s voice was tight with focus as her fingers flew across the keyboard.

A shift stirred within you. If the last note was really the first, the team was right. It redefined everything. Little red cap. Your mind raced back to your conversation with Spencer last night. The wolf symbolized someone older, predatory. They were students, weren’t they? Yes—all three of them.

You swallowed. “Um, Garcia?” you asked hesitantly, your voice wavering slightly as the weight of the room’s focus pressed in on you. “Marsha Williams—what university did she teach at?”

There was a brief pause, the rapid tap of Garcia’s fingers on the keyboard filling the silence. “Hold on, let me check… okay, it says here she received the Action Teaching Award, Long service awards, 10 years, 20 years—Wanna bet she makes it to 30?"

"Garcia," Hotch said warningly.

"Sorry, sorry, and 25 years—all at—” Garcia's voice faltered, a sharp intake of breath following.

“Words, babygirl,” Derek prodded gently.

When she finally replied, her voice was taut with unease.

“All at Virginia West University.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x reader comfort

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ladyrowrites · 11 months ago

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“EX-BOYFRIEND GOJO”

A/N: Just had a thought about this lol! Might have more ex-boyfriend series :)

Pairings: Gojo x Afab reader

Warning: Angst, Gaslighting, mentions of stalking and bribing, swearing, death threats, smoking, MDNI!!!!

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who gives you the annoyed look everytime you ask him to talk and fix your relationship. He’d sigh and say, “What now, y/n? Am I not enough for you?”

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who broke up with you because he accused you of being too controlling even though you only asked him to tell you where he was and who he was with every time he said he was going somewhere. When you said that you only wanted to know so you’d stop worrying, he also accused you of being jealous.

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who hated seeing you move on to someone else so he bribes or threatens all your prospects. Your dates will neither show up or just ghost you. When you learned this from Shoko, you immediately deleted all your social media, changed your phone number, and even changed your home address to escape from his toxicity.

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who panicked when he went to your house to confront you why you deleted all your social media accounts but it was a stranger who answered your ‘supposed’ to be home and basically harassed Shoko for your new info. Shoko gave Gojo the finger and said, “Leave her alone.”

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who saw you outside your workplace with a blonde guy who was wearing a blue button up shirt under a tan blazer with matching slacks and light shoes and thought why were you two laughing so much and why were you two so close? He was about to approach you but you saw him in your peripheral vision and took your co-worker’s wrist and ran inside your work building.

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who was furious when he saw you ran away with a nobody compared to him. Really that guy? He bribed and threatened your boss to give him your new address and phone number. There was the biggest smirk on his face because he thought he won.

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who was now fuming because it was the guy he saw you with answered your door and looked so nonchalant at him with a cig in his hand. “Who the fuck are you?” was what he said, the blonde hair guy replied, “If you don’t leave her alone, I will personally help her file a restraining order from you.” And closed the door in his face.

Ex-Boyfriend Gojo who knocked loudly again but when the door opened, his face fell. The same guy now had a cleaver with black and white spots on it in his right hand, and said, “If you don’t leave now or ever…” Then blew a smoke in his face, “I don’t think there will be a nice ending for both of us and I really really don’t like going to jail.” Your ex-boyfriend Gojo just nodded and left.

#lady ro writes #gojo angst #gojo fan fic #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fan fiction #ex bf gojo #ex bf gojo satoru #ex boyfriend gojo #nanami #nanami x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami

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novacorpsrecruit · 6 months ago

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The Missing Poster

This image is making rounds on Twitter and having people arguing Eddie’s age again so I want to throw my head canon out

This is ignoring flight of Icarus because I haven’t read it.

T | wc 1,903 | tw: death/murder, abuse

Wayne had prayed he’d never have to make another missing poster again.

In 1984, Eddie went off on a bender. It was a series of unfortunate phone calls that fell like dominoes.

First, the school.

His grades were low. He’s failed too many classes. He wasn’t going to graduate.

Then, Eddie’s dad, Ricky.

He was in the Marion County jail. Waiting to be processed. He had two charges: manslaughter and second-degree murder. He had no bond. He was to be kept at Marion County until his court proceedings take place.

Then, the coroner’s office.

Ricky failed to mention to Wayne who was dead. Who he killed. If Wayne knew Ricky had strangled Elizabeth, he would’ve told Eddie not to answer anymore phone calls.

But the third call came, Eddie already on his breaking point. He picked it up, and was met with the terrible news, given to him by someone so mechanical with their words. As if they were telling him that there was a coupon for milk in the grocery’s ads.

His mom was dead.

The coroner’s office needed to know which funeral home to send the body to. Not her body. The body.

Eddie dropped the phone, taking off outside. Wayne was quick on his heels for someone who complained about how his knee ached.

“Eddie! Eddie!” Wayne called, following after him. “Eddie, boy! C’mon home.” Wayne reached out, gently touching Eddie’s arm to lead him back to the house. Eddie snatched his arm away, as if Wayne’s touch was hot like fire, turning around tears streaming down his face.

“She was supposed to be okay!” Eddie shouted. “She wasn’t supposed to be around him! She was supposed to get clean! She promised! She promised!”

“Eds —“ Wayne started, a soft sigh and he reached back out. Eddie took a step back, shaking his head.

“No — no, I —“ he shook his head again, running his fingers through his hair. “Fuck this. I gotta — I gotta go.”

“Go where?” Wayne asked, taking a step towards Eddie like a baby deer. Eddie shook his head, taking two steps back.

“I gotta get out of here —“

Gravel crunching under tires pulled both their attentions back to the trailer house. Wayne recognized the Chevy Blazer immediately. Chief Hopper has made stops to the Munson home a few times since Eddie moved in with Wayne in ‘79. Eddie always seemed to find trouble. Or trouble always seems to find the Munson’s.

“Eds, we should —“ Wayne turned to look back at Eddie, already taken off into the woods. Wayne sighed and approached Chief Hopper.

“Wayne,” Hopper said, taking off his hat and holding it to his chest. He nodded at where Eddie once stood. “I’m guessing Marion County called.”

“My boy answered the phone,” Wayne supplied. “So I’m not sure what was said, but the way he was talking ‘bout his momma, I can assume the earlier call from his daddy was related.”

Hopper nodded, glancing towards the forest where Eddie disappeared. “You know where he took off to?”

“Nope,” Wayne said. “He’s got friends in town, and a few spots near the lake ‘nd the quarry.”

“He take off like this before?”

Wayne let out a half laugh. “A few times. Usually back in the middle of the night or by mornin’. Never gone for a full day.”

Hopper let out a hum. “He ain’t back by sunset tomorrow, give me a call.”

Wayne gave a nod, looking out towards the forest. “He’ll be back by mornin’.”

Hopper nodded. “Sorry about Elizabeth. She was a kind soul.”

“Just kept findin’ that trouble named Ricky,” Wayne sighed. “Thanks, Jim.”

Hopper started back towards his car, stopping in his place. “Hey, uh, I wouldn’t … be surprised if they called your boy to testify.”

Wayne wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean? He was here.”

“Character witness,” Hopper supplied. “He — I remember those bruises and cuts he had when we dropped him off on your porch a few years back. The prosecutor might call ‘im up to recount Ricky’s abuse.”

Wayne let out a deep sigh. He remembered that night all too well. Eddie had always been tall for his age, even at 13. But scrawny teen looked small with his arms crossed over his chest, more purple bruising on his body than his pale skin, standing behind Jim Hopper. It didn’t take much for Wayne to connect the dots, and it didn’t take much convincing when he called Ricky a week later to let Eddie stay with him in Hawkins permanently. He watched that buzz cut kid grow into his larger than life personality, leaving his hard edges back in Indianapolis with his father. But now, Ricky came crashing back into Eddie’s life, knocking the walls of security down.

“Thanks Jim,” Wayne said. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Hopper gave one more nod before climbing into the Blazer and driving off. Wayne sighed, walking back to the house and sitting on the couch outside. He pulled out his cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette between his lips.

Wayne wasn’t sure how long he waited outside for Eddie. Longer than he should’ve. He finally moved inside when the sun started to blush the sky. He crashed on the couch, hardly sleeping as he waited for the sound of the trailer creaking with Eddie’s heavy footsteps.

But it never came.

The day came and went, and Eddie was no where to be found.

Wayne tried his friends, calling down the list of the guys who played Eddie’s dragons game with him. No one had seen him since yesterday. He tried the Library and the Hideout. No luck. Wayne went through Eddie’s little black book of phone numbers. Hell, he even tried a few places in Indy. The more numbers he called, the more he grew wary.

What felt like hours later, he called Hopper.

He told him to come down to the station, bring a recent photo. So Wayne grabbed the one off the fridge — the one he took at the beginning of the school year. It was way too hot for Eddie to be wearing his long sleeve under the t-shirt, but arguing with Eddie on what to wear was like arguing with a wall. The sun was in Eddie’s eyes. Eddie barely wanted to take the photo in the first place. Wayne made him. Said they would send the photo to his momma. To remember senior year.

Fucking hell.

When he got to the station, he was directed to one of the administrative ladies. She took the photo and took information about Eddie. His height. His weight. His age.

Shit.

He was turning 18 next week.

The woman finished making the flyer, using the Xerox in the back to add Eddie’s photo to it. She handed him a stack of copies and the photo back.

“What now?” Wayne asked.

“We wait,” she said. “He’s officially a missing person. Officers know to keep a look out. We’ll let other stations know as well.”

Wayne nodded, taking a step back. Her words echoed in his head. We wait.

He took the flyers and hung them around town. Taking them to every business, every office, posting them on telephone poles. A few passbyers took it out of politeness, barely looking at Eddie’s photo as they walked by. At least, the woman at Melvard’s was kind, looking at him with sympathy and promising him he would turn up. Her own boy turned up last year, even after he was pronounced dead. Maybe she had enough hope to bring Eddie back safe as well.

But days past and nobody heard from Eddie. Wayne grew more and more worried, feeling like his all efforts of searching were going to waste. Wayne found it harder and harder to sleep at night, worried about his boy.

It wasn’t until he got that faithful call from Hopper.

“They found him.”

Wayne can’t recall the details or where they found him or what drugs was in his system. All Wayne could remember was Eddie lying in that hospital bed, paler than the sheets looking at Wayne like Wayne was Ricky.

Wayne sat in the chair next to Eddie, slowly and gently placing his hand on top of Eddie’s, running his thumb against his skin. “What a way to spend your birthday, huh?”

Eddie let out a wet laugh, relaxing against Wayne’s touch. “Sorry, Wayne, didn’t mean t’scare ya.”

“Don’t do it again,” Wayne said, leaning up to press a kiss against Eddie’s hair. “Please.”

Wayne doesn’t blame Eddie for this time.

It’s that Munson trouble that found him. He knew Eddie didn’t kill that girl. It wasn’t his nature. He’s not like Ricky.

Eddie isn’t like his father.

It’s been almost a week since he heard from Eddie. A few days since the teens were around the trailer park asking about him. Nobody has heard from Eddie. He knows the police are looking for him, placing him at that girl’s murder.

But it wasn’t Eddie.

Wayne had just hung up that missing poster this morning at the gym, where the City had called for a shelter. He went to the library and Xeroxed a couple of copies of the missing poster he kept folded up in his wallet. There wasn’t enough resources or time to make another. A quick change to the missing date, thanks to the type writer at the front desk. Wayne folded up the original, placing it back in his wallet. It served as a reminder of to keep his boy close. To make sure he felt loved.

And someone took a damn marker to it, vandalizing his boy to hell. Wayne pulled down the destroyed flyer, trashing it. He replaced it with the new one, feeling his heart ache as he looked at young Eddie, beginning of his first senior year.

Now, he didn’t know where he was.

“Mr. Munson?”

Wayne turned around to see a boy with curly hair, the same boy who stopped by the trailer park with the other teens, now sporting crutches. Another boy, about Eddie’s age stood behind him, with a red ring around his neck. He stood strong, almost like a soldier, holding something gently in his hand, as if he was afraid he would crush it.

The younger boy leaned forward, the older boy nearly shot out his free hand, grabbing the other to stabilize him. The younger boy lowered his voice. “We know where Eddie is.”

The older boy extended his bandaged hand, opening it to reveal Eddie’s guitar pick necklace.

And that’s all it took for Wayne to follow them to the old Hawkins lab. Wayne nearly jumped out of his truck as he followed the boys into the lab, down the hall and into a makeshift hospital room.

There laid Eddie, like he did not even two years before. His hair matted and dirty, his face and arms bandaged like he went through hell and back. He looked up at Wayne, his eyes watered. “Wayne —“

Wayne leaned down and buried a kiss into Eddie’s hair. “You’re safe, son,” Wayne whispered. “You’re safe.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’scare ya,” Eddie said with a lopsided smile. Wayne let out a soft laugh, relieved his boy was alive.

“Don’t do it again,” Wayne whispered into his hair. “I mean it this time.”

#stranger things #eddie munson #wayne munson #stranger things fic #stranger things ficlet #//myfic #al Munson who??? that’s Ricky Munson

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crime-wives · 11 months ago

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ouat 1x01 thoughts

god regina, you dramatic bitch. “I shall destroy your happiness if it is the last thing I do” ok darling, you can destroy me if you’d like

henry is so small, his tiny cheeks awww

not to be gay but… emma swan in the pink dress. fuck. i forgot how attracted to her i was. and the HAIR, the fucking princess curls. jesus christ her ARMS.

“bail bonds-person” i love her

yesss bitch, strut across the street like you own it. absolute icon behavior, slamming that asshole’s face into the steering wheel.

babe you’re so sad and pathetic with your vanilla cupcake. i bet she wished for family.

not her apartment door saying ‘cast a spell’

“My name’s Henry, and i’m your son” agevgsvegw STOP

her having a panic attack in the bathroom, so real.

once again, her ARMS, i want her so bad

henry’s cute little freckles, i can’t do this.

idgaf abt snow and charming “She poisoned an apple because she thought I was prettier than her” shut up bitch, you know that’s not why

“Oh kid, you’ve got problems” emma swan, insulting children since 1983

ok but the fact that they chose the name ‘emma’ in a fairytale world, lmao

evil queen theme song playing as they enter storybrooke

emma swan wearing the most dyke outfit possible. getting ready to impress milfs

not that there’s any significance, but emma’s license plate is: 836•M4X

snow and charming are so annoying istg

ewww the blue fairy, i hate that bitch (derogatory)

regina running towards henry and wrapping him up in a hug. her eyes are wet. good lord, her first reaction is concern and worry, not anger.

“I found my real mom” my HEART. her face after he said that, so stricken and hurt, baby…

emma’s little flustered, ‘hi’ when talking to a gorgeous milf. ok babe, we get it, you’re gay.

graham leaving bc of emma and regina’s immediate sexual tension. and regina’s eyes roving over emma.

first ‘Miss Swan’ of the show at exactly 21:00 minutes.

emma swan is so desperate to impress regina. it’d be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic (affectionate)

“Sneaky bastard” once again, emma swan insulting children since 1983

crashing into the storybrooke sign like the absolute icon she is

the cgi 💀💀

yay!! curse time :)

emma waking up in a jail cell. she just does not give a fuck about this shit.

her lips parting when she she’s regina, ok babe, she’s hot we get it

LIP SCAR

god mary-margaret pisses me off

go regina, knock over mary-margaret’s shit, absolute queen

“She’s kinda a hardass” yes but that turns you on, doesn’t it?

gina’s so hot when she’s evil

putting a newborn through the wardrobe to save themselves, a+ parenting

henry mills, once again, the most mature one in a situation “You don’t have to be hostile. You like me, I can tell. You’re just pushing me away because I make you feel guilty.”

“I wanted you to have your best chance. But it’s not with me. C’mon, let’s go.” go emma! be the mature adult i know you can be

petition to get emma swan a therapist so she can deal with all her issues (trust me, she’s got a lot of them)

“Look, your mom is trying her best. I know it’s hard, and I know sometimes you think she doesn’t love you, but at least she wants you.” emma swan, standing up for regina mills since the moment they met

mmm regina’s voice is so hot.

her unhinged laughter, i love her so much

“Where are we going?” “Somewhere horrible, absolutely horrible” takes them to maine

emma swan is so fucking desperate for regina’s approval. she wished to not be alone on her birthday, baby…

second ‘Miss Swan’ of the show at 38:43 (i will be keeping count of all of them :D)

regina fidgeting with her blazer pockets, she’s so anxious

first “He’s my son” at 39:01 minutes

“I will destroy you if it is the last thing I do” babe, it’s kinda gay to have a nemesis, just saying

third ‘Miss Swan’ of the show at 39:32

baby… gina is coming apart at the seems

god, not to be gay, but regina’s HANDS at 40:27 agevvegse

emma’s only staying because of regina’s provocations. she wouldn’t have stayed for henry.

gold is so icky.

she’s staying a *only* a week, sure babe, sure.

also side note, i forgot how good the coloring was in ouat. like its very faded, maybe indicative of storybrooke being stuck in the past???

#i will do this for as many eps as i feel like #is anyone going to read this. absolutely not #but i’m having fun #ouat #swan queen #regina mills #ouat rambles #anya rambles #once upon a time #i sound insane i’m (not) sorry

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grapenehifics · 11 months ago

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Prisoner 224

I really loved writing Out of Sync for @fulcrum843's @topwan-obikin fest prompt, but fully intended it to be a one-shot until @somethingsteff started feeding me ideas and, well, I'm limited on free time right now so this is still only a ficlet but I couldn't help myself.

If you don't know the fic, the Council finds out about Obi-Wan and Anakin's relationship and they quit the Order. Anakin punches Palpatine when he insults Obi-Wan and gets sent to jail, and Obi-Wan hurries to hit the Chancellor as well so they can stay together. This also fulfills @ficwip's Hey Sweetheart challenge!

Text under the cut:

“Where are we going?” Anakin demanded. His hands were bound at the wrists in front of him, which didn’t make him look very threatening, but he gave his best glare to the backs of the heads of the troopers escorting him down the hall anyway.

Neither the troopers ahead of him nor the two at his back answered him. Their little group just kept marching along.

“I demand to know where you’re taking me,” Anakin tried, not pausing in his forward march but flexing his fingertips in preparation. He didn’t want to use the Force against them – besides the fact that they were probably just acting on orders from someone higher up the prison management chain of command, he was also pretty sure even something mild like knocking four guards out for a few hours would get his sentence extended and that was the opposite of what he wanted considering Obi-Wan was already slated to get out weeks before he did – but he also was not planning on taking a move to another cell block without putting up some sort of a fight.

He and Obi-Wan were kept apart for most of the day – Anakin in his cell and Obi-Wan in his – but because they were part of the same cell block, they were allowed to take both their exercise hour and their meal break together, Anakin holding Obi-Wan’s hand clasped in his as they jogged around the exercise track in their prison-issued tracksuits and rubbing elbows as they sat side-by-side with their dinner trays (and this only because they’d been told off for trying to sit on each other’s laps instead). But it was still a far sight better than not getting to see him at all, and Anakin hadn’t even done anything wrong (lately) and so really didn’t deserve to be punished like this.

“I want to go back to my cell,” he said.

“One of my batchmates is serving under Commander Cody in the 212th,” the trooper behind Anakin on his right said through his helmet vocoder. “CT-3812.”

“Sure. Punch, right?” Anakin said easily. “Yeah, I know him. But what has that got to do with anything?”

“That’s him,” the trooper agreed. None of the prison guards had ever told Anakin their names, just their badge numbers, although not for lack of asking. This one was one of the supervisors. Some of the younger guys were so green they had five-digit designations. “He’s met General Kenobi a few times.”

“Cool. So have I,” Anakin nearly growled. “That’s who I’m trying to get back to. So if you could just put me back in my cell, that’d be great. Or at least tell me what I’ve done.”

“Punch tells me he’s a real stand-up guy,” the trooper continued, as if Anakin hadn’t spoken. “Always makes sure his men have enough to eat. Doesn’t take unnecessary risks. That sort of thing.”

They rounded a corner. Anakin was starting to get desperate. “Just tell me where we’re going,” he practically begged. “I can call in a couple of favors and get myself reassigned back to Obi-Wan’s floor”-

“Punch also said,” the trooper on Anakin’s right said, so loudly he was almost shouting in Anakin’s ear, “that one time you and your troops joined up with their battalion, you threw yourself in front of a blazer bomb. Saved the lives of fifteen men.”

Anakin had done that enough times that that didn’t really narrow it down for him. “Which campaign?” he asked, but the trooper ignored him yet again, which seemed rude, considering he’d started the conversation in the first place.

A commlink chirped – Anakin instinctively looked to his own belt before remembering he didn’t wear one anymore – and one of the troopers at the front of their procession answered it.

“We’re ready for you, Sergeant,” the voice on the other end said.

“Copy,” the man said, replacing the device on his belt.

“Well, I’m not ready,” Anakin said, and he stopped walking. The troopers at his back nearly ran into him. “I’m not going any further without an explanation. If you can’t give me that, then you can just put me back in my cell, because” –

“We do regular maintenance, on all the cells,” one of the troopers injected, talking over the tail end of Anakin’s sentence. “Routine cleaning, things like that. Check that the water pipes are functioning properly, do a little light dusting…”

“I don’t care if my cell is clean or not,” Anakin hissed. “You can skip mine for the next five months if you want. Or let me do it myself. Is that the problem? Just give me the tools and leave me alone. If you’re worried I’m going to break out, I promise I won’t. As long as you’ve got Obi-Wan here I’m, like, the opposite of a flight risk.”

“It might take, say, three hours to finish the whole floor, wouldn’t you say?” the trooper on Anakin’s left asked the trooper on Anakin’s right.

“Maybe as many as four,” he responded.

“And we do these sorts of rounds every other week,” the first one continued.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Anakin demanded.

“If you’d just wait right in here, Prisoner 224,” the trooper who was friends with Punch said, and nudged Anakin in the back with the butt of his rifle.

“I told you; I’m not going. And you’re bluffing. You won’t shoot me.”

“That’s true,” the trooper admitted. “I’m not. What I am going to do is count to thirty, and by the time I get to the end, you’re going to decide to go, all on your own.”

“Ha,” Anakin said. “Like hell I am. What on earth do you think would make me” –

“Here we are, sir,” another of the troopers said, and he punched the button to release the door guard in front of one of the cells. He was wearing a bucket, but he somehow seemed to be able to stare straight into Anakin’s eyes anyway. “Four hours, every other week,” he repeated slowly, enunciating very clearly.

“I don’t care how clean it is,” Anakin insisted, just as he was very unceremoniously shoved forward into the new cell he absolutely did not want to be in –

“Oh. Hello, sweetheart,” Obi-Wan said, sitting up from where he’d been lying on his back across his bunk, his arms crossed behind his head. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What” – Anakin stammered as the door guard slammed down behind him, locking him in. Locking him into Obi-Wan’s cell. With Obi-Wan.

Anakin opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. The binders around his wrists unlocked and fell to the floor with a clatter. “Send Punch my regards,” he said, without turning his head. He and Obi-Wan hadn’t stopped staring into one another’s eyes from the moment they’d faced one another. Obi-Wan grinned. Anakin grinned back.

“Will do, sir,” his friend said jovially, but Anakin missed hearing him as he launched himself at Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan, laughing, caught him and lowered him down onto his bunk.

“Did I just hear you say something about four hours?” Obi-Wan asked mischievously, one eyebrow raising into a verbal question mark.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan did.

#hey sweetheart #out of sync #obikin

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cillians-sweetheart · 23 days ago

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𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 ☣︎ Chapter 30

Description: Johnathan Crane x Patient Reader. An 18 year old girl suffers from a mental disorder that Dr Crane takes an interest in, but It isn't just the disorder that catches his eye. Their love becomes so strong it drives her dangerously mad... more mad then she or him could ever imagine.

ROMANCE + HORROR + SMUT STORY

No Batman and not everything about crane that's mentioned is correct to the actual character in DC.

TW: Violence, Sexual Content, Alcohol/Drug Use, Gore, Mental Illness, Parental Issues, Smut, Murder, Extreme Kinks (dom/crane, blood, choking, hair pulling, spanking, age gap, toys, dub-con and daddy kink) and Mention of Abuse, Assault and SA.

Not all warnings shown will be used in this exact chapter! Bold warnings are some to be expected throughout the chapter below!

Johnathan ripped his mask from his face as we were now back in privacy. I handed him the mall I had gotten and he began to quickly rip them open. His eyes scanned quickly over every word. A look in his eyes showed he still wasn't satisfied by what he saw.

"what's wrong hunny?" I held onto his bicep, lightly running my fingertips over his blazer sleeve.

"I have a trial tomorrow and I still have not gotten anything from the judge with any further information."

"Trial? You didn't tell me you had a trial?"

"Yeah because you don't need to worry about my work life."

"Who's it for?"

"Some thug who works for me. I make it my deal to get him out of jail time." Johnathan slammed the useless letters onto the kitchen island and rubbed his forehead.

I pulled myself into his arm and cuddled to it. "Do you want me to come with you?" I asked softly.

"No No. It's not safe."

"Not safe how?"

"I don't need you being anywheres near the public unless it is my work."

"But there will be police there, no one will hurt me."

"That's the problem. The police."

"Oh..."

"Sorry sweetheart." Johnathan tussled my hair around while grinning at me reassuringly.

Tomorrow

"Mr Gray. You have been brought here to my court today with charges of drug trafficking, drug possession, aggravated assault, 2 counts of murder and possession of multiple illegal weapons. My Finch, please come to the whiteness stand." The Judge spoke as the opposing lawyer, Mr Finch stood.

"Thank you your honour" He bowed stepping into the stand. "In my belief, My Gray is a sociopathic threat to our society. Our streets of Gotham were in deep harm because of this mans thoughtless crimes. Many innocent lives were taken and/or harmed. I say My Gray is a perfect candidate for life in prison. With no parole."

"Objection!" Mr Thatcher, Mr Grays lawyer, spat out while standing. "My client has been recently admitted to experiencing psychotic type symptoms, making his actions completely unpredictable. Yes he is dangerous but, your honour, he is unable to read the rights and wrongs of our world, due to his possible condition. Mr Gray here is sick and does not deserve a punishment for his illness. As human rights go, he should be evaluated into his mental health before a prison sentence is made."

The Judge sighed and laid his hands flat onto the platform in front of him. "Very well. Mr Finch, is there anything you wish to add?"

He thought for a moment. "No your honour."

"You may be dismissed."

"Thank you your honour." He bowed again before returning to the opposing side of Mr Thatcher.

"Any more words? Mr Thatcher." The Judge raised his head.

"No your honour."

"Thank you. Dr Crane, please step forward."

Johnathan came from the gallery where people of the public and the families of Mr Gray sat. He straightened his tie then proceeded to sit at the whiteness stand.

"In my opinion, Mr Gray is as much a danger to himself as to others. And prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation."

"Objection your honour!" Mr Finch stood. "This man is just as guilty as the accused. I've done some review on Dr Crane here's cases and it seems that there's been many of his thugs put into his asylum with no real signs of psychosis."

"I can assure you Mr Finch, my patients are very well ill." He pushed his glasses up from the bridge of his nose. "I'd love if you came and took a look for yourself."

"Okay Okay." The Judge interrupted. "Dr Crane. Please, continue"

"Thank you." Johnathan continued. "I will have Mr Gray admitted into my ward until he is throughly investigated for psychosis. And I'm sure I will not disappoint you Mr Finch with my diagnosis. As I am the best doctor Mr Gray will find in Gotham."

"Your honour I apologize but this man is acting like an imbecile. It is clear there are no signs of psychosis in Mr Gray."

"And I apologize to say you Mr Finch, are not the one with a medical degree. Yes?"

"Alright." The Judge slammed him hands down. "Mr Gray will be sentenced under investigation to Arkham Asylum until further notice on his mental stability." His mallet came down confirming the sentence. "Dr Crane, you may be dismissed."

"Thank you your honour." He smirked giving a devious look to Mr Finch.

During Johnathan's trial I stayed home watching the television and looking at Johnathan's weird books. I missed him terribly, so much it made me feel physically ill. My head hurt and I felt empty inside. All the channels on his television were medical documentaries, the news and some weird science show where they dissected animals. Nothing was pleasing to me so I just turned it off and went to the bedroom to lay down. Hopefully I was able to let my headache fade on its own. In the bedroom I snuggled myself into his side of the bed; As I always did when he was gone. His pillow smelt of his hair and the blankets smelt of his cologne. I closed my eyes pulling the blanket over my shoulders.

The time passed very quickly. Within of what felt like 10 minutes was really several hours. By the time the front door opened, it was already 8pm. I was half asleep in bed as the sun just began to set. Johnathan kneeled down beside the bed watching me as I slept. He entered the house so quietly I didn't even know he was home.

While I was asleep I began to dream of my mother again. Her tormenting me and screaming at me for killing her. Maybe the drama with the police dialled down but she didn't. She still haunted me every time I closed my eyes.

Suddenly my dream paused and all I saw in my mind was black. I began to feel something that slowly woke me. I squirmed and groaned before I jumped awake. Johnathan was in front of me kissing my face while I slept. My eyes opened and he backed away quickly, pretending he wasn't just kissing my cheeks and forehead. When I saw his face I was suddenly very awake as I jumped at him wrapping my arms around his neck and pushing my face against his. "Johnathan!" I cuddled my face close to his, giving him millions of kisses on his cheek.

"Yes Hi" He pulled his face away and sat onto the bed next to me.

"I missed you so much" I whined grabbing his arm and pulled him to me.

"I missed you too hunny."

"Come here!" I pulled him harder onto the bed so he was laying down next to me. I instantly crawled on top of him and snuggled myself as close as I could to him. I laid on his chest while I looked onto his face, touching it gently with my fingers. "How did it go? Did you win?"

"I'm not a lawyer sweetheart. I can't win."

I took his glasses off him and threw them on the nightstand. "I know but did you get the results you wanted?" I laid my cheek on his, his other cheek being rubbed by my hand. He seemed to feel a bit overstimulated by all the touching but I couldn't help myself. He looked so sweet and felt so soft like a baby.

"Yeah. It went well."

"Aw I'm glad" I kissed his plump lips. "And I just missed you so much.." I pouted.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm"

"Aw you missed daddy?" He smirked, I nodded. "How sweet. Were you good while I was gone?"

"Yes" I moved my head down to rest in the crook of his neck. I deeply inhaled his musky cologne. My tiredness returned as I felt myself melting into him, finally feeling fulfilled by his presence.

"The lobby's filled with police.." Johnathan whispered catching me off guard. I lifted my head up and looked into his eyes.

"What?"

"Yeah but you'll be okay"

"Will you?"

"Yeah most likely. I've been in court all day remember?" He smirked touching my cheek.

"You need to be more careful. If you get taken away who will help proceed with this mission of yours."

"I won't get taken away. The scarecrow is never caught my sweet." He pushed my head down to his lips, kissing my forehead. "And if you'd stop putting yourself in situations like this I wouldn't need to blow people's brains"

"I know... but you look cute while doing it" I blushed.

"I'm not cute."

"Yes you are"

"No, I am well proportioned."

"Same thing." I kissed his cheek. "I'm tired I wanna go to bed now." I rolled off of him and pulled the black duvet over my shoulders.

"Alright." Johnathan sat up from the bed and pushed himself up. I watched him, peaking over the covers, as he began to pull his tie off. He threw it into the closet and began undoing his blazer, then pulling off his knitted sweater underneath. The process of him undressing was always better than just seeing him undressed. The way his abdomen looked as he stretched his arms above his head; Giving the perfect view of his V line coming up from his low waisted pants. He never liked it when I watched so I pretending not too and peaked through one eye.

Johnathan was my sexual awakening. I never felt lust for a man or even myself before him. But the day his hands slid down and between my thighs I've never felt the same. Suddenly after that the male anatomy was all I thought about, and all I wanted. Johnathan portrayed the look of a man better than any I've met before. He looked and acted more masculine than any boy I've seen. But that's probably because he wasn't a boy, he was a man.

#johnathan crane #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader #batman begins #cillian murphy smut #batman #dr crane #johnathan crane fic #johnathan crane smut #johnathan crane x reader #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian fic #cillian fanfic #cillian murphy x you

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princess-of-the-corner · 8 months ago

Text

And Yet More Random Fanfic Quotes!

: )

IcyThotPainRelief: Remember Zuku murder is illegal

Izuwu: Ur one to talk!

IcyThotPainRelief: Look if im not allowed to ruin my reputation neither are u! we either go down together or not at all bitch!

Mom-o: Hagakura! That is highly inappropriate! Even if he does sound like an unsavory individual, we still don’t know how Midoriya feels about the whole situation! So, it’s best not to assume his feelings on the subject.

Izuwu: Well he’s dead to me so technically u guys arnt wrong the bastered can rot in hell for all the heart ach he gave my mom!

Mom-o: Oh okay, carry on you guys.

SharkBoi: Am i gunna need to bail my boyfriend out of jail?

WeepingDarkness669: Thats only if he gets caught

Pikachu: Bold of u to assume our dear Kacchan knows anything about keeping things lowkey when it comes to acts of violence

Tired™: Dont be dragging me into u guys is shit! I was a happy little introvert chilling on my own until u guys showed up!

IcyThotPainRelief: U should of thought of that before spilling ur entire traumatic backstory within a 5 mile radius of Izuku “I will save people with the power of friendship” Midoriya

Izuwu: So as auntie Mitsuki is beating my dead-beat dad with her shoe and guess who decided to show up out ow fuckin nowhere?

Pikachu: The pizza delivery guy?

WeepingDarkness: Death itself?

DisneyPrincess: The cops?

AlienQween: *gestured with feeling* Aliens?

SugarDaddy: The League of Villains?

Hentai: Jesus fucking chist guys…

Izuwu: ALL MIGHT!!!

Izuwu: With like?? a bouquet of flowers?? and in a blazer?? Cuz like apparently hes going out with my mom??

IcyThotPainRelief: I FUSKING KNWE IT!!!

Izuwu: Still not his secret love child Sho!

Izuwu: So anyways All Might is there and is all like “what’s going on” and Kacchan goes “we’re beating up Deku’s shitty dad” then All Might said “wait he’s alive??”

DefyingGravity: Deku’s useless Y chromosome user: quit telling everyone im dead!

DefyingGravity: Us: sometimes i can still hear his voice

Izuwu: SO ANYWAYS

Izuwu: Auntie finally stops beating up my father because she too is really surprised to see All Might at our door step which now allows my sperm doner to finally be aware of his surroundings and he looks up at All Might and goes “who the hell are u and what do u want?” and then All Might looks this man dead in the eye and fuking goes “Im here to pick up ur wife we have dinner reservations!”

Izuwu: I THOUGHT WE WERW FRIENDS IIDA!!

Saaanic: We are and it is my job to tell you that your entire existence is being held together by sticky tape, a lot of prayer, and spite.

WAKEMEUPwakemeupinside: you ever think about how we define sandwichs by the inside of them not the outside

WAKEMEUPwakemeupinside: like you never say “oh i gotta wheat bread sandwich”

“You’re worth a hundred of them,” Todoroki said shortly.

“I disagree,” Iida said dryly. “A hundred of any of them would make poor company.”

LabSafety101: she’s surprisingly subdued rn, I actually convinced her to take a nap

Dadzawa: that’s because she worked for 72 hours straight with minimal caffeine

LabSafety101: hey chiyo

GrannyChiyo: if she’s already asleep I can’t do anything

LabSafety101: yeah but can you make sure she’s not about to die in her sleep

Yamadad: the boys made sure she ate, dw

LabSafety101: was it healthy?

Yamadad: idk but it was food!

UncleGun: I know for a fact that basically every kid in school at least knows half the common swear words

UncleGun: but it’s also really fun to say “dagnabbit”

“Alright. I didn’t ask you to get your hero costumes because today you will all be fighting Shinsou.”

The whole class raised their eyebrows. Shinsou tried his hardest not to scream inside though.

Because, what the fuck?

“Uh, sir. That doesn’t seem very fair,” Momo spoke up.

“Yes I know.” Aizawa nodded, “Also, none of you are allowed to use your quirks. Except him, obviously.”

“Why!” Bakugou shouted, “I wanna beat him nice and fair!”

Aizawa was not fazed. “You all know how Shinsou’s quirk works. Once you respond to him, he can make you do anything. That is all. Is that too hard for you?”

The class frowned. Was that a trick question?

Aizawa nodded, and made to sit down. Shinsou stopped him, speaking quietly, “I… I think you’re overestimating my power, here.”

Aizawa just scoffed, “I think you’re underestimating their stupidity.”

[…]

After five minutes, there were only three students in front of him. Kouda, because he didn’t talk anyway, Ojirou, because he had actually learned his lesson at the sports festival, and Sero, who had literally taped his mouth shut.

Aizawa walked towards them and stood next to Shinsou. The ones at the wall, looked at him in varying degrees, of shame and disbelief.

The teacher sighed, “All you had to do was not talk.” He shook his head at them, “That’s all you had to do.”

Pro Hero Hawks: So you’ll get to meet all kinds of heroes! Maybe even All Might!

Pro Hero Hawks: Yes, this is naked bribery.

“Young Midoriya is quite the hero fan, isn’t he?”

“He’s not just a fan, Yagi-san, he’s not just an air conditioner either: Midoriya-kun is an entire HVAC system.”

“Gentlemen, I am here, with some brand new handcuffs! Who would like to try them on first?”

Izuku, despite his professionalism as an analyst, despite his commitment to be a hero, still found that teenage urge to throw his head back and groan at the prospect of something that could be seen as a boring, pointless task. He fought the feeling down, self-control pinning it to the ground and discipline clubbing it with a half-brick in a sock before dragging it back into the depths of his mind, and then assumed a low stance.

Mirko’s kicks were well known for breaking bones.

Coincidentally, high schoolers tended to have bones.

I AM CACKLING I LOVE THIS

#submission

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lostheaventales · 2 months ago

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Nothing Lasts Forever

Description: When the day of Henry and Vito’s wedding came, it was meant to be a day of love and happiness. Instead, it ended in tragedy and heartbreak.

Loosely based on Guns N Roses “November Rain” music video.

Relationship: Vito Scaletta x Henry Tomasino

⚠️CONTENT WARNING⚠️ : Murder, Blood

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vito strolled his eyes up and down at his reflection in the mirror. His frame dressed in a brand new tuxedo. He’d worn many suits since he’d joined the mob, but it was different this time. He was dressed for his own wedding. Ever since getting out of jail and being involved with the mafia, marriage seemed like a far away dream. Then, a charming, handsome man entered his life. His name was Henry Tomasino. Yes, he was the reason he went to jail in the first place, however, it wasn’t his fault. It was just business. At least, that’s what he tried to convince to believe Henry to make him feel better.

But that was in the past. There were people waiting for them to wed. It was too late to rethink this whole thing. The door opened behind him. Vito turned to see who it was. It was Joe. He joined him in the mirror. His wide body being too big to fit in the small frame of it.

“Wow, I can’t believe it. My best friend is getting married.” Joe placed his hands on Vito’s shoulders. “I was beginning to believe that you’d be needing to blend your food up before you eat it before you’d get to this day.”

“Oh, fuck you. I don’t see you with a ring on your finger.” Vito pointed out, gesturing towards Joe’s ring finger.

“I’m not a one woman type of man.”

“I’m not either, but look at me now.”

“That’s because you’re a one man type of man.”

Vito laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Marty was the next to enter the room to let them know that Henry was ready.

“You ready?” Joe asked, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” He adjusted his blazer.

They waited behind the doors to the aisle. Joe was going to be the one to walk him down the aisle. Francesca was his first choice, but she declined. She was still pissed about what happened between him and her husband and even more so when she discovered it was a man he was marrying. It was a punch to his face when the realization his mother wouldn’t be there to see him get married hit him. Hearing his sister wasn’t even going to show her face was a shot in the back. He felt his eyes beginning to sting as tears began to well up. Noticing, Joe poked his head through the door and told them to wait.

He cupped his giant hands around his face. “What’s the matter, Vito? You want me to call it off?”

“N-No. It’s just…Francesca,” he simply said, knowing that Joe would get what he meant without needing more context.

“Aww, that’s what got you so worked up. C’mere.” Joe pulled him into a hug.

When his face was completely hidden from the world, he released the tears he was trying to hold back. Joe rubbed his back slowly and gently. Vito couldn’t sit there and cry forever. He needed to get out there. He pulled away from the hug and wiped his face with a handkerchief he kept in his pocket in case he needed it.

“You done?” Joe questioned.

“Yeah, and Joe? Lay off the fucking cologne. You don’t need to use the whole bottle,” Vito complained.

“Hey, I wanted to smell nice. Special events require special scents,” he responded.

Vito rolled his eyes. Joe gave them the go ahead. The traditional wedding music started. Vito wrapped his arm around Joe’s and puffed his chest out to straighten his posture. He and Joe exchanged a final look before the doors opened. The guests stood, all facing towards him and Joe. Henry was at the end of the aisle. A proud smile spread across his face, making wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

Vito and Joe sauntered down the aisle. Many things were going through his head. None of them were regret. He thought about their honeymoon to Paris, moving to a bigger and better house, and, when the time was right, adopting a few kids. Marrying Henry would bring his life back into the right direction.

He was at the end of the aisle, inches away from Henry now. Joe handed him over, giving both of them a wink prior to going to stand with the other groomsmen behind Henry. Henry and Vito joined their hands, staring into his eyes as the officiant started his speech. Now, they were at the boring part. Vito pretty much tuned out the officiant and kept his focused on Henry, only tuning in when they got to the part where they had to read their vows.

Henry was first. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and began reading.

“Vittorio Antonio Scaletta. The moment Joe introduced me to you at Freddy’s Bar was the moment I decided you were the one. You accepting my hand in marriage proved to me that you was the one.

6 years we were apart. 6 lonely years I had. The skies were grey, and the clouds weeped. The grass had turned to a dirty yellow color. It seemed like, without you, the world had lost its color and liveliness. Seeing how dull everything had became without your presence made me not want to live in a world like that ever again.

You are the rays of light that emits from the sun. You are the waves crashing onto the coastline. You are the breeze that blows through my hair on a windy day. You are the oxygen I breathe. You are my reason to continue to push through this tough life, which is why I love every part of you.

Thank you for giving me the chance to spend the rest of my life with you as my husband.”

Henry was crying by the end. Vito wanted to kiss him right there. It took everything inside of him to sit and wait for that.

Vito didn’t write his vows down. He wanted his to come naturally.

“Before you came into my life, I was confused. I didn’t know what to do with my newfound freedom. You have helped me time and time again to get rid of that confusion. You helped me get a job, you gave me a shoulder to cry on, and, most importantly, you gave me love.

My mother always told me growing up that ‘True love is not just in the moments we cherish but in the silent promises we hold in the spaces between them.’

My silent promises to you was to always guarantee your happiness and make sure you were never wanting for anything.

Henry Tomasino, thank you for choosing me to spend the rest of our lives together. I love you and will never stop loving you.”

Vito used the handkerchief to wipe his face again, then assisted Henry with wiping his. Afterwards, they exchanged rings one step away from sealing the deal.

“Do you, Henry Tomasino, take Vittorio Antonio Scaletta, to be your wedded husband?” The officiant asked.

Henry took in a deep sigh. “I do.”

“Do you, Vittorio Antonio Scaletta, take Henry Tomasino to be your wedded husband?”

“I do.”

“I now pronounce you two under your titles of husbands. You may end with a kiss.”

Neither of them hesitated. They kissed, settling their future as a married couple. The guests clapped. Vito and Henry joined a hands and marched down the aisle, heading to the limousine that’ll take them to the venue where the reception would take place. The ushers opened the doors. As soon as they stepped foot outside of the church, shots started ringing from an unknown black vehicle behind the limo. Henry tackled Vito to the ground. Joe shot at the armed men, who hurried down the street.

When the shots had quieted, Henry still hadn’t got up from on top of him. Vito managed to push his body off him. To his horror, Vito was covered in blood, but not his own. Henry’s face was contorted in agony. His black suit stained in red.

“Oh my god! He’s fucking dead. Henry’s dead!” Vito yelled, scooting back in terror.

Joe helped him up from the ground. “Oh my fuck! Who would do something like this?”

Vito breathed heavily, hoping this was a nightmare that he hadn’t woken up from. Henry was dead. They hadn’t even been married for 20 seconds and he was already dead. Vito didn’t know what to do. He was too much in shock to cry. There was a million things he expected to happen and this wasn’t one of them. Vito fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

“Henry…” was the last word he uttered before the world went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vito jolted awake. Body covered in sweat and goosebumps. He looked next to him, expecting Henry to be right there asleep, but he wasn’t. The mattress was empty. It’d been two days since Henry’s funeral and Vito couldn’t grasped into the fact that he was dead. Every morning he woke up believing that Henry was somewhere else in the house only to be slapped with the fact that he wasn’t. He was buried six feet under the ground.

There was a knock at the door. Vito climbed out of bed and put on his robe. He opened the door. Joe was on the other side in his loud outfit like always.

“What are you doing here, Joe?” Vito asked, walking over to the coffee machine.

“My daily routine of checking up on you. You were saying some pretty scary things during the funeral,” Joe explained, entering the house.

Since the funeral, Joe had been stopping by and calling in to check on his wellbeing. Vito had trouble remembering what’s been happening for the past week. What Joe was saying could be true, but he couldn’t recall.

Vito handed Joe his cup of coffee. He took a sip, enjoying the short-lived warmth of the beverage.

“Why, Joe? Why did this have to happen?” Vito questioned as if Joe knew the answer.

“I don’t know. But we’ll find the assholes who did it and give them hell.” Joe banged his hand on the table.

Vito took another swig of his coffee. When he turned his head for a short second, he caught a glimpse of a picture on the mantle of the fireplace. It was of him and Henry. He was kissing Henry on his cheek while Henry was smiling into the camera.

#mafia 2 #vito scaletta #henry tomasino #joe barbaro #vito x henry #leo galante #one shot #mafia trilogy #henry/vito

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darkmaga-returns · 10 days ago

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Originally published at CovertAction Magazine

On December 8, 2024, Syria’s long-standing ruler Bashar al-Assad fled to Russia after being deposed by Sunni militia forces in what New York Times columnist Thomas L. Friedman called the “biggest…most game-changing event in the Middle East in the last 45 years.”[1]

Friedman was enthusiastic about the regime change, though Syria’s new head of state, Abu Mohammed al-Jolani, had a $10 million bounty placed on his head by the U.S. State Department in 2017 as a wanted terrorist.[2]

The “blazer-wearing revolutionary,” as CNN called him,[3] had been imprisoned from 2006 to 2011 at Abu Ghraib and other U.S. military prisons for supporting al-Qaeda in Iraq.

Colin P. Clarke, a counterterrorism analyst at a security consulting firm in New York was quoted in The New York Times as stating that, under Jolani’s rule, northwest Syria was “a harsh place where critics are silenced, tortured, jailed and disappeared.”[4] Hookahs and music were also banned, as they were under the Taliban in Afghanistan.[5]

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harper-collins · 1 year ago

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When You're Missing A Face [Halloween Special]

Dipper had gotten himself in a bit of trouble just a day before Halloween and needed a way to sort things out quickly... Little did he know what he was getting himself into.

WARNING: GORY!! Graphic descriptions of gore and slight violence. Please be aware and do NOT read this if you're squeamish about that sort of thing.

Requested by @tinyriver-neonlights (I hope you enjoy!)

“Dipper, why don’t you come? You are dressed for the part!” Mabel pressed, looking at her brother with a slight amount of disdain. The male brunette could only shake his head. He had a large frown on his face, but it wasn’t visible as he had a mask over his face. It covered the majority of his face and didn’t show anything of the features you could see, and that, Dipper liked.

“I told you, Mabel, I have plans,” he replied, moving to grab a coat and his bag. She pouted and watched her brother for a moment. “You didn’t tell me about these plans! Is it with Pacifica?” She asked hopefully, a twinkle showing. Dipper’s frown deepened, just because he was bisexual, didn’t necessarily mean he wanted what many men and lesbians thought was the sexiest woman in Gravity Falls. He may have had the slightest little crush on her when they were twelve, but that was just him trying to get over Wendy, and by the time he’d returned a year later to see his uncles, he couldn’t have cared less.

“She’s coming to the party isn’t she?” Dipper pressed, his voice getting a little scratchy with his patience running out. “Ohh yeah… So what are you doing?” She asked, moving a small bit of her hair out of the way of her face. The male shook his head and began to walk towards the door, he wasn’t going to tell her even if she begged him. It was too dangerous, he shouldn’t have even thought of doing this himself, but he was desperate.

“Look, just have a nice time at the party alright? And uhh… Say hi to Gideon or whatever for me,” he told her and left. He closed the door before she could even muster a response. As soon as that door was shut he got going, speed-walking into the forest before his sister could run after him. With it getting dark earlier now, and him wearing black, it was easy to completely miss him in the darkness. It helped Dipper feel a little better about his circumstances, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Next was the long trip to his planned Halloween evening. It was far enough so no one would disturb him or get hurt, but close enough that Dipper could find his way back without trouble if something went wrong. He was hoping his possible partner wouldn’t recognise their surroundings though, as things could end up going seriously wrong otherwise.

The path was long and windy, its twists and turns also proving to be a bit of a challenge at times. Halfway through said journey, it began to be a little too dark for Dipper’s tastes, so he whipped out a quick flashlight from his blazer pocket and continued on his trek undeterred. By the time he had arrived at the final place for his plan, it was around 8 pm and a continuous run would take him around half an hour of praying that he wouldn’t trip without his light before he got back to the Shack.

Despite this backup plan though, he was hoping that he wouldn’t have to use it, after all, he was tired of hiding what others thought was him getting into the mood of Halloween, tired of feeling the constant burning and prickling of his skin every time it brushed up against anything. He may have been able to bandage some things up, but others were impossible without anyone finding out. Which was why he was hoping for a quick get-out-of-jail-free card with what he was about to do.

Clearing his throat, Dipper opened his bag took out the second journal and flipped over the page that Gideon had taken out of the book which had been half-heartedly taped back together by himself. Bill Cipher’s summoning page… The one he’d used to get Bill to go into Stan’s mind all those years ago. There had been no word of Bill since their final battle, but Dipper had always had this distinct feeling that he’d never truly left. Surprisingly Stanford had lost that feeling, but Dipper thought it more of a relief after reading how badly the demon had affected the other’s mental health.

Shortly after this, he began to set things up, such as getting the most recent picture of himself that he could find that he had scribbled his eyes out with, setting up the eight-candle circle formation and placing the picture in the middle. After quickly lighting them all up, Dipper stepped back with his mask being kept on and he began to read from the book using his flashlight.

“Triangulum, Entangulum. Meteforis Dominus Ventium. Meteforis Venetisarium!” He spoke, looking down at the circle with anticipation. From the little holes of the mask, Dipper’s eyes began to light up as he began to speak seemingly gibberish as a triangle began to appear inside of the circle. Once the light inside of the brunette’s eyes had subsided, he looked over in front of him to see the triangle, the myth, the legend… He had to gulp in the nervousness that coursed through his veins.

“Well well well well well well well! What do we have here?” Bill asked, looking around and quickly realising where they were. Dipper kept silent as he watched the other look around before finally having his eye land on the brunette himself. “Well… I was expecting you the least Pinetree after what happened last time,” Bill spoke loudly, laughing to himself in the way that always made Dipper’s skin crawl in hatred before. Things hadn’t changed.

“Yeah well, when you have to be called as my last option, things are getting pretty dire,” he snapped, looking for pure hatred, although Bill wouldn’t have been able to see it past the mask. “Yeah yeah, how long has it been Pinetree? You’ve had quite the growth spurt since I last saw ya! And where’s Shooting Star? Surely she would be here! Unless… She doesn’t know what’s going on,” Bill guessed. Dipper decided to just ignore the demon’s attempt at angering or making him uncomfortable, so he decided to answer his first question.

“It’s been about eleven years since you were last here,” he sourly replied, crossing his arms as he watched the demon. “So, what do you want Pinetree? For a price of course,” Bill replied, his voice as high pitched as it always had been, scratching just the one itch that Dipper hated to be itched. “Well… I need you to fix something,” he awkwardly began, putting a hand on the back of his neck as he moved positions to one of discomfort.

“Whatcha want fixing? Is it a body part? Is it something you got in that bag? A relationship?” Bill suggested, trying to probe and prompt the other. Dipper sighed and kept his head away from the other. “I think it would just be easier if I just showed you,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. The demon put a hand out to tell the brunette he was ready, and with heavy hesitation, Dipper took his mask off.

What Bill had been expecting… Well, it was nothing like this. As the mask dropped, blood cascaded out, landing on the floor in front, almost landing on the other’s smart shoes. As the other looked up to see the damage, he almost felt a little shocked himself. It wasn’t a simple cut or two, no, it was something much worse. There was no skin where his face should be, the only bits left that could be represented as skin were limply hanging at the sides of his face, near to his cheekbones, where you could see a bit of bone peeking out.

With the skin torn off, his entire face was continuously bleeding, making it look like the other was crying non-stop, only the tears were blood and they weren’t just coming from the eyes. One of the brunette’s eyes was blind too, Bill noticed, as he got a little closer to examine his face. As he examined further, he could see that there was still a slash mark beginning from Dipper’s left eye, the blind one, to his bottom right chin and then even further down, although that wasn’t too visible due to the black suit that the other was wearing.

There were no lips, nor were there any cheeks. All you could see was Dipper’s teeth, half of a tongue and more bits of his skull. Bill couldn’t even pinpoint what could’ve done this in the forest. Bill moved back a little to give the other some space as he slowly watched the other. The demon got the distinct feeling that Dipper hadn’t told a soul about his face, or what had happened. Why else would he be here alone in the dark?

“How did you manage to keep that a secret?” Bill blurted, instead of the fairly obvious ‘How are you still alive being a mortal flesh bag?’. Dipper turned and took the mask back off the floor, and the demon watched closely as the small bits of flesh that were still hanging on by a thread moved fluidly with each movement the other took.

“I’ve been using this mask, I kept putting tissues and gauzes there to try and lessen the damage, but that ended up just making it worse,” Dipper explained, showing the mask insides. It looked as though it had been painted a light shade of red, but Bill knew it was stained instead of painted. The entire show had taken Bill off-guard, and he’d completely forgotten that he wasn’t here to just examine the other’s blatant wound.

“So erm…. Do you think you’d be able to fix it?” Dipper meekly asked. He would’ve looked cute if it wasn’t for his face being torn apart. Bill thought to himself for a moment as he watched the other. He could do his thing and purposefully screw Dipper over… Or he could put his revenge plan into motion… Suddenly, it had been decided. Bill got closer to the male before talking, wanting to see every emotion that was visible in… the mess of a face the other held.

“Well, that depends, what do you have to offer?” Bill asked, giving the other a grating laugh as he stayed close to the brunette. If it was possible to show disgust, Dipper was pulling that face. He hadn’t brought anything. He had been hoping that Bill would do something like curse him to get payback whilst also sorting out his face. Not this.

As Dipper reflected on his idiotic hopes, however, he realised where he had misplaced his hope. After the last time with his body, he should have known that the other wouldn’t have been that nice. “I can get you something from Ford’s lab,” Dipper offered, feeling hesitant about the proposition. In reality, Dipper was ready to give anything away to fix his face. No one had known he’d had it torn off, and he felt desperate to fix it before they got suspicious.

“Mighty offer to me Pinetree, but I was talking something better than that,” Bill murmured, chuckling shortly after. What could he possibly want that was better than Ford’s inventions? Some of those things could seriously damage a creature. Sighing, Dipper kept his eyes away from the demon as he briefly thought of what could be better, only for his mind to come up with nothing.

“Well…” Dipper awkwardly began, turning back to the demon. “What do you want if it’s not Ford’s things?” he questioned, his voice heavily hinting at his exasperation. Bill hummed momentarily and circled Dipper as he did so. This was very unnecessary as the demon already knew what he wanted, this was more for dramatic effect because, of course, Bill would do that.

“Make me a body and I’ll fix your face. It has to be tonight because I don’t see how you can last much longer Pinetree, and I’ll help you to make sure you aren’t giving me a worthless piece of meat,” Bill spoke, watching the other with his singular eye. Even though the triangle could not smirk due to his lack of features, it was clear that he sounded very smug about his side of the offer. He also knew under these circumstances that it was highly unlikely for the other to turn him down.

The demon was right on both accounts. Dipper had been surviving off of some drugs he’d found in Ford’s basement, some extra blood packs he’d pushed into his body and trying to fix his face (although that’d only made it worse and caused his life expectancy to go down by a couple of days). The other thing the demon was right about was that Dipper would take this offer because it was the only option he had.

Not telling anyone about the situation and knowing that no doctor would probably be able to fix his face and make sure he didn’t die at the same time meant that he had been efficiently backed into Bill’s corner. Not that this wasn’t already the case before he summoned Bill. Dipper cleared his throat as his mind swirled with possible questions to ask the other. If this was physically possible in any way, then he’d have to do it.

“I need to have some clarifications first,” Dipper mumbled, subconsciously playing with his hands as he spoke. As he partially looked down on himself, the blood from his face began dripping onto his black suit. Some of it also went onto his hands, making the anxious movement a little slippery as he continued to awkwardly play with his hands.

“Please do go on Pinetree,” Bill offered.

“First, will you temporarily fix my face to do the job easier of making the body?” He questioned, moving his hand to touch his face. He stopped just before he touched it, however, thankfully avoiding any infections he might receive from mixing opened flesh with all of the bacteria he held on his hands. “Of course, don’t want you bleeding all over my body, do we?” Bill let out his grating laugh as he finished his sentence, obviously finding this extremely funny.

“Okay then… How are we going to make this body?” He uneasily replied. Watching the triangular being get momentarily confused. “What d’you mean Pinetree? How do you flesh bags usually make another version of yourselves?” Bill asked, his eye frowning a little. Oh. Oh. He didn’t know. Of course, he wouldn’t know… He had been partners with Ford and the male had never been and never would be interested in having children of his own.

“W-well… I’m not sure you want to be in a baby Bill, I thought you wanted an adult body,” the other blurted, feeling embarrassed. As the other felt quite uncomfortably red-faced, some bloody genuinely came to where his cheeks should have been. But as there was no skin there to keep it from going everywhere, the extra blood being pumped to flush his cheeks only pushed out of his body and onto the grass in front of him. The only reaction this caused out of the demon was a cackle at the other’s misfortune. Dipper felt ready to put the mask back on.

Once the demon had calmed down from laughing at the other, moved a little to hover next to the brunette. “I suppose you’re right… Well, I’ll show you what to do then! I’m sure I’ll be able to use my magic to make a good human body,” Bill thoughtfully replied, putting a hand just underneath his eye as though it were a chin for the human body. Dipper kept his eyes away from the other for a moment as he quickly tried to get his blood off of his hands. Once he’d successfully gotten the majority of it off, he turned back over to the demon who’d been watching him closely.

“Deal then?” Dipper asked, watching the demon with his eyes, even if only one was currently working. “Deal,” Bill replied in his smug, grating voice. The demon put a hand out, it glowing in the blue flames the brunette remembered from their last deal from back when he was twelve. He moved and grabbed the other’s hand, shaking it properly. Then it was as though everything happened at once.

He felt a prickling begin in the hand that was shaking the demon’s and then all of a sudden, the prickling moved from his hand up into his face. The feeling caused the brunette to let go of Bill’s hand and take a step back. Everything got momentarily blurry from all sides. His nerves were buzzing, his screen was re-creating itself, and he felt a wave of energy hit him as his blood finally stopped leaving his body. He let out a small shiver once everything had begun to die down.

Blearily, Dipper moved hastily towards his bag which he’d left on the floor to try and grab the mirror he’d brought. He was walking like a man who’d drank way too much, but he didn’t care, he needed to look at what Bill had done, just in case it was wrong. Once he’d shoved his hand down into the bag, he quickly found what he’d been looking for and awkwardly got up, moving it in front of himself. As he began to stare at himself, he heard Bill chuckle to his side.

Everything was how it had been before, except for one detail. He was still blind in one eye. Even worse than that though, Bill had left a scar around the eye. The creature that had gotten him had three claws and those three had sunk into his face fairly quickly yesterday, but now one of those claws was showing on his face. It gave more the impression that he’d gotten into a swordfight than one with a creature three times his size.

Dipper turned to the demon with raised brows. “Will you get rid of this when I make your body,” he questioned, touching it lightly as he put the mirror back into his bag. Bill only shrugged, not giving a clear answer. The brunette put his hand on his face and sighed. Well, at least he’d live like this. “Right erm… Where do we start?” The human awkwardly asked, watching the demon carefully.

From there, the rest of Halloween became a blur. It was first a gathering of objects, a gathering that led to the death of two deers, visiting a graveyard, and the statue of Bill that had been left behind shortly after Weirdmageddon. There had been other objects, but those had been the most difficult to find and execute. After grabbing everything that was needed, it needed to be placed in a specific place around the small outline of a rather lanky male Bill had made in the mud just in front of his statue.

This had ended up taking another hour of messing around with the objects, as Bill had been rather specific about what had to be where. After all of that, Bill had told him to go back home and rest up, as he’d come over tomorrow. Dipper had questioned the other’s method, but Bill had given affirmation that Bill just needed some time to conjure the magic and work out all the kinks of the human body before they saw one another. Shrugging, the brunette left, knowing the quicker way back to the Mystery Shack from Bill’s Statue.

He put his mask back on due to the scar on his face and shuffled back inside, trying to be as quiet as he could getting back into his bedroom. Thankfully, everyone had either been asleep or in the basement, so no one had heard his reappearance. He had managed to even get comfortably in bed and asleep without issue, despite the events that had occurred earlier that very day. What did end up bothering him though, was when Mabel crashed into his room first thing in the morning after him not appearing back home before she had.

“Dipper? Dip-Dop?” Mabel shouted, running into the room and to the bed. The male could only groan out in exasperation at her loud behaviour. He covered his face due to the light, not even thinking about the scar that was still very much present across his eye. “Where did you go last night? I went looking out for you for a whole hour! Grunkle Stan and Ford said they hadn’t seen you since you left!” Mabel complained, shaking her brother in an attempt to wake him up further.

“Mabel, leave me alone,” he groaned, curling up a little bit. He moved a little, letting his arm fall limp and suddenly there was a loud gasp from his sister. That, was when he bolted up and stared at her, suddenly realising the situation. “Y-you’ve got a—!” Dipper crashed his hand onto her mouth to muffle her words, he didn’t want her to say it. Not right now.

“Shhh, Mabel please, don’t tell them about it!” He whispered to her, although it sounded a lot more as if he were talking normally than whispering to her. Dipper quickly moved his hand away from her mouth and she stared at him, genuinely shocked by the scar on her brother’s face. “But… You’re blind in that eye! What happened Dipper? When did that happen?” She asked, grabbing her brother’s arms and shaking him in a fast and seemingly uncomfortable manner.

Suddenly, there was a loud shout from Stan downstairs about someone being at the door for Dipper and the brunette’s blood ran cold. Mabel stared at him for a long moment and then they were both scrambling to get downstairs the fastest. The female brunette wanted to get there to see who was calling for him so early, and if it was a date, and Dipper wanted to make sure that Mabel and Bill didn’t see each other.

Unfortunately due to the situation of the male brunette still being in bed and Mabel not, it meant that she got to the door first and the blonde almost mistook her for Dipper at first glance. Mabel looked the blonde up and down briefly before stepping back, unintentionally allowing Dipper to step in front and slam the door behind him. He was sure if he and Bill didn’t move now, Mabel would surely try and rejoin the conversation.

The brunette turned to look at the man in front of him for his jaw to drop. Instead of a weird nerd or awkward man like he’d been expecting, or even the demonic version of a human with horns and sharp teeth that gave people nightmares, Bill looked like a beautiful angel. His blonde hair was fluffy to the point that even Dipper wanted to put his hands in it, then there was the beautifully tanned skin and the wonderfully blue eye that reminded him of the sea… Then it was the slightly filled lips, they weren’t too big, but they were plump enough to make Dipper shiver.

Bill had also dressed nicely as well, but that had always been expected, more because the demon always wore a bowtie. It had always given the impression that he’d wear a suit or something similar if he ever were to become a human. The other had also covered one of his eyes with an eyepatch that reminded him of a pirate, but he supposed there were not many ways to not look like a pirate with an eyepatch on your face. Far away, there was the noise of a door opening and the murmur of noises next to him, but Dipper wasn’t listening, from the sight in front of him… Well, there was nothing else to think about.

That was, of course, until Mabel pushed him out of the trance he’d fallen in. “Dipper!” He heard her cry as he regained his stability. Warily, he looked over to his sister, who looked… Excited? Why on earth was she so excited? “I’m sure he’s just a bit surprised since we last saw each other in the dark,” Bill replied, a small chuckle leaving him. The brunette had to stop a small shiver from going through his spine. That voice was not Bill’s. That voice wasn’t unnaturally high-pitched or grating when it laughed. It reminded Dipper of soft and smooth honey, the type you get new from a store.

“Y…Yeah,” Dipper muttered, turning to look at Bill briefly again. Bill smirked something that he expected to see often if Bill was planning on staying around. “What’s your name anyway?” Mabel asked, glancing between the two with a smirk of her own. She could easily read Dipper like a book, hence she knew exactly why he wasn’t talking very much.

Bill eyed Dipper momentarily as if he were trying to figure out whether he should fake his name or not, but when he realised the brunette was intentionally ignoring him, he turned back to Mabel with a naturally fake smile. “Bill! Nice to meet you…?” The demon replied, raising the only brow that could be seen. “Mabel Pines! I’m Dip-dop’s twin sister,” she said with pride. Bill nodded a little and put out his hand for her to shake.

The immediate realisation that they were going to shake hands immediately brought him back to the night before with his face and very quickly he could feel the blood drain from his face. He felt conflicted as he stared at the singular hand. Should he try to stop it just in case? Unfortunately, though, Mabel was a bit too quick for Dipper to have an existential crisis about the entire thing, as she shook his hand without any hesitation.

There were not any blue flames, but the brunette could’ve sworn that Bill had done something.

“You don’t know any movies?” Bill whined, sitting on the couch in a jumper that reminded Dipper greatly of his triangular form from years ago. Bringing a coffee and orange juice to the table, the brunette shook his head and sat down, giving the demon his orange juice. “But you looked so good! If these movies are supposed to be scary, then why don’t they have any with people’s faces chopped off?” Bill asked unhappily as he went through the selection they had on Netflix.

“Look, why don’t we find something new to watch as a TV show?” Dipper asked, holding his coffee cup for warmth. Bill let out a low hum as he began to go through the TV show section, specifically listing all the horror TV shows. “Look, why don’t we play a game instead of watching something?” Dipper asked, glancing warily over to the demon. He only let out a soft chuckle at the other’s hesitance in watching something to do with Horror.

They then stopped on what appeared to be a show about Cannibals, with the show conveniently being named ‘Hannibal’. That was right up Bill’s alley for their Halloween evening. Dipper was never letting the demon be in control of the remote ever again. The demon was quick to put it on and get settled down, drinking his orange juice from time to time.

When they began it was early during the day and it was still light out, but as it got later and later, darker and darker, Dipper began to feel more disgusted and on edge the further this went on. It had gotten to a point where he was trying not to listen about it either since it just made him feel that sick. There was a certain time during season two that Dipper decided he’d try to listen and watch the show again, but it was possibly one of the worst times he could’ve begun watching once more.

He saw someone begin to chop off their nose and suddenly his stomach turned upside down. He quickly faced away, moving to stare at the wall behind Bill’s head instead, but that was the wrong option because moments later, there was a loud bang against their window in real life. Dipper screamed and fell off the couch, landing on the floor back first. If Bill hadn’t felt a little shocked himself, he would’ve laughed loudly at his roommate’s misfortune, but the only thing that left the demon was a small chuckle instead.

Bill himself quickly got up from the couch and paused the show, walking to the front door rather quickly. Without hesitation, the other opened the door and began to look around for what could have caused such a loud noise against their window but not break the window. Dipper quickly got up and sat down, clearing his throat as he settled down and ignoring looking at the TV.

The next thing Dipper knew however was Bill bringing in a little cat from outside. Instantly, Dipper furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. The demon looked over briefly to Dipper before looking back down to the cat and sitting down with said cat on his lap. It had barely past the age of one by the looks of things with its small body. Yet, both men could tell it desperately needed a proper wash as its hair was matted and covered with mud.

“Is that..?” Dipper questioned, keeping his voice low. Bill nodded, confirming this was what crashed into their window while watching the TV show. Dipper huffed a little as the small cat found its way onto his lap and dirtying his legs, for he only had shorts on that didn’t go far down his legs. “Seems it likes you,” Bill murmured, seeming rather genuine with his comment. Dipper only hummed in response, unsure of what to do with the little furball. Should they clean it first? Take it to the vet? Give it food and water? It seemed rather content to stay on the male’s legs.

“What are we going to do with it?” Dipper asked instead, patting the cat’s head softly. Bill hummed momentarily before getting up again and leaving Dipper with the cat. The brunette let out a small sigh, but he knew the other was probably just trying to get something to help do something with the cat. About a minute later, he was proven right as he sat Bill entered their living room with a big towel. Very quickly, he scooped up the cat in his arms and the towel and started to gently scrub and carry the small creature, getting rid of any loose mud that he could.

“Thank you,” Dipper murmured, looking at the two. Bill shrugged.

“It’s nothing Pinetree, I was thinking we bathe the cat to see if it has anything bad on it before we do anything you humans would deem drastic,” Bill spoke, rolling his eyes at the way he knew humans reacted over the little things. The brunette would have been offended if it weren’t for the fact he knew the demon was quite right. Mabel started overreacting if someone hurt her nails, and he knew that he got quite uptight with his book collection if someone tried taking a book.

“Alright then, let’s get the bath running,” Dipper announced and began walking away from the living room, relieved that they could stop watching that god-awful show. From a room or two away as Dipper turned the taps on for the water, he could swear that Bill was babying the cat and giving it his high-pitched ‘this is a cute thing’ voice. The brunette merely shook his head and made sure the small bath was hot enough for the small cat before turning the water back off.

Once Bill heard the tap turn off, he brought the small one in and gently put it inside the water. Very quickly it began to meow and shake in the small tub. Dipper, who was closest and sat down next to the bath, began to try and bathe the small kitten, but the smaller only took this as a threat and bit Dipper to the best of its abilities. Dipper swore and tried to retract his hand, but the little cat only clung onto the brunette and grabbed onto his face when it lost perch of his hand.

A slight swearing suddenly turned into screaming as he felt a claw inside of his already damaged eye and then the feeling of some skin being torn off of his face. Very very quickly, Bill yanked the cat off of Dipper, but it was only a detriment as the cat somehow managed to yank Dipper’s eye out of where it should have been whilst it let go of the rest of Dipper’s face.

Almost immediately after the cat had been taken off of the brunette’s face though, Bill got to work with his magic and replaced said eye, although he did leave it blind. The horrifying pain that he had felt merely moments ago that had been bad enough to push Dipper into shock was suddenly gone. That in of itself made Dipper feel dizzy off of a mixture of emotions. His entire body felt tingly, reminiscent of the time that the demon had originally fixed his face.

“Pinetree, you okay?” Bill asked, filling the brunette’s limited vision. Not that Bill didn’t have limited vision either, he had just never experienced having two eyes before, so it wasn’t a pain to him. “I’ll be fine after I calm down with some coffee,” Dipper mumbled, putting a hand over his blind eye. The demon took a step or two away to assess the damage across the room. There was blood everywhere, mixed with little bits of skin that the small cat had been playing with whilst the entire scene had been going on, it looked like someone had been seriously hurt in here.

Sighing, Bill tried to ignore the sight for now and helped the brunette get up. “Let’s get you to bed, then I’ll finish sorting out that cat,” Bill murmured, watching the other closely. Dipper merely hummed and looked down to assess the damage himself before looking over to the small cat. It was playing with Dipper’s eye.

The brunette choked on air and Bill quickly changed the direction the other was facing and got him out of there quickly. That might have been a bit too much gore for someone tonight.

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siriannatan · 7 months ago

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Just Go With Your Feelings 4/4

I literally forgot to post the final chapter :{

Chapter Text

“When was the last time I set foot in a school?” fWhip asked himself as he exited his car. Though no school he was to before could compare to this old. Decapitated. Covered in graffiti and who knows what else building.

But it was where Scott's brother told him to come. And fWhip felt only slightly like an idiot for not telling anyone to worry if he does come back soon enough. Oh well, too late for regrets. He decided and silently entered.

There were no guards. No voices. Just eerie silence as fWhip looked for classroom 113. Luckily, the building seemed structurally sound enough so he wasn't too nervous.

113 wasn't too hard to find. And once fWhip did he didn't even bother with knocking.

“Hello brother-in-law,” he was greeted. Scott's brother was sitting on the shockingly surviving teacher's desk. Covered from head to toe. “Missed him this bad already? Or are you so worried about your reputation? Isn't the number two prosecutor in the area openly gay though? Why would you care about that?” Oh god, he even rambled in the same annoying manner as Scott.

“What do you want?” fWhip asked, not in the mood for games or tricks.

“Simple, cops are on the tail of one of our guys for Owen's sloppy exit, we need you to keep him out of jail. Don't worry, he didn't kill anyone in this case,” he explained, nice and simple for once.

“And if I refuse?”

“You're not leaving here alive and Scott will be miserable for the rest of his life as our mother’s favourite… doll. She does enjoy showing off her better-behaved son after all,” the lack of care had a shiver go down fWhip's spine.

“If the guy is innocent as you say then sure, whatever,” he shrugged.

“What if I ask you for another favour in the future and the guy isn't innocent?”

“We'll see then, but we both know you can't kill me,” fWhip chuckled. Scott's craziness seemed to be rubbing off on him.

“And why would that be?”

“Because that would hurt Scott far too much. Him stepping in front of my car wasn't an accident and you know that. Will be as lucky as to find a driver fast enough to minimise the harm next time,” fWhip shrugged, with a grin. Xor was starting to shake.

Xor was silent before laughing loudly. “You're an amusing one mister lawyer-man, I'll give you that. The documents and client will come to you tomorrow,” he said.

fWhip left without a word. Feeling eyes on his back the whole time until he was in his car.

As he drove off he could see Xor exit the building and pull off his hood. Was he calling someone?

Scott had no clue what was going on. One moment he was in fWhip's apartment and next he was forced to play house with mom. And then he just passed out again.

And woke up at fWhip's…

Was it Xornoth’s doing? Was he using him to get something out of fWhip?

Hearing the key in the door Scott tensed up. But in walked only fWhip. Seemingly unharmed if a bit annoyed. Scott ran up to him glad he could walk normally with just some bandages keeping his ankle stiff.

“What the...” fWhip choked out as Scott's whole body weight crashed into him. “Scott?”

“What did he want?” Scott asked, face hidden in fWhip's shirt. He didn't dare ask if fWhip agreed. He obviously did if Scott was here.

“Nothing too terrible, don't worry about it,” fWhip sighed, and to Scott's shock patted his head.

At that Scott couldn't help but cry. Damn, fWhip was so nice even when he was a massive ass to him. Pushing all his buttons just for fun.

“Cone on Scott stop crying,” fWhip sighed. “Let's sit down, my legs hurt.”

“Kiss me then, you wouldn't agree to whatever he wanted if it wasn't for me, yes? Then kiss me,” Scott demanded pulling back to look fWhip in the eyes. “Stop thinking and just go with your feelings, you coward!” He yelled, grabbing fistfuls of fWhip's blazer.

He was about to yell more but suddenly his back hit the door and lips met his and he all but melted into fWhip. Grinning in satisfaction into the kiss. Arms wrapped around the lawyer's shoulders and held tightly to not let him escape. Not again. Not ever.

He was so lost in the kiss he missed when they got to fWhip's bedroom until fWhip chuckled. “Come on, we have to get our shirts off somehow, no?” he asked, sitting back as Scott tentatively let go.

It was quite a sight to see fWhip undress.

Scott woke up nicely rested and in a bit of pain. Cuddled up to fWhip's bare chest. The lawyer was still asleep though the electric clock on the nightstand was telling Scott it'd be short-lived.

What a shame Scott thought. Just five more minutes before it blares and fWhip had to go and do what Xor asked of him to get Scott back.

“Someone's satisfied,” fWhip yawned but didn't move. “I still have a few more minutes in bed,” he mumbled between more yawns. It was seriously cute.

“About three more,” Scott hummed. “Enough for some morning kisses wouldn't you agree?” He asked with his cutest smile.

It seemed to finally work as fWhip finally gave in without any begging or screaming and just kissed him. Over and over again. With one, long last kiss as he blindly slapped looking to turn off the clock.

“Should I order sushi for dinner,” Scott asked, still lounging in bed as fWhip quickly pulled on a suit. Scott was just slightly jealous other people could see fWhip's ass in a suit. It was quite the view.

#my stuff #my stories #fanfiction #empires smp #empiresshipping #empires fwhip #empires scott #scfwhip #scwhip

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tarabyte3 · 1 year ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 3/? (10.1k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 2

AO3 Link

Playlist

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship, sexual harassment, workplace sexual harassment

A/N: First: New warnings in the tags! There are details about previous workplace sexual harassment discussed in this chapter. Those details include unwanted touching of the arm and back, as well as unwanted comments from a superior (no specific comments are listed). Second: HI, I'VE MISSED YOU ALL. And I've been writing! 😏

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from "I Await the Devil's Coming" by Mary MacLane. Text divider 1 is from Alessandro Magnasco's Interrogations in Jail. Text divider 2 is from Clément-Auguste Andrieux's Allegory of Death.

Also I've done some improvements on the way I'm handling chapter collages from now on.

Chapter 3 - My Life is Longing for the Sight of You

The next day, you show up to work in black heeled boots, tight black pants, and a silky black camisole. You had a black blazer as well, but it's currently hanging on the back of your chair. The removal of it is what tied the statement of your outfit together, in your opinion. Which is, "I don't want to be here."

However, the temperature inside the building is surprisingly chilly and your arms have gooseflesh. Part of you suspects someone turned down the heat to force you to put the jacket back on because they were too cowardly to approach you directly. It's amazing how effective a simple no is to people that aren't used to hearing the word no. It makes them afraid of hearing it again. So you're toughing it out just in case you're correct. Because you're enjoying seeing how far you can push them and you aren't about to give in now.

It's later in the afternoon, when you're feeling bored and scrolling absentmindedly on your work computer, that David sends you a photo.

There's no message and it isn't a selfie. But it is a picture. One taken from a balcony seating area—likely for a fancy restaurant or bar based on a table in the background—looking out over the city. In the bottom of the photo is a pair of crossed legs and feet propped up on a small footrest, as if the person taking the photo was leaning back slightly and relaxing when they snapped it. They're wearing fitted navy pants and very expensive looking brown oxford dress shoes. You stare at in confusion for a moment until—

It's him, you realize.

Those are his legs.

Which means he took a photo in the middle of his day, from his current point of view, and sent it to you. Unprompted. And he let you see a part of him. Only from the knees down, but it's still more than you had before.

You stare at the photo greedily, barely taking in the lovely view, as if his shins and feet might reveal something about him. Other than the fact that his shoes alone probably cost as much as your entire wardrobe.

You wonder if he's watching your face as you look at it. If he can see the shock and delight in your expression. You wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to see your reaction, so you smile into the camera. Just in case.

You send him a selfie back of you leaning your elbow on your desk with your chin in your hand and staring at your work computer in boredom.

Then you text him, "Your view is much better than mine."

Arguable. Mine doesn't have you in it.

Fascinating search results, by the way. Any particular reason you're looking at beds?

You flush with embarrassment as you read his message and remember what you'd been doing before he messaged you. Which is finally looking into replacing your old bed. You'd been so distracted by the photo, you'd completely forgotten. But of course he noticed.

"Yeah, my mattress is ancient and uncomfortable, and now I can afford a new one. It's called research."

I see. A king is awfully large for just one person.

The blush deepens, stoking to embers, and begins to radiate through your chest. There's a corresponding quiver of interest in your core. "I'm spoiling myself because I deserve it. Though I see your point. It might feel terribly lonely lying there all by myself."

You should get a big teddy bear to keep you company :)

You stare in indignation at your phone. He…he did not. Well so much for trying to flirt! And a smiley face of all things? God, he's infuriating.

"Maybe I will!"

You angrily toss your phone face down onto your desk and go back to scrolling. You're just as unfocused as before, but you're much more alert with irritation now. You'd think he'd want to flirt with you, but apparently he can't help himself when he sees an opportunity to get a rise out of you. And you gave him exactly what he wanted, you think to yourself.

It only takes a few minutes before you're glancing down at your phone again. He hasn't texted you first since he…well, since he blackmailed and threatened you. So that makes this new and interesting. It also expands whatever this is beyond just your computer. Makes it feel more real. It also means he was going about his day, thought about you, and wanted to share. It's almost sweet.

But was that his intention? To be sweet? Is he trying to woo you now rather than just make you a horny wreck? Or was there a reason? Something in the background you should have noticed that you were too distracted to see? Because you recognized one of the buildings just from having lived here so long, but it's nowhere near your apartment or work. It's a much nicer section of town that you rarely frequent—on your salary? Please. So there doesn't seem to be anything of importance about the area. Which means maybe he was just thinking about you.

Or—and this one seems most likely—he wanted to make sure you were thinking about him. And what better way to get your attention than including something as harmless as his feet in the photo. 'Well, it worked, didn't it?' You think.

With a frustrated sigh you pick your phone back up. There haven't been any new messages from him, which means he's probably very pleased with himself.

"You seem like you're having a relaxing afternoon."

I finished a meeting and now I'm enjoying myself.

"Business or pleasure?"

Business. My pleasurable meetings look much different.

"Do you have many pleasurable meetings?"

FAR fewer than I would like.

As you're trying to figure out a saucy reply he can't be an ass about, he sends you another photo. This one's of an elegant tumbler—likely made of crystal by the look of it—with a bit of dark amber liquid at the bottom. And it's being tilted and held by a hand for the camera.

His hand.

It's a photo of his hand.

You nearly drop your phone as your grip weakens from the shock, but you quickly regain control of it. Then you practically shove the screen to your nose to look, eagerly devouring another breadcrumb he's given you. And if you also zoom in to examine it more closely, who could really blame you?

He has lightly tanned skin, well groomed nails, and thick fingers, all of which are intriguing enough on their own. But what really catches your eye is the masculine swath of hair on the back of his hand that disappears up his wrist and into the edge of the photo. You also can't help but notice that it's definitely the hand of an older man. Which, for you, is not a deal breaker. In fact, it only intrigues you further. And god, the way he's holding that glass—gripping the sides with his pointer finger resting on the rim—is so casual and erotic.

You imagine those hands typing out every single thing he's ever said to you, moving expertly over his keyboard or the touchscreen of his phone. You imagine him looking at your picture as that hand unzips his pants, seeking to find release at the sight of you.

The thought of him in motion causes the dam within you to finally burst. Now you're very fucking turned on and left squirming and fantasizing about it in your cubicle.

You can't deny you want that hand on you. You want to discover how strong it is, to feel his touch along your face, and see just how gentle or rough he would be. You want to learn all the pain and pleasure that hand has caused while it's between your legs and drawing moans out of you.

Jesus, if this is what seeing just his hand does to you, what would seeing the rest of him do?!

"Whiskey?"

Close. Scotch.

"Looks satisfying. I bet it would warm me up nicely right now." You send the text with a very self satisfied, if a little sweaty, smile on your face. Because though you had been freezing before, you're practically radiating heat now.

It would.

"Yeah? I would love to get my lips on it and savor it on my tongue."

I would share if you were here with me.

"Oh, I don't know if that would be such a good idea. I make a lot of noise when I'm enjoying something."

Hmm. We can't have that, now, can we? And I certainly wouldn't want you to hold back. I suppose it's something better enjoyed with some privacy, then.

"I would like that."

Would you?

You stare at your phone.

You know what he's asking under the layers of flirting and innuendo. And it's not if you would enjoy a drink with him. It's if you've made up your mind about whether or not you would enjoy him. If your answer has changed since last night.

You also know you only have seconds to respond before he takes the break between messages as hesitation. And isn't that exactly what this is? You're absolutely hesitating. Because you still have so many questions to ask him first!

But you've seen something physical now. Tangible pieces of him that are coming together to wrap themselves around the frame of a personality that you've gotten better at reading, even through text. It's not a whole picture—of course it's not—but it's like seeing a figure take shape as it's being sculpted from a block of marble.

"Soon, I should think. I'm starting to find a lot of reasons to say yes."

In that case, I'm looking forward to our chat tonight.

"So am I. I should be home in about 2 hours."

I'll be waiting.

Also, if you're already spoiling yourself, I'm a big fan of silk sheets, personally.

You let out a distressed noise and do your best to steady your hands long enough to type out, "I'll keep that in mind."

Before the end of the day, you head into your boss's office to let him know you're using the last of your vacation days next week, so you'll only be in on Monday. Which would make that your last day instead. Which also means you only have two more days left in that hellhole before you're truly free.

You can tell he wants to say no to you—is actively working up the courage to do just that—so you fix him with an unimpressed stare.

"I am still entitled to those days, and I have no other time to schedule them. I'm also giving you more than the company's required forty eight hours notice. I'm not seeing the conflict."

"That sounds like poor planning on your part and therefore not my problem," he says, dismissively, barely sparing you a glance. "No."

"Would you prefer if I involved HR in the discussion? For your comfort, of course." To your delight, he finally looks up at you. "After all, I did have some emails I've been meaning to forward them before I leave anyway. It would save me so much time!" There's a cheerful, false innocence to your tone that makes him flinch.

"There's no need," he replies curtly. "The matter is settled."

"Of course." You shift on your feet. "How's your wife, by the way? I haven't spoken to her since the company holiday party. Such a delightful woman. It might be lovely to catch up with her some day." You let the threat hang in the air.

You can see the moment he relents. The way his shoulders sag with defeat and acceptance. You're going to vividly remember that moment for a very long time. "Fine. You may have your days off. Anything else?"

"Nope!" You smirk at him in triumph as he glowers back at you. You're almost sad that the conversation is over so you can't push him further. However, as you move to leave, you get an idea of how to do exactly that. You stop and turn back to him, trying to keep the excitement from creeping onto your face. "Actually, if you prefer, tomorrow could be my last day instead."

He stares at you with all the anger and irritation that has been building up inside of him the past several days. The exact vitriol you've been deliberately fueling. The sight of it makes your heart pound, but not in fear like it might have once. You're elated. You wanted this confrontation—to meet him on even ground for the first time. You don't have to put up with his bullshit and his creepy attention. You don't have to walk on eggshells, straddling that line between rejecting his advances and not pissing him off for fear that he might fire you. And he hates that you aren't that person anymore. Because that person he could control and take advantage of. But you? That he cannot touch. And, as you stare, bold and unbowed back at him, you can tell he knows it.

"I can do you one better. You're free to go and not return at all, if you'd like. Your time here is done," he says through gritted teeth.

"I do like! Thank you!" You grin at him. "But one more thing before I go." The smile falls from your face, as if hadn't been there at all. You fix him with a thin lipped, hate filled glare as you take three controlled steps forward so you're towering over his desk. Even though he's on the other side of it, he leans away in surprise. When you speak again, your voice comes out pure venom—harsh and dangerous.

"You are a small, pathetic man. You hide how weak you are by flexing your power over the people beneath you because it brings you joy to feel in control. But you aren't, no matter how much you pretend to be. You're still weak. You should be ashamed of your behavior. I'll be glad to go the rest of my life never having your offensive hands on me again. I should have ripped them off for your audacity. You're not worthy of touching me so how dare you ever think you had the privilege, let alone the right." You lean in closer. "You disgust me. Someday you will fall from the grace you exploit, and my only regret is that I won't be here to see you hit the ground when you do." Then you straighten up and casually brush out your blazer. He stares up at you, pale and speechless, with his mouth agape in shock. "No need for an escort. I can see my own way out."

You leave his office feeling high and weightless from the pleasure of finally getting to tell him the truth about what you truly think of him. You haven't felt like this since one of your streams, but this is that feeling magnified. Because, despite your similar disdain for them, in a way those men had been stand-ins. Now you got to say all of it directly to him and without hiding. It seeps, distilled into your belly and your chest and spreads to your fingertips and down to your toes.

It's intoxicating.

When you walk through the door to your flat, you only stop to lock it behind you. Then you scurry towards the bedroom, tossing your purse to the floor, shedding your blazer, and pulling your boots off one at a time as you go, leaving a discarded trail behind you. You head straight for the chair.

You aren't nervous about clicking the link this time. You're excited. The anticipation has been building up inside of you all day, and it only got worse after his texts. You're looking forward to learning more about him and seeing what he has to say. To you, about you—all of it. You don't even stop to consider whether or not you feel ashamed or concerned or scared this time. Or whether or not you should be.

Why should you be? You're capable. Smart. Perceptive—you've even caught him off guard a few times already, and you're confident he liked it. That it's part of what drew him to you in the first place. So if he is luring you into some kind of trap, you're looking for the wires and watching where you step. You don't think he is, though. Or at the very least, you believe him when he said the thing he wanted out of it was you.

Is it still a trap if you walk into it willingly and give him what he wants? If you offer yourself up in consecration? Because you plan on doing just that—the sacrificial lamb yearning for the wolf's jaws. You're prepared to receive his sacrament, just to see how much you might enjoy it.

Really, now the only question left is when.

As the site loads, you hold your breath until you see that black box waiting there for you in the corner of the screen. Then the air and tension bleed out of you in a sigh, leaving an eager thrill behind.

You smile into the camera. "Hello, David."

I could get used to that.

"Used to what?" You notice he changed his username to his name, rather than the ridiculous one he had before.

You, pleased to see me.

"I suppose you should continue to please me, then." You let slip a small grin.

I plan to.

"Oh? Then I'm even further pleased to hear it."

How pleased?

"Ah, but that would be telling. Where's the fun in that?"

I see I'm creating a monster.

"You really have no one to blame for this but yourself," you laugh. "But don't pretend you aren't enjoying it immensely."

I am. Immensely.

Did you miss me?

"I did a bit, yeah." Your cheeks grow warm at the admission. One which is actually an understatement.

You're not usually the sentimental or mushy type. In fact, you usually find that part of dating—if that's what you can even call this—to be frustrating. You kept your partners at arm's length in the past. To the point they inevitably accused you of being cold and distant. 'Another form of survival,' you realize. You couldn't let any of them close enough to see, otherwise they might accuse you of being worse. Now it's mortifying to know how much you really did miss him, and how quickly you've ended up here. Because all of this is new.

Good.

"Hearing from you this afternoon helped, though."

I'll have to remember that.

"I hope you do. And for the record," you glance up at the camera through your eyelashes as you lean in closer, "I was never talking about the Scotch."

Neither was I.

It WAS good Scotch, though.

"It wasn't nice to send me those photos while I was at work, but it was nice to get them." In a lower voice you add, "I liked seeing glimpses of you."

Did you?

"I did." Your blush runs hot as you remember every dirty fantasy you had about his hands on you for nearly an hour afterwards. How you had to stop looking at beds and silk sheets because it only made your affliction worse.

That's exactly why I sent them. I enjoyed the thought of you bothered at your desk.

"How do you know I was bothered?" You asked pointedly.

Are you denying it?

"Not at all. And you're not answering the question."

I told you. I like pressing your buttons. I've worked very hard to figure out what they are so I can do just that.

"I'm sure. And here I thought you just missed me, too." You give the camera a fake pout. "Cruel."

I never said I was a nice man.

"I suppose you haven't. And I suppose I wouldn't be so intrigued if you were."

This is also why I didn't want you distracted. Imagine if you'd had the freedom to respond to me.

Like you wanted to.

You suck in a breath and your eyes become heavy lidded at the implication. How would you have responded if you'd been at home? Well, you certainly would have flirted a lot harder. Or you would have sent a spicy selfie back to regain some power with the hope he might have given you just a little bit more of himself in return.

But you remember how worked up you got simply sitting there, thinking about him—and occasionally looking back at the photo. How you had crossed your legs and shifted uncomfortably while you tried not to squirm into your chair. Would you have…touched yourself? To the thought of him? The fantasy of his hands forces its way to the front of your mind. Of that casual pointer finger tracing along your jaw, and your body immediately responds with a slick, fluttering heat between your legs. You decide that, yes, you absolutely would have.

Wait…

Shit.

You suddenly realize that's what he actually means by responding to him. It's not texting back or being able to chat with him. He wants you to allow yourself to react to him. To get so worked up, so overcome with need, that you get off to the thought of him. Which you can't do at work. God, that's… 'tempting,' your mind offers.

"Well, I have some excellent news there." You try to tuck that realization away so you can regather your composure. For now. "Today was my last day at that shitty job. I don't have to go back to finish out the two weeks." Then, with a full understanding now of what it means, you add, "So no more distractions."

Is that so? That is excellent news.

How did you manage it? Or did you get bored of scrolling?

"No, I'm just very persuasive." You give the camera a smug look.

You are that.

"I also told my boss he was disgusting before I left. That felt fucking incredible," you nearly moan. "I've wanted to do that for years."

Then you've had a very good day so far.

"I really have," you say with a wistful smile.

However, as you think about why it felt incredible, the expression slowly falls from your face until it's replaced with a scowl. "He deserved far worse than what I gave him, though. That asshole used to stand behind me at my computer and touch my arm and back, or lean against me when he bent over to look at my screen. God, and he would try to get his face really close to mine, as if I might find it erotic or kiss him or something. I'd have to lean away in my chair for him to finally stop. He would also proposition me in his office and say suggestive things whenever he sent me an email because he was that confident in his ability to never face consequences. And he was right. He never did." You let out a disgusted sigh.

"When I was new, a couple of my coworkers complained to HR, and do you know what happened?" You don't wait for an answer. "All he had to do was watch a short video on sexual harassment. He never got a warning or written up. There was no follow up. Then they got fired for it. Not right away, but eventually the company found a bullshit reason to let them go, and soon there was someone new at their desk. We all knew the truth, though. That's why I never reported him. I knew it was pointless. It wasn't just him, either. It was several of the men that worked there. It's like they attracted men like him while the rest of them did nothing to stop it. We all learned quickly who to stay away from to avoid being easy prey."

By the time you're done talking, you're tense and clenching with anger. That place was a miserable, violating hellhole, and he was scum. You can't believe you put up with it for so long. You should have quit years ago! Why didn't you? Oh, right. Because men like that are easier to fool and distract so you didn't have to work as hard to blend in. Why would they care about your mask when your tits are right there?

You come out of your sudden rant and momentary introspection only to notice the chat box hasn't updated since his last message.

"David?" You call out. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

You wonder if your connection went bad as you were talking. Or if you've upset him by telling him all of those things and now he doesn't know what to say. If so, you can't really blame him. Once you started talking and finally got the chance to let it all out, you didn't hold back. Maybe you should have. How is anyone supposed to respond to that?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump all of that on you without warning. I know it's fucking horrible."

Not at all. I was just looking into something.

"Oh." There's a flicker of hurt in your chest. He'd been multitasking while you were talking? You know he never promised you his full attention, you just kind of assumed you would have it. Especially when you were opening up. Maybe…maybe that assumption was a miscalculation on your part. Maybe some truths are more important to him than others.

I'm sure walking out of there after all of that felt liberating.

"It did."

That's good.

"Indeed." You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes because he seems…off. Or at least not prepared with a response or comment like he usually is, which sets off alarm bells in your mind. "Is everything alright?"

No.

"Oh. I—" You cut yourself off when you see another response pop up on screen.

I'm furious.

"About my job?" You ask, both hopeful and uncertain after thinking he was distracted. Maybe he had been paying some attention after all.

Yes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the—"

Stop apologizing.

You don't have to apologize to me for what he did.

"S—" You start and then stop yourself with a huff of frustration. "Damn. I suppose I still have a few bad habits to work through."

Would you like to know what I was looking up?

"Sure," you say, a bit wary. Because you assumed he was looking up something that had nothing to do with you. Now you aren't so sure.

Dirt.

"Dirt?" You furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

Everyone has a secret, don't they? Something they keep hidden from everyone else that they're ashamed of getting out.

You feel a wave of involuntary shame about your secret before you remind yourself you have nothing to be ashamed of. You never did. Just another form of survival. And one you chose at that. There's a certain kind of power in that knowledge. Besides, it led you to him, didn't it?

I'm looking for theirs. The truth that will hurt them back.

"Oh." You're left staring at your screen in shock. You aren't sure how to respond to that because you hadn't even considered retaliation to be an option. Nor had you stopped to consider that he could dig into other people the same way he dug into your life. But now, after the way he phrased it, you're suddenly confident you were far from his first time doing so. "Why?"

For doing that to you.

Your heart skips a beat. He's angry on your behalf. No one has ever been angry enough on your behalf to do something about it. Especially not something like…this. Between his willingness to dig up dirt on someone else, and everything else he's done, you realize now that he's not one for comforting words or condolences. He acts.

For you.

Okay, he might not be a nice man, but he is sweet. Sweet, of course, being a relative term, considering what he actually plans to do. Which should be objectively horrifying, but you only find yourself touched by his anger.

But this is for you, so I will only use it if you tell me to.

"Alright," you whisper, still stunned and overwhelmed by what he's offering you. It feels like you're being handed a loaded weapon, and it's pointed at someone you loathe. How easy it would be to pull that trigger. How easy it would be to let it happen. How tempting…

Would you like me to?

Would you? You're not sure. It depends on what he digs up and the collateral damage it would cause. Would it be something that forces the company to shut down? Would your coworkers lose their jobs? All because of you?

Or…wait. Do you even care if they do? Your instinct was to worry and feel guilty, almost like a reflex. But if you push past that and dig deeper, to the core of yourself, do you actually care?

While they weren't your boss, they didn't make your experience there good by any means. You couldn't grab lunch or a coffee without having to listen to them talk about something pointless. Or worse, they cornered you and talked at you when all you wanted was to be left alone. And you know it wasn't because they wanted to talk to you or because they cared about you. They cared about having an audience.

Besides, it's not your fault they were also victims. It's not on you to feel guilty. All you should be worrying about right now is yourself. So if you do care at all, it certainly doesn't outweigh the yearning for vengeance. You're certain they would retaliate if they weren't afraid. They would unleash that deep anger, too. You just happen to be the one that got lucky enough to actually do so.

"Do it," you growl out. "Make them pay."

That's my girl.

His girl. A pleasant flush spreads up your neck. That's the first time he's ever tried to lay claim to you, and he did it in a way that was easy and confident. Almost unassuming. If you were a less perceptive woman, the implication of it might have escaped your notice. Maybe he was hoping it would.

Now the question becomes: Are you going to let him have that claim? Are you going to let him think of you as his? The idea sends desire coiling through your belly, and you know you're not only going to let him, you're going to embrace it. Because you like it. You want it.

Look at yourself right now. Look at how beautiful you are.

You stare at yourself on the screen. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips are parted in a pant, and your eyes are wide with hunger and excitement. There's a cruel, satisfied curl to your mouth. It almost looks like a snarl trying to blossom on your face.

You look beautiful and terrible.

What are you feeling?

"I feel…" Your gaze wanders around the room as you try to find a way to put the immensity of it into words. "I feel powerful. As though everything I once feared can no longer touch me. And I feel ravenous, like I want more of that." You close your eyes to help you focus deeper inward. "I feel almost high off of it. I got the same feeling on camera and when I towered over my boss and made him feel small. It's a rush. A euphoria. And...I feel pleased. Grateful." You open your eyes and glance seductively into the camera. "A little turned on."

It feels good, doesn't it?

"Good?!" There's a note of hysteria to the laughter that bubbles out of you. "David, it feels fucking amazing! I've never felt like this before."

I told you I planned to continue pleasing you.

"God, yes you did. And you certainly have." You let out a sigh and your expression softens. "I don't know how to convey my gratitude. You've done so much for me, I…"

No, none of that. I assure you, doing so is my pleasure. And you have my word that I'll go back to digging later. But right now, I have you here on my screen and I'm not about to waste another moment of it.

Especially not when you look so lovely.

"Thank you." You give the camera a coy smile. "I enjoy your flattery."

It's not flattery, it's the truth.

"Well, I enjoy it, nonetheless."

Speaking of the truth, I have a question for you.

"What's that?" You lean forward, suddenly interested.

Were you upset when I told you I'd been looking into something?

'Shit,' you think as you bite at your bottom lip in hesitation. You hoped he hadn't noticed, but of course he fucking noticed. "I was."

Why?

"I got emotional talking about my job, that's all." You shrug in an attempt to brush it off as nothing, hoping he'll accept that.

You're side stepping the question.

But of course he didn't. "That's because it's silly and not worth bringing up."

I beg to differ.

"Fine," you sigh in defeat. "I just…I thought you had been working on something unrelated while I was talking, and I guess it hurt my feelings. But like I said, it wasn't a rational response. I was already upset."

Did you think I wasn't paying attention while you were being honest?

"Yes. I know now you were, obviously. That's why it was ridiculous."

And why would the thought that I wasn't paying attention hurt your feelings?

"Because…" You trail off and your hands begin to fidget in your lap. You know he's asking you to be vulnerable again and that makes you uncomfortable. There are some truths that are still difficult to say out loud. But you also know now he's going to get you to admit it anyway, so you may as well get it over with. "Because I wanted you to listen. I wanted you to...want to listen. But I realized you never promised me your full attention and I shouldn't just expect it. That was unfair of me."

Hmm. I think there's been some miscommunication and it's my fault. Because you're making assumptions about me and what I want, which means I haven't been clear enough.

Your heart sinks. "No, some of that is my fault for making those assumptions in the first place."

Let me finish.

"Alright." There's tension in your shoulders and ice in your veins as you brace yourself for him to confirm that you shouldn't expect it.

I want you to be honest with me.

"I have been," you protest softly.

No. I don't mean tell me the truth.

I want you to be honest WITH me. Do you understand?

You blink in confusion as you try to process the difference between those two, almost identical statements. "I...don't quite think I do."

I realize now that I've made it seem as though I wanted to see you without your mask just because your complexity makes you more physically attractive. I won't deny that it does. You know that I want you. I want to see your naked body right here on my screen. I want to watch you pleasure yourself for me while I get off to it. Then I want to run my hands along every inch of you. I want to kiss you, and I want to fuck you so hard and so deep neither of us can speak. I want that. I want to take you and claim you as mine.

"Jesus, David," you whimper. As you read all the things he wants from you—your mind supplying you with the corresponding images and phantom sensations of each one—you can feel the responding heat and lust swelling urgently between your thighs. It leaves your sex throbbing painfully against the crotch of your tight pants, which had seemed like such a good idea that morning. You shift your hips, both needing to ease the pressure and seeking more of it against the damp cloth.

By the time you're done reading, the need is radiating up your torso, causing a violent fluttering in your belly. And there's a new paragraph for you to read.

You swallow hard, unsure how you can endure more.

But it's not all I want. I told you I see something in you that mirrors something in me. What I didn't say is that I've never seen that reflection before. I've never found the possibility of understanding or of being seen back. That's why you intrigue me so much.

People bore and disgust me, too, but you? God, you are something entirely different. I desire the truth of you because I desire what I see inside of you just as much as what I see on the outside.

It's not butterflies in your stomach. It's a flock of starlings—a twisting mass, swirling and diving through your guts on a thousand sets of wings. It aches just as much as your arousal does.

So I'll state it now so you never doubt me again.

You will always have my full attention because I can't look away from you. The more you shed your mask and grow into your own skin, the harder it's getting to remember anything else matters. I also want to listen to you. Every word, but especially when you're being honest. And I didn't say it earlier, but I missed you today, too. Because I missed you before you even spoke to me. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I found you. My obsession with you has driven me nearly mad. You've ruined me for anything that isn't you. That's how much I want all of you.

Now do you understand? I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone. I want you completely.

"Yes," you breathe out automatically, your voice barely audible. "I understand now."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your sternum pulse and flex with every beat. You wonder if he can see it. You hope he can. You hope he can see the way he's left you breathless—your shoulders heaving as you desperately try to fill your lungs. The way your bottom lip trembles with every inhale.

You hope he can see all of that so he knows how affected and enraptured you are by him because you don't know what the fuck to say. That was the hottest and most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you. And it was said by a man that stalked you. A man you've never even seen before. It's as if he exists in your periphery and you can never turn your head fast enough to catch him.

"God, David. I'm…" You trail off helplessly.

You're what?

"Overwhelmed," you blurt out.

I won't apologize for it because that was my intention. Now you won't forget a word of it.

Will you?

"No. I don't think I could. No one's ever said even half of those things to me before."

That's a pity. You deserve to hear it.

But I won't deny that I'm also glad no one has. That the privilege has been mine and mine alone.

"Will you turn your camera on? Please," you beg, uncaring about how desperate you sound. "I need to see you."

No.

You let out a noise of frustration. "Why not? After everything you just said to me, I still don't get to see your face?"

I want to be able to look into your eyes the first time you see me.

"Fuck," you whimper. Now you can't even be angry anymore because he somehow made it even more romantic and devastatingly sexy. You take in a deep calming breath, which helps your nerves somewhat, but there's still a quiver in your voice when you continue. "If I'm being honest, the thought of that terrifies me at the moment."

Why?

"Because it makes me feel vulnerable in a way I've never felt before. Like no matter how much clothing I'm wearing, I'm still naked because you strip me bare. And that's just through text." You shake your head in disbelief. "Everything you've said to me, every light you've shone on my dark corners, it's as if the whole of me is being seen for the first time. Even though that part of me is this…unused, wretched thing, I can't stay in the dark anymore. I can't stand it. So I can't help but wonder how much more overwhelming it would be to stand in front of you and have your full attention."

Does that mean you're done hesitating?

"Am I?" You wonder out loud, as much to yourself as to him. "You're still such a mystery to me, but after that, I realize I don't care. I want to know you. Though," a puff of laughter leaves your lips, "in a strange way I feel like I already do. It's as if I'm living with a ghost. I can see you without seeing you. I'm always aware of you now no matter what I'm doing. You haunt me, David, and I can't stop thinking about you either. So, even though it scares me, for the first time in my life I actually want to be vulnerable. With you. For you."

You reach for the strap of your cami, intending to slide it off your shoulder—wanting to push it off and let the shirt pool around your waist. You want to bare more of yourself to him. You want him to see. Because, god help you, you realize you want all of that, too. In a way you've never felt before. Like a constant yearning clawing its way from your belly, up into your throat, choking you with it. And you don't know what that means, but you want it.

However, before your hand can even touch the fabric, your phone buzzes loudly on the desk next to you, causing the whole surface to vibrate.

You'd been so focused—so entirely consumed by him, that the sudden noise startles you. You look at it, baffled by the interruption, as it continues to rattle the desk. Then you realize: Someone's calling you. No, not someone. Your stomach sinks as you stare down at your screen in horror.

It's your mother.

"Fuck," you hiss. You scramble to pick up the phone and mute the ringer. At the very least, you need the vibrating to stop so you can have a second to fucking think.

As you hold it, your hands tremble. You're full of adrenaline from being startled and from seeing the caller ID. You're also fraught with violent emotion from the conversation you were having, as well as nerves from what you had been moments away from doing. You were going to take that next leap. You wanted to take it. With him. Instead you'd been interrupted.

You don't believe in fate, but you certainly believe in your mother's ability to ruin something, even unknowingly.

But why is she calling you? She can't possibly know what happened today, you tell yourself. How would she even find out? So she isn't calling to scold you or berate you. Probably. About this, anyway. There's still the likelihood of some perceived slight. What does she want then? After only half a second's hesitation, you send her to voicemail. Because you really don't fucking care either way. Let her stew. You mute your ringer for good measure.

Is something wrong?

"No, nothing." In your distraction, the lie comes—involuntary—out of your mouth.

I wouldn't even need to hear your voice to know that you're lying.

You wince and look back up at the camera. "You're right, I realized the moment I said it. I apologize, that wasn't intentional. It's just…" You struggle to find the words to make him understand. Then you realize you don't have any to convey what you're feeling or why you're feeling it, so you settle for blunt honesty instead. "It was my mother."

Do you need to leave?

"No!" You immediately protest. "Absolutely not!"

Alright.

Then is that something else you would want to talk about?

"It—" You cut yourself off before you can say anything more. Because god, that's a whole different can of worms you haven't looked at too closely yet. It's the mess in the corner you've been trying to pretend doesn't exist because you know sorting through it will be exhausting. Now you're running out of excuses to continue leaving it, and, in doing so, are letting the fear of it win.

"I think that's something I still have to work through somewhat on my own and come back to later. Besides, right now I get to talk to you and I'm not about to waste a moment of it." You smile softly as you echo his words back to him.

I'm glad to hear that.

Your heart is still pounding and your fingers still itch to take your shirt off. Instead you sit there and try to pretend none of that is happening.

What would you like to talk about now then? Any new revelations?

Or perhaps any new decisions?

You blush at the question. You suspect he could tell exactly what you were about to do because he sees you so clearly—and you still want to. Fuck, do you still want to. However, after the emotional turbulence you just went through, your mind is in turmoil despite what your body wants. And when you take that next step, you want to be deep in that moment again. You want your mind and body focused entirely on him.

"I think you were just privy to my biggest revelation. Which is that I rather like the thought of vengeance." You try to give the camera a playful grin to lighten the mood.

It's a very human response to pain.

Relief washes over you as he decides to play along rather than push, even though you know it's likely a calculated move on his part rather than for your comfort. "So is guilt, but I don't feel any of that."

Did you when I first suggested it?

"I did."

Why?

"I'm not sure. Another habit, I suppose." You shrug. "I felt like I should feel guilty because other people could get hurt. Then I realized those assholes getting what they deserve would always have collateral damage. Being afraid of it has probably stilled too many hands already. And I realized I simply don't care. It's not my fault, and I don't owe them anything." Saying it out loud causes you to wince. "That's probably terrible, isn't it?"

No. I think you may be surprised by how often the guilt many people feel is actually just shame for the absence of guilt. Once again, the only difference is honesty.

"Well, I'm currently feeling neither."

That's good. There's no reason you should. Our sense of morality is a societal concept. Shame is taught, but it can be unlearned.

"Once I realized that, it was an easy decision to make."

What do you hope happens with all of it? What outcome do you want most of all?

You glance up to stare directly into the camera, your expression vengeful and determined. "I want that place to burn, and I want every moment of it to hurt."

God, you're incredible.

Then I'll do my best to give you that.

"I have every confidence you will. I can attest to how thorough you are." You raise an eyebrow in challenge.

You can, can't you?

You can feel his smirk through the screen. "You've done this before." It's not a question.

I have.

"Many times."

Yes. Does that bother you?

"Not really. It answers a few questions and raises a few more, though."

Such as?

"What is it that you do? You're rich, you're good with technology, and you…what, dig into and stalk people in your free time?"

Not exactly.

"What, then? Are you some sort of entrepreneur?"

You could say that, in a way. I used to work in the financial sector. It paid incredibly well, but didn't give me what I wanted. It did give me my start and teach me to be very talented with money, however. Now I invest in things that pique my interest. Sometimes that's new technology. Sometimes it's my own personal amusement.

Does that satisfy your curiosity?

"It does a bit, actually." It doesn't answer how he found you, but it's a start. You tilt your head as you consider the screen and lean in closer. "Is that why you were in a meeting?"

Yes. I was getting an update on a business proposal.

"What for?"

Are you actually curious or are you just being polite? Because I would hate to bore you.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know or if I thought I might get bored," you say honestly. Because you find that you actually do want to hear about it when it's coming from him. "I'm just trying to figure out who you are."

It was for an online security company.

And yes, I'm aware of the irony.

"I didn't say anything!" You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling. "I did think it immediately, however."

Investing in something like that has its uses. It opens up a lot of opportunities for me to do what I do. But I meant it when I said I don't want to bore you. It's not as interesting as it might seem, and I truly don't make a habit of discussing work. It's a means to an end and nothing more.

"Alright, then no work talk." You relax back into your chair.

I suppose we've both reached our quota for the evening, haven't we?

"That we most certainly have. Although…" Excitement washes over you as you remember something specific you wanted to ask him from earlier today. "I did think of a few more questions after you texted me at work."

Did you?

"I did. Because I'm still so very curious about you, David."

Then by all means, ask away.

You don't hesitate or stop to think. "How old are you?"

Ah, these kinds of questions.

"Indeed, these kinds of questions. I can't see you or hear your voice, so this is all I have to build my mental image of you until I can."

How old do you think I am?

"Based on your hands, I would guess in your fifties. No younger than late forties."

Because of my hands?

"Yes. I can tell the difference between a boy and a man. Prominent veins, slight wrinkles, variations in your skin tone."

Perhaps I should be self conscious.

"Don't be. I rather like your hands. They're just…very telling." You squirm slightly in your seat as you think about them again. And what exactly they might tell you in the future.

Then I'll be pleased instead.

Anything else you could tell from just photos?

"Your nails are very well groomed and your shoes are well polished, so I suspect you put the same amount of care into the rest of your appearance. And you have nice, but expensive tastes. Particularly in shoes." Then with a hint of a smile, you add, "Likely in alcohol as well."

Correct on all accounts. You're very astute.

"I am." You grin while trying not to think about how those observations were likely due to the amount of times you looked at the photos rather than due to being particularly astute. "In fact, I can't help but notice you haven't actually answered my question."

Clever.

I'm 58.

"Hmm, a little older than I would have guessed."

Does that bother you?

"Not even a little. I find older men to be far more attractive, and their experience more rewarding."

Is that so? How much experience do you imagine I have?

"Enough." You give the camera a flirty smile. "You're too charming not to have lived a little."

I've been called many things, but charming is rarely one of them.

"Perhaps they didn't deserve it. Or were too dull to notice." The expression on your face softens with affection. "I find you to be quite charming."

Do you find it odd that you find the man that blackmailed you charming?

"No," you reply without hesitation. "Should I?"

I'm sure most people would say yes. They may even call it alarming.

"I think we've established that we're not most people."

No. We're not.

"Besides, we both know it was more than blackmail."

Oh? What would you call it then?

Your lips curl in amusement. "Flirting."

How could threatening you possibly be considered flirting?

"You wanted to get my attention. To intrigue and seduce me. Sounds like flirting to me."

Well, when you put it that way.

There's a pause.

It worked, didn't it?

"It did. I'm very intrigued."

And what about seduced?

Your eyes flicker up to the camera lens. "I'm feeling rather seduced as well."

That's a relief. For a second I was worried that I may have to try harder.

You swallow as you wonder what that might look like. Your voice comes out sounding more distracted than you intend. "I certainly wouldn't protest if you did."

You wouldn't? Well, I'll have to keep that in mind.

Oh god. A small part of you can't help but wonder if you've just made a mistake. The rest of you, however, is practically writhing with anticipation in your chair.

But first I believe you had more questions for me.

"Oh." You blink. "Right. I did." Your mind races to think of any of them.

Perhaps more questions about my appearance?

You know he's smirking again behind his screen.

"There might have been a few more of those," you say defensively. "Can you blame me? I don't know what you look like. Makes it difficult to think about you."

We both know "think" isn't the correct word there, don't we? You can think about me all day long.

You want to fantasize about me.

Your face burns with embarrassment and thrill. "Fine. That's exactly what I want. It's hardly fair you have that luxury, but I don't. You get to see me and know what I look like. In fact, you've probably seen more of me than I realize."

Oh, I don't blame you one bit. I just want you to be honest with yourself about what you're asking.

And why.

You're flustered by his response, of course. How could you not be? He knows that you want to have explicit, dirty thoughts about him. And he wants you to admit to it out loud.

But there was something you said that's giving you pause: 'You've probably seen more of me than I realize.'

"David," You say calmly as you tilt your head in curiosity. "Have you only watched me through video? Or have you followed me as well?"

It takes several very long seconds for you to get a reply.

Well now, you are a very clever girl.

Your heart begins to pound as the realization settles over you. "You have, haven't you?"

I once sat in that coffee shop you visit. I watched you order a coffee. Then you stared out the window to watch the rain as you waited, not two meters from me.

Your mind races to examine every memory you have of waiting for your coffee on a rainy day, combing through any detail you can recall. But it's useless. You visit that coffee shop several times a week, and you always go on rainy days for a bit of comfort because walking in the rain is miserable. Even some of the baristas you see regularly are faceless in your memories. None of it seemed important at the time. Not important enough to commit to memory, anyway.

"Did I look at you?" You're nearly breathless at the thought that you may have laid eyes on him before. "Did I see you?"

No.

There's a pang in your chest. An inexplicable loss, like you missed something important. A thread of what might have been. "Did you want me to?"

Are you asking if I had hoped we might lock eyes across the shop and it would be love at first sight?

"I don't know! Not that, necessarily, but something. A lingering glance. A polite nod of acknowledgement, perhaps."

No. I didn't hope for anything. I only wanted to see you.

"God, David. You were right there and I just…"

Now are you bothered?

"Yes!" There's a mania in your voice you can't control that's bordering on hysteria. All of this is overwhelming. Not because it scares you, but because you know now there was a chance this could have happened months ago and didn't. All because you didn't look. "I'm bothered I didn't notice you."

It wouldn't have changed anything.

You know he's right. Even if you had looked at him and thought he was attractive, you wouldn't have approached him. You never do. It usually ruins the illusion. "I suppose not."

Still, you can't help but wonder if he would have been different. If you would've felt pulled to him somehow, as though a part of you would have just known what he could awaken in you simply by looking at him.

"Did you think I was beautiful?" You ask quietly.

You were stunning. I could hardly take my eyes off of you.

You let out a pained sob as you read his response.

"Was it thrilling?" You're leaning in now, eager to read more, even if it hurts. "Being that close to me while I had no idea you were watching?"

Yes.

"Did you want to touch me?"

Desperately.

"This is torture," you groan.

How do you think it felt to see you?

And not touch you.

You imagine him chasing you out into the rain. Him, grabbing your arm as you turn in surprise, ready to yell at him to let go until you see his face. Him, pushing you against the brick building and capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss as water drips from your nose and runs down your cheeks. Him, slipping a hand into your jacket to grope along your waist. You, digging your fingers into his hair so he can never pull away from you.

Except you can't visualize any of it because he's still just a shadow of ideas and feelings in your mind. You want to fill in those blanks so badly now. You ache for it. Not knowing is maddening.

"What color is your hair?" You ask breathlessly.

Blond.

Your fingers, tangled through blond hair.

You let out a whimper as your face falls into your hands. You stay like that for several moments, trying to calm yourself down. Trying to will the fantasy out of your mind because the 'what if' is driving you mad. When you finally look up, there's a message waiting for you.

Perhaps we should call it here for tonight. You've had a very eventful and emotional day. And while I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation and your reactions, I want you to sit with them. I want you to understand why you're having them.

"I know why I'm having them!" You protest as your heart sinks. You're having them because you want him, you think. You want to be done hesitating. You want to be done with all of this so there's nothing but you and him—a tangle of limbs and lips.

And I want you to be sure. Do you understand?

"I understand." He wants there to be no hesitation. No doubts. No regrets. "But I don't want to go."

I know, darling. I don't want you to go, either.

But you're free to come back to me whenever now. Aren't you?

"I am," you reluctantly agree. You know you could log on first thing in the morning if you really wanted to, and you have no doubt he would be there within a few minutes.

Tomorrow we can pick up where we left off. Whenever you would like.

Whenever you're ready.

"I think being ready for you is starting to become my default state of being, David."

Is that so?

"Yes. In fact, I'm feeling quite eager."

Are you?

"I am." You squirm for the camera, seeking friction over your arousal. Only this time you make no attempt to hide it underneath a casual shifting in your chair.

So I see.

"But you're right. I have a lot of thinking to do tonight. And I'm going to be thinking very hard about what I want." Before he can respond, you whisper seductively, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, David."

Then you close the window.

While you miss him already, you've truly never felt so alive.

Chapter 4->

A/N: David is such a hypocrite. And he's a manipulative twat. (I desire him carnally)

Also now that we're 3 chapters in, I suppose I should tell you: Every scene where Reader is talking to the camera and he's been typing? David is using a speech to text program. So on the other end of the line, he's actually been talking back to her the entire time. 😇

#david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #the devil makes us sin fic #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #andy serkis #x reader

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