#jezebels been moved!

[beejunos]

SPEAK TO ME | Sneak peek [Alastor x f.reader] | SMUT (mdni)

Summary: Alastors voice turns you on. Something he loves to take advantage of.

If you want you read the full story, press THIS LINK

Did someone ask for an Alastor voice kink fic?! This is only a sneak peek! I hope to finish this little smutty story in about two days.

Halfway through your night routine, you turned on your radio at a soft, pleasant volume, and Alastor's smooth voice filled the otherwise silent room. 

"Salutations, friends and hellish residents! Tonight, we have a splendid assortment of the latest news and the best Hell has to offer in jazz, but before we chitchat about our dear city's hellish affairs, here is the newest music from Miss Jezebel and The Wicked Six!" 

Slow and sultry jazz music started to play on the radio. The woman who sang had a deep, smoky quality that was inherently sexy to you. There was just something about women who sang with deep voices that made your hips sway from side to side, effortlessly dancing across your room as you started to strip, pretending there was someone there who enjoyed the show you put on. 

You turned off all the lights except the small lamp by your bed and crawled under the thick blanket. You left the radio on as you made yourself comfortable, hugging one of your pillows close to you. 

The song ended, and Alastor came back. This time, he started talking about the news. Since the news sometimes made you too sad to sleep, you never really listened to what he was saying; you only listened to his voice—his tone, the cadence of his speech, and his transatlantic accent. 

You let his voice wash over you like a soothing balm to your aching body, but soon, you felt the familiar tingles run up your back. Warmth pooled low within you as you shifted in your bed, lying on your back. The desire to touch and be touched grew in you, to move, to grind, to satisfy the urge for sex. 

Closing your eyes and letting your hands wander over your body, you start by slowly dragging your fingertips over your sensitive throat, making sure that your light fingertips touch all the places that made you weak. 

Your hands travel from your throat down to your chest. Palming your breasts in your hand, you drag your nails over your sensitive nipples. Pinshin, pulling and rolling them between your fingers till they are warm and hard. 

Your senses sharpen as you start to feel more intensely, but your mind goes hazy, making it hard to think clearly. Alastors voice is but background noise now that edges you on.

One hand stays on your breast as the other journeys down, down, down and under your underwear. 

You slowly drag your finger between your lips, coating your finger in your wetness as you slowly pull it towards your clit. A breathless gasp is pulled from your mouth the first time your finger comes in contact with your sensitive clit. Slowly and with the lightest touch, you start to circle the organ, and what feels like electricity builds in your loins.

You can't help but move in your bed, legs bending and toes curling as you give yourself the pleasure that you wished Alastor would provide you. Your hand that previously played with your breast joined your other hand, and you let out a not-so-subtle moan as you pushed two fingers into you. Desperately, you curl your fingers inside you to increase the pleasure. 

You want it. You need it. Your toes curl almost painfully as Alastors name falls from your lips like a prayer. 

You're so close. So close you can see stars behind your eyes. You breathlessly chase that sweet release. Building, and building, and building. Your legs are shaking as you bite your lips. Hips lift from the mattress as you fight the urge to close your legs.

You are so, so close.

"What are you doing, my dear?" 

Cold dread crashes through your body as you rip your hands away from your body. You frantically look all over your room in the shadows. Looking for that all-knowing smile and calculating red eyes. 

His voice had been so close and clear that he had to be in your room. It had felt like he had spoken to you right beside your ear. But you were alone. No one was in your room but you. 

"Such a naughty little creature you are, my dear. So desperate to be touched." 

Goosebumps travel up your back as you slowly turn in the direction you hear his voice. On your nightstand is the radio that Alastor gave you. It is still on, but the yellow light of the display has turned red. 

Towering over you in your bed, you almost feel like he is watching you. Observing you as you lay naked in your bed. Your blankets were by the end of the bed as you had kicked them off a long time ago. 

"Can't even listen to me talking without having to touch yourself. My oh my, what will I ever do with such a bad little doe, hm?" 

Shaking all over, you reached for the radio's electrical cord and jerked it out of the outlet. The radio fell silent as you collapsed in your bed. Spent, but not satisfied. However, you soon start to tremble over the fact that Alastor had listened to you pleasuring yourself, and he seemed to like it.

[hedwig221b]

Heey, was wondering if you could recommend some magical stiles fics, preferably sterek.

Thank you 😊

Magical Stiles, my beloved!!! 💖

My Mother Told Me by Renmackree

Stiles joined the Emissary program to help Alpha wolves settle into their new roles and to follow in his mother’s footsteps. She had always told him he was destined to run with the wolves, but he thought she meant Scott and his pack.

Instead, Stiles finds himself sent to Thingvallavatn, Iceland, with Alpha Derek Hale. It's clear the Alpha is hiding a part of him that Stiles can’t reach, but when a monster comes to threaten the pack, it’s always great to have someone in your corner with a little mischief up their sleeve

My, What Big Shoulders You Have (The Better to Help You Carry the Weight) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“Talia was just telling me an interesting story,” his dad informed him. Stiles didn’t have the nerve to glance over at him, because he knew no matter how much he argued, the proof was all there. The wolves had found him, Parrish had picked him up on the side of the road, he had a fucking picture on his phone. He was screwed. No point in arguing, all it’d do is piss his father off even more.

“You don’t say,” Stiles offered slowly. “What uh—you know, I like stories. Is it a uh, good one?”

“It seems to be a matter of opinion,” Talia said with another kind smile. “I hear you had quite the night last night.”

Okay, time to cut his losses. He was already fucked, all he could do was apologize and hope she didn’t press for him to get fined and arrested. Given he was her husband’s friend’s son, he had high hopes.

“I’m really sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “It was stupid and-and irresponsible and just—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed into your territory. I should’ve known better, I do know better! It was a complete lapse in judgement and I am just—I am so sorry.”

Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame

Derek felt the panic build up in his chest as Jezebel held out a hand. He smelled it before he saw it, because who could forget the scent of what destroyed your life? Fire and spark and smoke curled from Jezebel's hands, and the wood stacked at Stiles' feet flared up.

When Stiles and Derek get bonded as Emissary-and-Alpha, hidden attractions become a lot harder to hide, secrets are kept and secrets are surfaced, and an evil teenage girl is planning even more ritualistic sacrifice. Canon divergence from the end of 3a.

A Letter From Mom by StilesIsMySpiritAnimal

After waking up at the age of 11 without any memories of his past Stiles spends eight years with his father in the tiny town of Shelter Cove, California. After his father's death he receives a notice from a storage facility in some town called Beacon Hills. Stiles is confused and thinks the manager made a mistake until he finds a letter that should have been for his 18th birthday that his dad never gave him. It's from his mother, who he has no memory of. Weirdly enough, her letter mentions Beacon Hills and some woman named Talia, who he's supposed to trust. Confused and angry at his father, Stiles sets out for Beacon Hills anxious and determined to find out what his dad had been hiding from him all these years.

Truth in Pretense by wanderingeyre

Stiles took the straw from his drink and started chewing on it. He pulled it from his mouth and stood. He grinned at Derek. “Stop frowning, Sourwolf. I have a solution that will solve all our problems.”

“And that would be?” Derek didn’t move as Stiles moved closer to him.

Stiles winked at Derek. “We get married.” --- The one where Derek and Stiles pretend to be mates to help out a neighboring Pack and find there is some truth in pretense.

Actions Speak Louder than Words by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”

That was a bad word. Not found.

Have.

Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.

One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

If You’re Going Through Hell (Keep Going)

Stiles thought everything leading up to Allison’s death was hell, but he was wrong. Spending senior year dealing with the pack’s dismissal of him while secretly training to be Deaton’s replacement was hell. Feeling guilty and hating himself for what the Nogitsune did was hell. Being in love with someone who would never love him back was hell. Well, if you’re going through hell, keep going.

Striking Matches by eeyore9990

Stiles has only ever wanted to protect his family and his pack. That’s not easy to do when you're human and sarcasm is your only defense. Now Deaton is telling Stiles he’s a spark, and if that’s a weapon in his arsenal, he’s sure as hell going to learn to use it.

All Stiles needs now, to complete his transformation into a true badass, is a training montage and a decent soundtrack...

A Similar String by snarkatthemoon

Strong bonds made for a strong pack, and he needed a strong pack.

They spent a long time in silence, Derek thinking hard about how he was going to cement the bonds. It needed to be done, and not just because they had the threat of the witch hanging over them, but for the good of the pack.

It felt like hours had passed by the time he came around; he had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Stiles moving around on the couch so that his head was resting on Derek’s thigh, his long legs hanging over the arm on the far end.

He wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes were closed and his heartbeat wasn’t as fast as it usually was, as if he was just on the edge of sleep. It should have felt weird, having Stiles in such close contact, but Derek found that it really didn’t feel weird at all. His head was a comforting weight in Derek’s lap, another anchor tethering him and keeping him calm and in control. . Or, the one where Derek meets a witch, gets his betas back, and seemingly develops a sense of humour. Also, Stiles is totally magic, manages to accidentally join a werewolf pack, and asks too many goddamn questions. What could possibly go wrong?

here in the heart (of my sanctuary) by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli)

Talia accelerates through the tunnel, and Derek looks up, watches the light that makes it through the bramble dance and shift over the hood of the car as they drive, fingers gripping the sides of the tank. It’s beautiful, like a gateway to another world. He’s lived in the preserve his whole life, and he didn’t know this was here.

She eyes him. “You should know this man is very important to me. I take the responsibility of his care and counsel very seriously. Handing him over to you…it’s not a small thing. Please keep that in mind.”

No pressure, then.

A Teenage Love Song by HaleHathNoFury (My_Trex_has_fleas)

Stiles is sick and tired of how much he fucks up. His dad is disappointed, his step-mom judges and his step-brother can do no wrong. It's not that he doesn't love them, he just gets so tired of being different. Now he's being moved lock, stock and barrel to Beacon Hills aka the town his mom grew up in so they can go live in his grandma's house and his father can get him back on the straight and narrow.

It's going to suck.

Other fic recs: pack mom!Stiles | angsty fics | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | possessive Derek | smut | hurt/comfort | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | mafia | BAMF!Stiles | omegaverse | bad friend Scott | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles

[themareverine]

DESIGNATED DRIVER ▹TEASER

— oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC

SYNOPSIS: "Hey driver!" Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."

warnings: flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language.

a/n: no thots, just this. i've had this in my brain for awhile, now. that one inevitable girl in the group that's the quiet, embarrassed, not-drinking friend catching his eye—the girl who never gets approached at the bar, the "hold your hair back when you puke up your guts" friend who tags along to feel wanted. it's me, i'm her.

too many irons in the fire but this is too much fun.

TEASER TEASER

Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her.

It’s her, the quiet-ish one.

Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues peekaboo behind the lens of some-designer-he-didn’t-know frames. Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good.

And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Logan doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone like her, any woman of the night dressed like this. Booking rides, swimming the neon. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t sticky makeup. It’s real, raw skin—true woman. Some rosacea shit or red undertones. Natural.

Peaches, this one smells like frickin’ peaches. Something floral.

She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know. Shit.

And fuck, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat.

Done up nails that look fake, but not cheap. Her eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if this were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first. Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry.

When his eyes hit hers again from attention on the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two damn centuries. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. Quiet, true. Genuine. Rings clear in the little lift of her brow, the tip of her lips into a smile.

It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, hey. Hey. How does he even frickin’ respond? And it’s considerate, testing. Like wading into deep waters, unsure in a way that says she’s giving him space but isn’t afraid.

Nearly fucking polite.

tags: @th3mrskory @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[candlewaxandp0lar0ids]

jealousy, jealousy || Chan x f!reader

Summary: You can feel Chan's eyes on you from across the room. If you're honest, you're enjoying the attention a little more than you should. Sure, technically there's nothing about the little 'arrangement' between the two of you that justifies it, but if you're being honest, what you have with him has been about more than sex for quite some time now.

Word count: 5k

Genres: college AU, friends with benefits AU, smut

Warnings & Tags: jealousy, swearing, mentioned slut shaming (not in a sexy way), smut [oral sex (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex], unprotected sex, reader has commitment issues

series masterlist

A/N: final piece in this series! I hope you've enjoyed the ride with me, even if it took way longer than anticipated~ Thank you for the love and support!

Ask anyone on campus, and they’ll tell you how wonderful of a person Bang Chan is. Sweet, kind, involved in campus life, somehow juggling being captain of the swim team with being producer-singer-songwriter for the rising group 3RACHA, he’s loved by everyone and their mother — literally, since he’s the ideal son-in-law.

Ask anyone on campus, and they’ll say you’re a bitch.

Well, maybe not a bitch, but the word that comes back about half the time when talking about you is messy.

To be fair, it’s not a reputation you’ve done anything to counter, or something that you’d say isn’t true about you. ‘Homewrecker’, that you disagree with. You don’t keep tabs on people, and if guys happen to have girlfriends when they hook up with you, you don’t think it says anything about you. ‘Slut’ also gets thrown around every now and then. You don’t feel any type of way about it. Yeah, you like to have fun, no shame in that. Part of you is amused by the word, thinks that the second it gets dropped in a conversation, you know to stop giving a fuck about the person using it. The other’s somewhat annoyed by it. No one’s saying that about Seo Changbin, even if there’s a different girl in his bed every other day. No, he’s a lady’s man, a charmer, but you’re a Jezebel, even though— Ah, forget it. You don’t have to justify any of your actions.

You know your reputation leads to you being easily approached by dudes, specifically when you’re at a party on campus. Guys think it means you’re more likely to sleep with them, when the truth is, you’re very picky with a large number of people to chose from, and no reason to go for the bottom of the barrel.

The thing is, though, that you like having fun at parties. Dancing around, laughing with people, maybe a little bit of harmless flirting that doesn’t have to lead anywhere, that’s just part of it for you. The guys who approach you, however, have a tendency to take that as an indication that you want to fuck them. Which leaves you in the uncomfortable position of having to strike a balance between having fun, not leading people on, and not being mean to them if you’re not interested. Except you regularly do have to be mean to them.

Hence the ‘bitch’ reputation.

Tonight’s not any different on that front. You’re having fun with some guy you have no intention of fucking, laughing at his jokes, all without getting too close. It wouldn’t bother you to do that, even without doing anything with him later on, but you don’t want to deal with that much drama tonight.

What’s new — though it’s become increasingly familiar to you lately — is Chan’s attention on you, which you can feel radiating towards you from across the room. You’ve caught him staring three times in the last hour, shooting him a knowing grin when he didn’t look away fast enough, daring him to come over, if it bothered him that much. He hasn’t moved so far. But he’s been glaring for a while.

It's not like he's not busy, too. He’s surrounded by people, several of whom are talking to him. They get his attention every now and then, and he’s pretty good at pretending. He just keeps on coming back to you, like a butterfly drawn to an incandescent lightbulb.

That’s a game you don’t mind playing, but you’re starting to get bored of the conversation you’re having and, well, you’re not trying to upset Chan, even if he’s cute when he’s angry.

“I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” you say, smile turning polite, as you uncross your legs and start to get up. That works, sometimes. People let you go, and take the hint when you don’t come back.

“I’ll come with you,” the guy says, mimicking your movement immediately.

That isn’t rare either. Just means you’ll have to work a little harder to shake him off.

Though the weather’s been warm lately, a reminder that summer is just around the corner, the air outside still feels cold, compared to how hot it was inside. It would be the perfect change of pace, if it wasn’t for the presence still hovering right beside you. You’re figuring the right way of getting rid of him when he puts his sweaty, clammy arms around your shoulders, and you can’t stop yourself from jumping out of his reach, the feeling supremely unpleasant.

Oops. So much for tact.

“Look,” you say as he’s staring at you with surprise, “I’ve had fun, but I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

Smooth. There was definitely a better way of phrasing this.

At least you didn’t tell him he’d been boring you for the past twenty minutes?

You don’t get much time to feel bad though, because his face contorts in anger — not disappointment, sadness, or even embarrassment, but anger — and then he goes “Are you for real? You’ve been fucking teasing—”

“Hey,” a stern voice comes from behind him. “I think she wants you to leave her alone.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” he snaps, turning around, and then freezing when he’s met with Chan, who’s folded his arms over his chest in his best impression of a displeased dad. “Chan, I, uh—”

It takes one look from Chan for the guy to vanish without adding another word. No one wants to cross him, all too aware of the fact that he can ruin someone’s life by even implying that he doesn’t like them — ‘cause Chan’s so nice, why wouldn’t he like you? It’s pretty suspicious of you, to be disliked by this one dude, who’s never asked anyone to take his opinion as gospel.

“My knight in shining armor,” you purr, taking one step towards Chan, mostly just so you can enjoy hearing him clear his throat and watch him averting his eyes. You both know you’re his biggest weakness, after all. “You know I was going to be fine, right?”

That brings back the frown on his face.

“He couldn’t take you telling him you weren’t interested. That shouldn’t be your problem to deal with.”

He has a point. You think. Maybe. You can’t tell for sure, because this is just so normal for you. These days, every other interaction with guys goes like this, and you’ve sometimes had to grapple with the uncomfortable question of whether it’s your reputation doing the work for you, or if you are making people think you’re interested. You know what you do when you’re trying to get into someone’s bed, know that you didn’t pull any of it with that guy, but clearly you’re not being perceived that way.

In the end, you shrug.

“I mean, I was having a good time before this. I just wasn’t going to fuck him.”

It’s always fun to see Chan react to how blunt you are. You know for a fact that he’s capable of swearing like sailor — like he does when he’s inside you — but he always seems taken aback by you being this direct.

You get another step closer. Now, you’d just have to push a little to steal a kiss from him, and his plump lips sure are looking awfully tempting.

“Were you bored without me?” you ask, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“I was—” He clears his throat, not quite looking at you. There was a time when this behavior would have annoyed him, which you also found to be fun, but these days are far behind you now. “—busy.”

You hum in amusement, not fooled by the answer whatsoever — and a little insulted he’d even try that excuse when you know he’s been staring, and he knows you know he’s been staring — but there’s still a tiny little bit of concern poking through.

“Aw,” you say, not dropping the teasing, “even at a party you can’t get a break?” And then, leaning even closer, “Want me to help you relieve some of that stress?”

The tip of his ears goes red, but this time he meets your eyes, and you think he’s going to give in, when a voice calls his name.

From behind him, in appears Mido, and you raise an eyebrow at her. One of the top students in her field, she’s also super involved in campus life. Lately, she’s been busy planning a music festival — you think, you haven’t been paying much attention — which has led her to hang around Chan a lot. She’s pretty high-strung and a workaholic in the making, but she’s kinda cute in her determination. She’s also very into Chan, which, really, who isn’t?

But that makes her, uh, not your biggest fan. You suspect that she’s caught on to some of what’s been going between you and Chan, and it’s clear that she’s not super happy about it. You can’t really blame her. You probably wouldn’t want yourself hanging around Chan that much, if you were a friend of his — not even out of jealousy, but out of fear that you’d break his heart.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, somewhat out of breath, “I’ve been working on changing the program, like we’ve discussed, and I was hoping you could take a look at what I’ve got done.”

And there goes your sympathy, replaced with annoyance in the span of a minute.

Maybe you’re like Tinkerbell, not enough space within you for more than one emotion at any given time.

You’re speaking before Chan’s gotten the time to opine and get to work again.

“Seriously?” you say. “It’s a Saturday night. It’s— Fuck, it’s almost two a.m. Can’t he get a break?”

You get a surprised look from Chan, while Mido rolls her eyes like she’d expected that reaction from you and came prepared.

“I realize that you don’t understand the concept of responsibilities, but some of us have stuff to do.”

You almost want to laugh.

“The faculty isn’t going to collapse in on itself if Chan takes a night off.”

“It’s work that’s going to accumulate and make it worse on him as it goes on—”

“Then it sounds like you need to learn to delegate more efficiently, because there is no way that he’d have to be working these hours if that was handled better.”

Mido’s turning very red now, opening and closing her mouth as she looks for a retort. You suppose that the jab at her abilities, something she probably values a lot, wasn’t that nice, but also, fuck, you mean this. Unpleasant opinions have a tendency to slip out of you without you having much control over it, but it’s not like you can take them back when you very much thought ever word you said.

“Hey, how about we calm down,” Chan says, putting a hand on your shoulder, and you know that he has a point, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to snap ‘why should I calm down’ at him. You hold back just enough to get to see him turn around towards Mido with a polite smile. “I’ll look at the schedule first thing tomorrow,” he promises her, and she’s clearly boiling, but she’s more in control of herself than you are, so she doesn’t say anything.

“Sure,” she answers, sounding like she’s stopping herself from screaming. “I’ll email it to you.”

“Thanks,” Chan nods.

He only turns to look at you once she’s left the balcony, marching back inside, no doubt beelining for her friends in order to complain about you.

“Can’t you just play nice?” Chan asks you. He sounds tired rather than pissed.

“I would if you played less nice,” you say. You know that he’s going to have something to retort to that, because he’d probably drop dead if he put himself first for one fucking time in his life, and you don’t want to play into that. So instead, you hook two of your fingers into his belt, pulling him closer to you.

“What do you say we make good use of your hard-earned freedom?”

He swallows, and you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, even if it only lasts until morning.

You’re already entangled with Chan by the time you push him through his door. His back hits the wall, and he lets out a delightful groan into your mouth. He’s kept his hands gentlemanly on your waist, but you know for a fact that the gentleman act never lasts that long when he’s with you. It’s just a matter of getting him to snap, and these past few months have given you all the opportunities you needed to master that skill.

“You sure Changbin isn’t here tonight?” you ask against his lips. “We could give him a show.” Then, with a grin, “Or we could ask him to join.”

And sure enough, that gets to him. His kiss turns more demanding, he bites at your bottom lip, and, fucking finally, he grabs a handful of your ass. You hear yourself letting out an undignified yelp.

“No way,” he growls, giving you another one of his glares, eyes dark and filled with desire.

“Hmmm, I really like you jealous,” you can’t help but tease him, pushing your hips against him where you can feel him, already half hard. You’d bet he gets off on the idea of showing you that you’re his.

But the comment seems to throw him off a little and he ducks his head sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the gentleman in him getting back on top when all you want is for him to rail you unceremoniously. “About earlier.”

He hasn’t let go of you, but he looks like he wants to get this off his chest before you can go with the festivities, so you humor him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you listen to him. If your nails graze against the nape of his neck, it sure isn’t in an attempt to get him to focus back on you.

“You were defending me,” you say with a shrug, mostly to give him in an out.

“No, I was, but—” Ugh, he’s not going to take it. “I was jealous. And I know I— I have no right to be.”

Aw. It’s kinda cute, though you wish he’d stop with the self-flagellation.

“It’s all good,” you find yourself whispering, tone soft, genuinely trying to comfort him rather than just wanting to get it over with. “I didn’t mind.”

The kiss that follows is sweet, soft. When his tongue brushes against yours, it sends shivers all the way down your spine. You’ve long known that Chan has that kind of effect on you.

You’re just not quite ready to grapple with that right now.

“I mean, we both know we can fuck whoever we want,” you add with a vague shrug. “Doesn’t mean I like seeing you being around Mido all the time either.”

“Um,” Chan says, “I don’t— I mean I’m not—”

Fuck it. He’s just too cute. The way he blushes, the way his ears turn red… You just cannot resist the urge to push yourself on your toes to bite gently at the lobe, enjoying the way his whole body shakes at the sensation, before pressing a kiss against his temple.

“Right,” you purr. “You’re only fucking me.”

You might take a little too much pleasure when you say it, if you’re being honest. It’s not purely sexual, too, but you’re choosing not to unpack that right now either. Instead, you find Chan’s mouth, press yourself closer to him, let your tongue run over his lips before he eagerly meets it with his. His left hand comes up to tilt your head back, calloused fingers pushing against your jaw. Despite yourself — because the gesture’s too gentle, too intimate — you raise a hand to cover his, entangling your fingers with his.

His following exhale sounds ragged, painful maybe.

Then he’s grabbing strongly at your waist and suddenly you’re the one with your back against the wall, and he’s pushing his thigh between your legs, spreading them open.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Gosh, you need him to worry a little less and to start taking responsibility for what he’s doing to you.

“Need you inside me,” is your answer. “Now.”

And that asshole has the gall to shoot you a grin, lifting only one corner of his mouth.

“I might as well make this last, right? Since I’m only fucking you.”

You want to pout, but it’s really fucking hard to keep control over your facial features when he flexes his thigh and it takes all of your willpower to resist rolling your hips and starting to ride him. You will not be giving him the satisfaction.

…not just yet anyway.

Since two can play that game, however, you trace your fingers up his muscular thigh, watch his expression shift from amusement to anticipation as you get closer and closer to his hard cock, now clearly outlined through his pants.

“C’mon, Chan,” you plead, something you’re not above doing, as you easily unbutton his jeans, “you know you want it too.”

Your lips ghost over his neck as your hand makes its way past the band of his boxers and wraps around him, with a little satisfaction coming from the fact that he’s not just hard, he’s also already dripping precum. He groans at your touch, and you grin — though, if you were thinking about previous encounters with him right now, you’d know it’s still too early to claim victory. Your grip remains light, your hand movement slow, tantalizing but nowhere near enough to bring him release.

“I really, really,” you press your thumb against the tip of his cock, rubbing it gently, with more intensity, just so he knows what you could do if he just let himself give in, “want you inside me.” This time it’s more of a whine that he lets out, his breath coming out in tense huffs as he rests his head on your shoulder, and you think you’ve got him right where you want him.

But then he lifts his head and meets your eyes, and you immediately know you’re going to have to wait.

“Where would the fun be in that now, love?”

It’s not the pet name that sets your heart in a frenzy. It’s not. It’s his tone, how warm his eyes are, the anticipation of the pleasure that’s to come.

It’s not the pet name.

“Think you keep standing for me?” he asks you, voice low and rumbling. You blink at him.

“What—”

Then he drops to his knees.

“C’mon, love. When have I ever let you down?”

Ohhh. You think you’re going to really, really enjoy what he’s planning for you.

He takes his sweet time getting on with the program, though. His hands start on your calves, slowly making their way up your legs, and it takes everything for you not to plead with him, again, to get moving. You’re dripping wet for him by now. Your legs are starting to feel weak under you, but it’s too early to give in.

Chan’s large hands reach your thighs, his touch setting your skin on fire with every brush. When he presses a wet kiss against the inside of your thigh, so close to where you actually need him, you let out a whine. You feel him grin against you, but he keeps going, slow and steady, inching closer and closer. He easily lifts your dress up, pushing it up over your stomach so it’s out of the way. By then, you can actually feel his breath against your pussy, and you’re so fucking sensitive in that area right now, you think you’d kill to feel his tongue on you.

But he’s not done yet, no, that would be too easy. He slides your ruined panties down your legs, even when you whine for him to just leave it, it’s fine, and wraps a hand around your ankle to make you step out of them.

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, again, and your patience runs out. Threading your fingers through his hair, you pull on it, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of where his attention should be.

That asshole has the nerve to laugh at that.

He gives you what you want right after that, though. He closes his mouth around your clit, and you throw your head back, loud moans spilling from your lips. You’ve never been one to believe in restraint, and if anything, Chan loves how vocal you get. You’re rewarded by the feeling of his warm, wet tongue on you, and all you can do is hold on to him for dear life, your other hand trying to find something to brace yourself on and coming up empty.

“Fuck, Chan,” you whimper.

“If that’s too much for you,” he says, pulling away, “I can always—”

You guide him right back between your legs. And he gets back to work.

If there’s one thing you have to give to him, it’s that he never half-asses anything. His tongue dances sinfully on your skin, his teeth graze against your folds, tantalizing, and you’re reduced to moans, whines, and desperate pleas for more — you have no idea what it is you want, but Chan knows exactly what you need. He’s already got you crying out his name in a broken litany when he pushes two fingers into you. They slide right in, and you gasp for air, briefly falling quiet at the pleasure.

Your knees give in under you, and Chan catches you just in time.

“You’re all good, love,” he praises you as he lifts one of your legs. “Just hold on a little longer for me, alright?”

There’s something about him talking to you like that, about the kind warmth of his words, that turns your insides into jelly. So all you do is nod as he helps you hook your leg over his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks you, still taking the time to check up on you even though he should know by now that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

As an answer, you use your heel to push him back into you. Once you’ve got his mouth and his fingers back on you and in you, you let yourself drown into the pleasure. Because, fuck, having Chan’s undivided attention, having him eating you out like a starved man while his fingers curl inside of you, sliding in and out with a slow rhythm — if this isn’t what heaven feels like, you don’t think you want it.

Your legs start to shake as your orgasm approaches. By the time you cum, with a loud, high-pitched cry, Chan’s hand under your ass and the leg you have over his shoulder are really the only things keeping you upright. He doesn’t let you go for one second, allowing you to move your hips to ride the wave of your orgasm, even if it’s just little jerks of your hips, because you have zero control of your body right now.

You’d hate that on any other occasion.

Right now, you don’t mind.

You feel yourself slide to the floor as you slowly regain your brain cells. Chan’s still all around you, his heat, his arms, cradling you while you come back to your senses. He rubs your back, mumbling praises into your ear, and it’s good, it’s so fucking perfect, but you need— you can’t let this go that route, not just yet. He already knows you get a little cheesy towards the end of the night, so that’s fine, but it’s too early to succumb to that.

“Wanna move this to the room, or do you also want to fuck me against the wall?” you ask him, turning your head so you’re facing him.

His nose brushes against yours. It’s funny, after everything he’s just done to you, that this still gets him to blush.

“R—” He clears his throat. “Room. I’ve got— I’ve got condoms in there.”

He gets up and pulls you back up to your feet with ease, which, damn, you know he lifts, but it’s still impressive. You let yourself fall into his arms, enjoying a nice squeeze of his biceps while you get the chance. You need to get him out of his shirt, you remind yourself, and you immediately get to work on the buttons, tracing his skin with every inch you uncover. Goosebumps form under your nails, and a jerk of his hips when you brush over his nipple reminds you that he has yet to be taken care of.

Aw. You just can’t have that now, can you?

“Hm, I’ve been thinking we could try without that,” you say. Your voice comes out light, but you know that it’s not as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound. Chan tenses against you. Clearly, he realizes it as well.

“I mean I— I’d love to, but it’s—” His eyes are wide as he searches yours. You wonder if he thinks that was a throwaway line, something you said just to say something. Surely he knows that’s not the case. You’ve always been adamant about protection.

“I’m on the pill, I’m clean, I’ve gotten tested,” you shrug. “Are you clean?”

“Yeah, I am,” he nods, and it’s adorable how eager he is, “just— when— have you—”

It’s so obvious that he’s trying not to hurt your feelings. He should know that these conversations would never do that. That doesn’t stop a pit from forming in your stomach. What you’ll say next will change things. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but it’s been a long time coming. Maybe since the first time Chan gave in to his desires against his better judgment, maybe since the first time your eyes met.

“It’s all good, I haven’t been with anyone else for a couple months,” you say.

Chan freezes. You can only imagine what’s going on through his mind right now, but you— can’t have that. Not right now. So, of course, you have to defuse the situation. You grab his chin, smile seductively at him.

“Why would I when I have the best right here?”

All you know is that after that, you crash through the door to Chan’s room, and he throws you onto his bed while he practically rips off his shirt and pants. You push yourself up on your elbows, but you don’t have the time to take off your heels or your dress before he’s kneeling between your legs, spreading them open. He’s not playing games anymore, there’s no playfulness in his eyes, just hunger — and maybe the tiniest speck of uncertainty.

So you reach for his face to kiss it away, soft and gentle, and for a second, he melts into you. As you move away, you keep your forehead pressed against his, and he exhales a trembling breath.

Neither of you says a word. The moment passes.

A second later, he plunges into you with one harsh movement of the hips and you fall onto your back with a cry, arching against him. Feeling him for the first time without anything between you is… different, for sure, but it’s a good different, fuck, it’s so perfect that you don't think you’ll be able to go back on that. You have no way of knowing what’s going on in his mind, but you do hear him moan once, loud and without restraint, before he falls into your arms as his hips start moving with an animalistic pace. You grab onto him, nails digging into his back — this is going to leave a mark for sure, but you kind of like the idea, so. Now you regret not having taken off your dress, because you’d love to feel him against you. There isn't much space in your brain for those thoughts though, not when the pleasure is so overwhelming.

You’re still all sensitive from your orgasm, and Chan’s fast thrusts into you only heighten the sensations. Soon, warmth is building up into you again, but Chan’s showing no signs of slowing down. His head’s buried in your neck, his hands clutching the sheets on either side of you. When your legs start shaking with a second orgasm, all you can do is let out desperate moans while he keeps fucking into you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans again, which is uncharacteristically vocal of him — and fucking hot, by the way. “So good for me.”

“All for you,” you whimper in response. “Just for you.”

You reach for his face, kiss him, tongue messily intertwining with him.

He comes inside of you without a warning, just with a long, low groan, before collapsing on top of you without even pulling out.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles after long, blissful seconds. “Did you not want me to—”

“You’re good,” you interrupt him before he can start freaking out. “Just— Think you can carry me to the bathroom?”

“Of course,” he replies. Then, voice lower, barely above a whisper, “Anything for you.”

You used to have this rule against staying the night after sleeping with a guy. Felt it made them act all territorial, and you liked doing the walk of shame in the middle of the night better than at dawn, if you had to choose. But it’s different with Chan. It’s always been different with him, no matter how hard you try to deny it.

You slip back into the bed after cleaning yourself up, and he wraps himself around you, body slotted together perfectly.

“That my shirt?” he asks as he presses a kiss against your neck.

“And your boxers,” you inform him. “You mind?”

“Nah. It’s kinda hot, that’s all.”

You grin, twisting yourself around so you can get another kiss from him, and he indulges you, not leaving you to wait for even a second. Neither of you adds anything, and you settle yourself comfortably for sleep.

It’s obvious what’s going on between the two of you, what this is all leading up to, even with you not putting words on it just yet.

All in due time, as long as you’re by his side.

Last part of this, and another one where the couple is one I've had in mind for a while lol. I'd headcanon that in the morning, the reader joins the commity that's organizing the festival and is weirdly good at it bc she actually goes to a lot of festivals (she's mostly doing it to ensure that Chan isn't overworked tho). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the series, if you want to give feedback, reblog or comment, I'd be super grateful, and I'll see you for future works!

Taglist: @lethallyprotected @jisuperboard

[femoso-seben]

Humanoid Monster

Part 1, Part 3

Laswell sighed as the delegation dragged on. Of course, neither side sent their leadership only lackeys to demand impossibilities for the others to complete. They still tasted blood in their mouth for their fallen. The human delegation was a man called Vladimir Makarov, a young Russian who led his paramilitary group in deep Siberia.

“Why should we agree to these terms?” Makarov asks, how he knew, or let alone who taught him English was beyond Laswell. Most humans don’t know more than one language. Rarely do they speak the languages of countries far away from them. Humanity is landlocked. It was a way to ensure humanity never teamed up to defeat the monsters.

“Why should we agree to your request either?” Laswell sneers her wings twitching, from her anger. She read about this man, how he slaughtered many monsters and used their pelts as decoration. He was fighting for a greater Russia, with only humans in it, abolishing any monster or hybrid in sight. A human utopia!

They were talking in circles, Switzerland’s military standing at watch ready to shoot both delegations dead if given the chance. They weren’t achieving anything here.

“Since this is a peace treaty give us the names of your task force,” Makarov asks, Laswell knew it was personal for him. 141 and he was in a long constant struggle.

“Give us the files on the Pale Death, White Fang, Angel of Death, and Hunter.” Laswell strikes back. Each one of those women caused so many problems, that they must have been resistance rebels.

Makarov pursed his lips and glared at Laswell, “We’ll give you the files for White Fang and Hunters. As for the Angel of Death, she wasn’t one of us, but as for the pale death? No, we will not.”

“Then you will only get the files on, Roach,” Laswell spoke. It seems like Makarov is only giving information on the dead so she’ll do the same. Makarov frowns.

“Deal.” They both knew a single member of Task Force 141 was far better than any human, dead or alive, all except for the Pale Death.

By the end of the meeting, they had only agreed to share files of the dead and nothing more they merely moved a single inch to the finish post. As Laswell walks out Soap, Price, Graves, and Ghost we’re waiting for her.

“Where’s Gaz?”

“Helping the Hapries to fly,” Soap rolls his eyes, “the human woman can’t even raise a harpy! They should need the least amount of training!” Price touched his shoulder silencing the Sergeant.

“What happened?” Price asks.

“Not much, I was able to get information on White Fang and Hunter,” Laswell sighed.

“Those two are fucking dead, at least get the Pale Death—”

“Their delegate is Makarov,” everyone froze and a low growl imitated from all of them.

“He’s here? That terrorist?” Ghost steps closer to Laswell.

“C’mon let’s review the files maybe their connections, sure White Fang and Pale Death worked together,” Laswell spoke up.

Jezebel reappeared and began to lead them to a place outside of the meeting point, a spacious military camp where they were staying. It was more like Switzerland wanted to watch them, making sure they didn’t unpack them negatively.

Laswell hands over the packet to Price, Ghost, Graves, and Soap. They slowly scan through the files.

White Fang:

name: Belinda Wolf

Age: 23

Height: 5’9”

Weight: 140lb

History: grew up on a resistance compound deep in Akaska forest. Grew up hunting animals to survive. Favorite targets were werewolves said they were the apex of trotted a hunter could win.

statue: KIA

The photo was of a plan-looking woman, nothing remarkable, but for Soap he felt a sense of victory over this wretch. He hunted the White Fang down and butchered her like she butchered his troops. He hated her flesh making sure she was truly dead.

Hunter:

Name: Rawiya Abadi

Age: 31

Height: 5’4”

Weight: 120 lbs

History: The daughter of a wealthy (free) man she grew up owning and hunting exotic animals. She soon turned radicalized and began to hunt down every predator species of hybrids for their pelts and horns, wanting to collect every type of monster.

Status: KIA

“We’ll these aren’t helpful.” Price grumbles.

“A bunch of psychos.” Soap drops the file onto the table.

“We’ll theirs one thing for sure,” Graves spoke up, “White Fang didn’t work together, and White Fang came after Hunter.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Maybe their master and apprentices? After all, they share the same M.O. two hunters, maybe they did meet up but it’s not stated here.” Graves continues.

“We never found Hunter’s body, maybe Hunter set up that compound and trained up an apprentice?”

“What about mother and daughter?” Ghost brought up.

“That could be plausible,” Soap said.

“Makarov said the Angel of Death isn’t connected to the resistance forces.”

“That human is lying.” Soap sneers his sharp claws poking out.

“It could be plausible,” Ghost spoke up. “The Angel of Death was in deep monster territory, to be a resistance force is unlikely as it was hard to pick that human out of a crowd. She acted like one of the enslaved.”

“That one is most likely inspired by the resistance.” Price grunts out.

“The fact Switzerland allowed a killer like the Pale Death to live here is insane,” Soap said.

“Mother Maia… how insulting.” Graves notes, “The Pale Death working with our children?”

“I bet Maia isn’t her real name,” Soap mutters.

“Agree,�� Price grunts out smoke leaking from his maw.

“Why don’t we do some recon whilst we’re here” Graves stands up, “Price you stay with Laswell, Ghost asked the young Gargoyles about their life, and I will talk to Mother Maia.”

“What are you planning?” Laswell folds her arms, “Shepard wants a smooth deal where we get our concessions.”

“I know, but something feels fishy about this place.” Graves adds, “It feels… stage.”

“Let me—“

“I want you and Gaz to watch the children, and see if their body languages give anything away.” Sops clenched his fist but nodded and sat down.

—————————— /\ ——————————

Gaz looked at the little harpies their little down feather wings gathered around him like lost chicklings looking for their mommas. He felt himself smiling at the small yet wide-eyed little owls just staring at him.

Pricilla is seventeen, and the oldest person there. She had also spent the longest time at the orphanage.

“So you’ve been an orphan this long?” Gaz asks.

“No, Mother Maia is my adopted Mother,” Gaz eyes widen.

“When did she adopt you?”

“I was eight.”

“Does she have any other kids?”

“No,” Pricilla sighs. “She cannot adopt anymore, in Switzerland only monsters can adopt monsters, same with humans. We came to Switzerland mother and daughter,” Gaz nods and looks at all the little Hapries.

“There’s so many children here,” Gaz mutters there were at least fifteen harpies of flight age.

“Many monsters abandoned their injured kids here, many of them have actual parents who don’t want them, but a small few made it here on their own… the human orphanage is way more kids.”

“Human orphanage?” Gaz questions.

“A lot of humans give up their babies because they can’t care for them, some are given up because their parents died after arriving.”

“how do you know this?”

“We all go to school together.” Gaz’s mouth drops. Humans? Monsters! Together? In school! No way!

“We’re gonna narrow their football field for this flight practice.”

“… you know this land used to not be Switzerland,” Gaz said as they walked a mile to the place.

“I know it was a part of France, right?” Pricilla answer. Gaz nod.

“We monsters don’t use the old colonial name the humans created.” Pricilla nods, she soon arrives at a school and there a few humans are playing.

“Jakob,” Pricilla calls out, a blonde boy, around Pricilla’s age wave.

“We need to barrow your football field.”

“Why?” He asks walking over to the fence of the tennis court.

“Flying practice!” Pricilla cheers.

“I’ll go tell Gramps he can turn on the lights.”

“Thank you!”

“You seem friendly with that human,” Gaz said trying not to growl at her. How could she forsake her kind and be around humans? Doesn’t she know they are destructive and cruel?

“He’s my classmate.” She bashfully said. Cold realization dawned on Gaz this young harpy like that human. He was a decent-looking boy but it made his blood boil.

By the time they reach the football field, the lights turn on.

It was going to be a long night, the sun was setting and they had a few hours to teach them. The wind picked up, his wings flared out and the older harpies watched him, eyes wide and eager to learn.

Gaz couldn’t help but smile at these small harpies taking flight, their wings clumsily flapping in the air.

Taglist: @kkaaaagt, @kaoyamamegami, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore

[hayleythecannibal]

TWISTED MINDS: Act III- Chapter Thirty-Three Digestivo

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Implied Death, Death, Cannibalism, Guns, Mental Heath, Pregnancy, Forced Cesarean, Kidnapping, Stillborn birth

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter @dilfdemolisher

Twisted Minds Masterlist

MEAT TRUCK - DAY-

Twin rows of GUTTED PIG CARCASSES hang in plastic wrapping from a rail in the roof of the darkened space. The TICK and HUM of refrigeration can be heard in the metal box.

A sudden CLANG as the door is opened and a gust of frosted air is expelled into the dark space beyond -- unclear behind the beams of a powerful light. A WHIRRING noise can be heard.

Will is actually HANGING UPSIDE DOWN like the carcasses, Hannibal alongside him, similarly trussed. The WHIRRING continues and the carcasses swing sideways as a silhouetted shape moves through them to reveal – MASON VERGER In his electric wheelchair, looking at them both with great satisfaction.

Cordell behind him. A beatific smile. “Gentlemen, welcome to Muskrat Farm.”

“Your people might have assassinated me in Florence, Mason.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

“I see the first coarse bristles of revenge have brushed the ruin of your cheek and begun to excite you. Where’s Y/N, Mason?”

“I'm very excited. She’ll be joining us… though i doubt she’ll be very comfortable.” Mason produces a KNIFE in his good hand.

“I still carry my father's knife. Ever ready to slip into a pig's back to check the depth of fat.”

Mason slides close to Hannibal and presses the blade against the flesh of his lower back. Hannibal does not flinch. Mason puts his thumb against the blade and slides it into Hannibal.  A thin TRICKLE of blood is released. Hannibal shows no sign.  Disappointed, Mason slides the blade further. “A little on the lean side. Let's fatten you up, shall we?”

MUSKRAT FARM - PIG BARN - DAY-

The meat truck has been backed through the doors into the narrow end of a funnel made by two angled rows of STEEL PIGPENS. PIGS snort nervously in the pens, clanging the bars. Mason Verger, in his wheelchair, and Cordell watch as Inspector Benetti leads bodyguards bringing Hannibal and Will from the truck, bound securely to a pair of handcarts. Will's head is cleaned up and bandaged. But he is still groggy and in pain.

“It is more trouble physically to move a semi-wild pig against its will than to kidnap a man.”

“Pigs are harder to get hold of, and big ones are stronger than a man.” As Hannibal and Will are wheeled past, Mason speaks up for their benefit and his amusement: “There are the tusks to consider, if you want to maintain the integrity of your abdomen. Something worth maintaining, Mr. Graham? Tusked beasts instinctively disembowel.” 

Will's and Hannibal's handcarts are shackled to the walls. Mason wheels closer to Hannibal, cocking his head up. “At swine fairs, I've seen exotic pigs from all over the world. For my new purpose, you are the best of all that I've seen. We will have some good, funny times, Dr. Lecter.” 

As Mason wheels away, leaving Will and Hannibal Wondering…Where is Y/N?

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT-

Hannibal is wheeled up to the table and his upright dolly automatically folds into a seated wheelchair at one end of the table. Hannibal is sitting secured in his seat with one arm free.

Hannibal is resplendent in suit and tie. Looking very much his old self sitting opposite Mason Verger at the other end. “I snatched Will Graham right out of your mouth. You must be famished.” A BEAUTIFUL TRAY OF OYSTERS Cordell has just placed them onto the table. Hannibal glances at the mollusks before looking back up at Mason.

“There is an inescapable parallel between you and Jezebel, Mason. Keen Bible student that you are, you'll recall dogs ate Jezebel's face, along with the rest of her.” Hannibal slides an oyster into his mouth with his free hand.

“If Jezebel was right with the Risen Jesus, if she praised His name, the Riz would have provided her a new face. As He has provided mine.” Will sitting between Mason and Hannibal, bright new head bandage. Y/N glaring sinisterly at Mason. Mason glances at Will: “The transplant surgery is extremely skillful, which is why Cordell here will be performing the face-off.”

“Hello.”

“You boys remind me of that German cannibal who advertised for a friend, then ate the friend's penis with him before he died. Tragedy being, the penis was overcooked. Go to all that trouble to eat a friend, and you overcook his penis. They ate it anyway. They had to, they committed. But they didn't enjoy it. I'm committed to enjoying every bite of you.” Will looks to Mason: “You're gonna eat him with my face?”

“Yes. I got a taste for it after the two of you had me eat my nose.”

“You must be terribly proud that you could pull this off, Mason.” I say as I groan in pain. “An accomplishment comparable to the discovery of radium. I imagine you, the product of all my searching and expenditure, glowing in the dark like the vial in Madame Curie's laboratory. I imagine after eating you, my belly will glow like a lightbulb.”

“It's dangerous to get exactly what you want, Mason. What will you do after you've eaten me?” Will glares, “You could wreck some foster homes and torment some children…”

“Drink martinis made with tears. And that little fetus in your Belly Dr. L/N, Well I have promised my sister a baby and- I don't like breaking promises.” Mason looks towards me, My heart drops. No. He wont touch her. I wont let him. I look over at Will, tears of rage fill my eyes. As another contraction rolls through my body. Will has a very dark and sinister look on his face. 

“But where, Mason, would the hardcore fun come from?”

“Foolish to dilute this ecstatic time with fears about the future. Cordell, Mr. Graham is looking very dry. A little moisturizer, please.” Mason taps his own cheek, indicating where to apply the moisturizer on Will, as he resumes the conversation.

“I'm curious, what will be the first cuts of me you'll serve?” Hannibal asks As Cordell is preparing the moisturizer, “The first course, of course, will be your hands and feet. Sizzling on a Promethean barbecue. The coal is white and very hard, makes a clear ringing sound when struck.”

“You've thought of everything.”

“After that, we'll have a pajama party, you and I. You can wear shorties by then. Cordell's going to keep you alive for a long time.” As Cordell leans in to apply Will's moisturizer, Will's head jerks up, fast, and he LOCKS HIS TEETH into Cordell's cheek.

Cordell growls, pushing a bloody-mawed Will off of him. Will spits a ragged piece of skin onto Mason's empty plate, where it leaves a RED SMEAR and lies like an insult. Cordell clutches a bloody cheek. Hannibal holds Will's gaze, amused. I look at him, if i wasnt in so much pain I’d Kill….

“No pajama party for you, Mr. Graham. We'll be feeding you to the pigs as soon as Cordell removes your face. In a much more civilized fashion than you just tried to remove his.”

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - MASON'S BEDROOM - NIGHT-

Margot Verger is helping Mason out of bed, where he's been changed into medical pajamas, and into his wheelchair. “When I impulsively lash out, on the whole, I don't lash out randomly. I throw a very specific sort of fit.”

“You're nothing if not specific.” Mason stares at the eel swimming in the floor below his twisted feet propped in the stirrups of his wheelchair.

“I think I might feed the eel some delicacy from Lecter; his genitals, perhaps. Then when I watch it circling in a figure eight, I'll know the infinity sign it makes stands for "Lecter dead forever." How long have you and Dr. Bloom been an item?” The question gives Margot pause, but she doesn't want to betray any vulnerability to her brother. “Not long.”

“Longer than that, Cordell says. Does Dr. Bloom want children? I'm sure you've checked under the hood by now. How's the uterus? Intact? Are the hips childbearing? Roomy?”

“Land the plane, Mason.” Margot stops helping and Mason just lies there, helpless. “You have a big surprise coming to you, Margot. Do you like spoilers? I just love 'em. They don't spoil a thing for me. Would it spoil anything for you if I told you I already found us a surrogate? Not for my sperm, but for your eggs.”

“I don't have any. You took them.”

“I most certainly did, but I didn't humpty-dumpty them. I just went and found them a new basket.” Margot stares, afraid to believe him, wanting to believe him. “I told you I wanted to give you a Verger baby, our own baby. Yours and mine. But mostly yours.” Margot's voice goes cold, not to give her brother any leverage. “Where's the surrogate, Mason?”

“She's resting at the moment. Though if she fails I have a much more immediate solution.”

“She's here?” “She's on the farm.”

“I want to see her.”

First you need to prepare yourself... psychologically. This is going to be a very emotional experience for you. I have to think about the appropriate timing.”

“Don't think too long, smiley.”

“That's the spirit, Margot. Your maternal instinct is revving up.”

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT-

Will Graham sits alone at the table, blood still smeared across his lips and chin. A moment, then Alana Bloom enters. Will glances up and reacts, not expecting her. His initial fear for her safety melts into something more like suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm Mason Verger's psychiatrist.” A small scoff from Will, nothing but breath. “That part of his therapy or yours?”

“I think we're all working through some issues. I'm putting an emphasis on self-preservation. Jack's alive.”

“Good for Jack. You helped Mason Verger find us.”

“I helped Mason find Hannibal. We followed Bâtard-Montrachet when we should have just followed you.”

“Almost as ugly as what Mason wants to do to us is the fact that he can do it with the tacit agreement of people sworn to uphold the law. He's planning on ripping my Daughter out of Y/N’s Womb.” Will says darkly, oh how he wished he could be with his Y/N. “It's the way of the world.”

“I never knew the world to be that way within the reach of your arm. For the first time in my life I’m Terrified.”

“I was trying to get to Hannibal before you. I knew you couldn't stop yourself. So I had to try.”

“By facilitating torture and death.”

“I can abide the thought of Hannibal tortured, not necessarily to death. I'd say he has it coming, wouldn't you? Or maybe you wouldn't. By the time the FBI gets a warrant, you and any evidence of what happened would be burnt or roiling in the bowels of Mason's pigs.”

“Or Mason himself. What did you think would happen?”

“I thought Jack Crawford and the FBI would come to the rescue. But the Finer details of what I thought would happen have evolved.”

“Then you have to evolve, Alana. You have to spill blood. By your own hand or someone else's.” Cordell enters, approaching Will in his wheelchair. “We're ready for you, Mr. Graham. You’re Fiancee is already sedated and prepped. Please keep your teeth to yourself.” Alana watching Cordell wheel Will away...

MUSKRAT FARM - PIG BARN - NIGHT-

past one pig in a cage after another, until finding Hannibal bound in his own pigpen, the brand burn stands raw and livid on his back, his arms and legs bound in the cage. He glances over his shoulder at an ITALIAN COP near the door, a tranquilizer gun on the table beside him. Margot enters.

“Buonasera, signor.”

“Buonasera, Signorina Verger.” Margot takes a breath and approaches Hannibal in his pen. “Thank you for coming, Margot. Hasn't been that long since I treated you. Have you started taking the chocolate, as Mason likes to say, after you fought him for so long?”

“Are we in therapy now?”

“You tell me.”

“Mason promised to give something back to me. Something he stole. There was a surrogate all along. It's a Verger baby. My baby.”

“You think Mason will just give you what he promised?”

“It's here. On the farm.”

“He’s about to tear a newborn away from a mother who never consented. I can imagine lots of ways to be a Verger baby that are unpleasant. I'm sure your brother can, too. Especially for a baby thats not a Verger.” Margot's eyes brim with tears as her face goes still. She knows Hannibal is telling the truth. “Listen to me, Margot. Mason will deny you. He will always deny you. You know you'll have to kill him.”

“Are you saying you'd do it for me? I could never trust you.”

“No, of course not. But you could trust me never to deny that I did it. It would actually be more therapeutic for you to kill him yourself, Margot. You'll remember I recommended that in session.”

“Wait until I can get away with it, you said.”

“What difference would one more murder charge make to me? I'm the only other suspect you've got. You can do it when it suits you, and I'll write a letter gloating about how I enjoyed killing him myself.” As Margot considers his offer… Sitting by the door. Alana enters carrying a smart handbag. She approaches, smiling.

“Buonasera.” He stands to greet her, she places her handbag on the table and, in one movement, picks up the tranquilizer gun and shoots the Italian cop in the throat, and he drops. Margot stares, dumbstruck.

“He has a pocketknife.” Alana retrieves the pocketknife from the unconscious Italian cop and crosses to Hannibal in his pigpen.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Yes. I thought I could save Will and Y/N from you, but right now, you're the only one who can save Them. Promise me you'll save them. Please.”

“I promise, Alana. And I always keep my promises. Just cut the ropes on one arm, give me the knife and leave. I can do the rest.” Alana gets uncomfortably close to Hannibal, their faces very close to each other. Alana puts the blade on the rope. “Are you going to kill Mason?”

“Margot is. Snatch some of my hair, back from the hairline, if you don't mind; get some skin. Put it in Mason's hand after he's dead.” They are close enough to kiss. Alana looks into his eyes.

“Could I have ever understood you?”

“No.” Her hand slides into his hair -- and then pulls his head VICIOUSLY to one side. as hair tears from Hannibal's scalp. In the same moment, Alana slashes a knife at the cable ties used to bind him. He rises out of the pigpen -- the Kraken awoken.

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - CORRIDOR - NIGHT-

OPERA plays. CAMERA follows the blood spray back to its source – A BODYGUARD falling backward, his throat cut. the glint of a blood-flecked BLADE wielded by –   Hannibal Who is already moving on to the second of THREE BODYGUARDS he has ambushed. He wears the clothes of the man Alana shot with the tranquilizer gun. Second bodyguard is drawing a HANDGUN from beneath his jacket. ON HIS FACE as he realizes he is too slow.

Hannibal smashes the CLAW HAMMER in his other hand into the second bodyguard's chest. He coughs blood. The gun falls from his hand as Hannibal slams him against the wall and then ducks to the ground as --

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The third bodyguard fires. Bullets stitch holes in the wall. Hannibal pulls his hammer from the second bodyguard with a SUCKING SQUELCH. BLAM, BLAM. Hannibal rolls under the line of fire and slams the third bodyguard THROUGH THE FOOT with the hammer.

Third bodyguard SCREAMS and tries to bring his gun to bear on Hannibal, now right below him, but Hannibal holds his wrist. A moment, and then Hannibal rips a KNIFE across the third bodyguard's abdomen. Third bodyguard sways before Hannibal – dead, just doesn’t know it yet -- as Hannibal stands up.

Hannibal reacts as doors SLAM and TWO MORE BODYGUARDS come charging into the corridor, guns drawn. Lightning fast, Hannibal hurls the bloody hammer. THE HAMMER as it spins in the air, blood trailing from it, and then -- THUNK -- it strikes one of the new arrivals, spinning him to one side. Hannibal then spins the third bodyguard and drives toward them.

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. Bullets drive into the third bodyguard, Hannibal hidden behind him. Third bodyguard rag-dolls in Hannibal’s arms as the bullets explode into his torso. fourth bodyguard's fear as Hannibal meets them in the center of the corridor and slams third bodyguard’s face right into his.

 Fourth bodyguard flies backward, nose SPRAYING BLOOD, and tangles with the fifth bodyguard. the knife in Hannibal’s hand, as it FLASHES amid the fourth and fifth bodyguards. Blood splashes the walls.

TWO MORE BODYGUARDS -- six and seven. As they enter the corridor and pause. Guns in their hands.

The bloodbath that is the corridor -- six bloodied bodies splashed up and down the walls. GUN SMOKE hangs in the air. Blood DRIPS down the walls. Six and seven breathe deep. Tense. Guns at the ready.

 They move forward... Stepping through the bodies. their shoes as they move through the carnage. Nothing moves except for the blood sliding down the walls. Six and seven move away toward the end of the corridor. And then a bloodied figure rises from the floor

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - OPERATING ROOM - NIGHT-

He is strapped to a gurney under the bright light of an OR, his head in a surgical vice holding him absolutely still. A shadow falls across Will's face as Cordell leans over him. “Good news and bad news. The good news is, until recently, a full face transplant was almost unthinkable.” Cordell fusses around Will, checking his monitors. Whatever else, he's a perfectionist at this.

“But medical science is a fast-moving train. First, I'll lift your pretty mush right off, and then I'll expose the blood vessels and major connections of Mason's face, then lay yours straight on top.” 

The full horror of that lands on Will. “You really are done, you know. That's the bad news. Although i will grant you one thing.” Cordell moves away, leaving Will strapped to the gurney. 

Cordell brings over a small bundle, a baby. His baby. “You have a beautiful baby daughter Mr. Graham.” Will's eyes move to His baby girl. He struggles to move his limbs. Nothing doing. We see the first panic in Will's eyes.

 MUSKRAT FARM - NIGHT-

An open doorway filled with DARKNESS. A blood-splattered Hannibal looms from within to fill it. The open fields and woodland of Muskrat Farm beyond. The huge moon hanging above and a myriad of stars. Freedom. 

He could run and no one would catch him. Leave Will and be free. The thought crosses his mind. But Y/N….She didn't deserve to suffer. He takes a deep breath of night air. And then he turns back into the house, and the shadows within envelope him once more…

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - OPERATING ROOM - NIGHT-

Will Graham turns his head slowly sideways as Mason Verger is pushed in beside Will, on a gurney, by Cordell

“Cordell told me, if I waited long enough, he could grow me a new face from my own cells, but I was adamant it was your face I wanted. I was looking at your face while you were watching me cut mine off. I thought, "That's a nice face." and Now your Baby will see the face of Her father everyday of her life.”

“You're going under now, Mr. Verger, and when you wake up, your face will be bound and uncomfortable.” Cordell adjusts Mason's dosage and Mason begins to drift off: “Have you accepted Jesus, Mr. Graham? Do you have faith? I do. I'm free. Hallelujah…” And he's out. a needle enters Will's flesh. Cordell adjusts the IV bottle it's connected to. 

“This will immobilize your body, but you'll feel everything. Im first going to Finish sewing up your Fiancee and then I'm going to cut off your face without anesthesia, Mr. Graham.”

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - BABY SUITE - NIGHT-

Alana and Margot move into a tiled room with a lot of hightech medical equipment. They both stop dead and stare. In the center of the room is a large table. On top, lying on its side, is a large, unconscious FEMALE PIG with IV lines and drips filtering into it, medical monitors BLEEPING quietly… The pig's belly is SWOLLEN by a pregnancy. 

Alana and Margot move around this bizarre sight. As they do, a MONITOR mounted on the wall comes into vision – AN ULTRASOUND IMAGE in grays and blacks. It shows a human fetus, almost full term, legs tucked up… Alana and Margot stare -- stunned.

“Is he alive?” Alana reacts first, moves to check the monitors. Her face falls. “There's no fetal heartbeat.” As this lands on Margot... “Take it out... take it out.”

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - OPERATING ROOM - NIGHT-

Mason Verger, face mask off to reveal his hideous, mutilated visage, lies back, eyes closed, awaiting his new face.

Cordell's back, to find that he is hunched over Will Graham. Fully conscious as Cordell leans over him and finishes drawing a black line in marker around the line of Will's face and jaw. He leans into Will with a SCALPEL.

“You'll be sure to let me know if this hurts, won't you?”

He starts to cut around the marker line. Blood slides from the pencil-thin incision. FEELING EVERYTHING -- teeth clenched against the pain he knows is coming… -- A SCALPEL slides through skin. -- A delicate thin flow of BLOOD. -- HANDS, in surgical gloves, gently lever skin away from facial bones, revealing teeth and jaw beneath -- a face coming away from its moorings.

We are watching two interconnected operations: a face being removed and a face being sewn onto someone else. And now we add a third procedure to the mix, this one rough and violent in comparison --

the sudden BIG INCISION of a CAESARIAN SECTION across a pig's hairy belly. TIGHT FOCUS as a LAYER OF BLOODY SKIN is laid down over Mason's raw, waiting face, smearing blood where it touches.

Hands delve deep into the pig's belly, surgical gloves slick with blood. The CLOSE-UP gleam of a suture needle as it moves under bright lights, stitching the new face to Mason. Beyond, we can just make out the bloody red mess of the donor's face.

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - BABY SUITE - NIGHT-

Margot's desperate face as she forces herself to look at Alana holding her dead child.

“I want to hold him.”

She slowly takes the bundle Alana holds out to her as Alana wraps her arms around Margot as she sobs. MARGOT -- focus moving in and around her face. Enormity of her grief slamming into her. HER EYES as she squeezes them shut, holding her child tight.

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - MASON'S BEDROOM - NIGHT-

Mason is propped up in his wheelchair, the eel moving its ceaseless patterns in the floor. We hear Mason's voice, weak at first: “Cordell?” Croaking, a whisper. Then louder: “Cordell? Cordell?!” His senses are going off, pain hitting him, fear and dread. Something is not right. His hand pumps at an ALARM BUTTON on the arm of his wheelchair. His good hand crab-walks up his chest, pulls the neck piece away. 

the mask as it is pulled away from Mason's face, not yet revealing his surgery. He grabs the mirror and holds it up. He sees that he now IS Cordell... kind of. Cordell's face has been removed and placed over his own. As Mason stares at himself in horror, Cordell's face slides off his own, leaving smears of blood before it lands on Mason's lap. “Cordell!”

Mason's good hand fumbles with the knob, pulling the drawer open, revealing a Walther PPK. He turns his wheelchair and rounds the bed toward the door and stops short at the aquarium when he sees Alana enter. “Hi, Mason.”

“What the hell's happening out there? Where's Cordell?”

“Cordell's dead. They're all dead out there. Hannibal got away.” Margot emerges from the shadows behind Mason. “Get on the horn to Washington and get four of those bastards with guns up here. Send the helicopter.”

“I found your surrogate, Mason.”

“Your surrogate, Margot. Told you I Would give you a Verger baby.”

“I'm taking what you promised me. I got everything I need from you now.”

“You can't kill me, Margot. You'll lose everything. In the absence of an heir, the sole beneficiary is the Southern Baptist Church."

“But we are going to have an heir, Mason. A Verger baby. Our baby. Yours and mine, but mainly yours.”

“Do you know what happens if we stimulate your prostate gland with a cattle prod? Y/N and Hannibal do. They helped us milk you. Maybe you shouldnt try and steal a mothers child.”

“You're dead, Dr. Bloom.”

“Oh, Mason. We all are. Didn't you know? But these aren't.” She holds up a vial of a pearly, cloudy fluid. Mason produces his pistol. Margot sees it and moves first. Crashing into Mason as he fires.

BLAM! The aquarium's glass top SHATTERS! Margot's momentum carries the wheelchair onto its side and she and Mason fall into the aquarium.

Margot and Mason fight. His goodarm pinning her under the  water. His body is dead weight against her. her swirling hair, their SILENT SCREAMS. Alana joins Margot wrestling Mason. As the two HUMAN FACES plunge down into the water. Mason's face sending blood out like a mist.

 ALANA rushes to help Margot. Grabbing at Mason. as she comes out of the water with a GREAT GASP. She holds Alana's gaze and they bear down with relentless force. Mason's hands claw at their hair. The two women hold him down.

Cordell's transplanted face undulates in the water, blood flowing from beneath it. The eel agitates within its lair. Alana's eyes lock with Margot's. SLAM -- the eel comes up and bites at the bloody wounds holding Cordell's face to Mason's... Mason SCREAMS and swallows water as the eel tears at Cordell's face.

As it comes free, the eel thrusts itself beyond, into Mason's open mouth, seeking softer meat. Cordell's bitten and torn face -- backlit -- as it slowly sinks to the bottom of the tank. still holding Mason's good hand. She reaches into a pocket and pulls out the HANK OF HANNIBAL'S HAIR. Presses it into Mason's palm…

MUSKRAT FARM - FOREST'S EDGE - NIGHT-

Of green grass in the dark. see the moon and the stars above the field. We CRANE DOWN to find Hannibal Lecter carrying a bloody and barely-conscious Will Graham over his shoulder as he walks toward the forest's edge Where Y/N and Her daughter await. 

Out of the shadows behind Hannibal, two Verger bodyguards appear. Moving swiftly upon him, raising their RIFLES to fire – the two bodyguards looming on either shoulder. PFFT! PFFT! Both of their heads fly backward as a red mist EXPLODES from them and they crumple to the ground.

CHIYOH In the bough of a large tree, looking down the sights of her hunting rifle. Hannibal Lecter now fixed firmly in her sights…

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - DUSK -

Chiyoh stands on the porch alone, her rifle resting in the crook of her arm. After a contemplative moment, Hannibal emerges through the front door.

“Will you go home? Can you go home?”

“No more than you can.”

“We all form frameworks from our early experiences through which later perceptions are understood.”

“Perceptions are understood when you look harder. I've looked into you. I thought you should be caged.”

“Would you watch over me?”

“I will watch over you. Not in a cage. Some beasts shouldn't be caged.”

“Your obsessive and successful hunt, whose plight was it driven by? Mine? Y/N L/N’s? Will Graham's? Yours?”

“Mischa's. Did you eat her?”

“Yes, but I did not kill her.” Chiyoh breathes a sigh of relief. “One quality in a person doesn't rule out any other quality. They can exist side by side, good and terrible. Socrates said it better The best of you and the worst with steady hands and a slow heart.”

“The most stable elements, Chiyoh, appear in the middle of the periodic table, roughly between iron and silver. Between iron and silver. I think that is appropriate for you.” Chiyoh studying Hannibal, not taking her guard down.

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - DUSK-

Will Graham sits up in bed. His head stitched to match the neat, expert black sutures following his jawline. He glances at the chair near his bed, a writing pad on the seat. It's filled with symbols and signs of astro- and particle physics. Hannibal enters and Will hands him his writing pad. “Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?”

“The teacup is broken. It'll never gather itself back together again.”

“Not even in your mind? Your memory palace is building. It's full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own. I've discovered you there. Victorious.”

“When it comes to you and me, there can be no decisive victory.”

“We are a zero-sum game?” Will takes that in, considering his home and the strangeness

of Hannibal Lecter standing in it now. His Fiancee and newborn daughter in the other room.

“I miss my dogs. I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for

you. I don't want to know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore.” The cold, even flatness of Will's words strikes Hannibal. “You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight.”

“You delight. I tolerate.” A sting of rejection. “Tolerance is a fig leaf to hide your ravenous self from the world.”

“I don't have your appetite. Good-bye, Hannibal.” Hannibal stands there a moment, rejected. Will sighs and averts his eyes. Hannibal finally goes, leaving Will alone. 

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - BEDROOM - DUSK -

Hannibal enters the room to say goodbye to Y/N. A woman who truly matched himself. He finds her sitting on her and Wills shared bed, rocking the small infant in her arms. “You’ve done well. She’s beautiful.” He approaches and sits beside her. 

I rest my head on his shoulder, I admire my daughter. A creation of my own. A sense of solemness runs over me. “You’re leaving arent you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Will has made it clear he does not want me here any longer.” 

A stray tear falls, I sniffle softly. “Right..” He pushes my hair out of my face, “Come with me.”

I look at him, “I can’t-” He nods already knowing. “I know.” He softly kisses me, its not passionate or Sexual, its a goodbye. He leans down and Kisses Brianna’s Head. “You’re a very special girl mažasis drugelis. You’re Mother and Father are very special too.” He stands and kisses my forehead and leaves. 

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - NIGHT

FBI VEHICLES drive at speed toward the house and AGENTS jump out. They move toward the house, guns out and ready.

The front door opens and Will emerges Holding his Baby daughter. Something he thought hed never get to do, JACK CRAWFORD Steps out of the lead vehicle, on crutches. “He's gone, Jack.”

“I'm here.” He steps out of the trees, arms outstretched, almost welcoming. Agents move in, yelling commands. He kneels as the FBI agents surround him. 

All eyes turn to me as I exit my house, Limping, I place the handcuffs on Hannibal. And before I pull away I whisper “Thank you.” 

CHIYOH watches through her rifle scope from the distant tree line, her sights on Hannibal. Jack moves to Hannibal, Will staying on the porch, watching. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack.”

“Didn't catch you, you surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am. And where you can find me.” A sly glance toward Will watching from the porch, Cradling his Daughter, Brianna. 

A SEMICIRCULAR CAGE within a canopy of nylon mesh stretching outside the bars. This cell stands alone in a large space, the walls rising up high to a glass ceiling. Gantries hold armed guards. Light shines down. Hannibal's every move and action will be observed. He is under a microscope. he is looking at Alana Bloom and DR. CHILTON who regard him from outside the cage.

[hearts4hughes]

hi bestie bae! could you please do a luke imagine with little freak? congrats on 100 followers btw! i love your writing sm<33

little freak - luke hughes

luke hughes x fem! reader

100 followers celly !!

part 2

warnings: swearing, yelling, a tiny makeout sesh

notes: as usual, the italics are flashbacks (unless used in a sentence to emphasize a word). i struggled to write this, and i did not proofread it, but i probably will in the morning. this takes place for when luke plays for the devils. hope you enjoy reading!

gif is not mine

little freak

jezebel

you sit high atop the kitchen counter

“there’s no way i’m watching breaking bad, again.” you say, propping yourself on top of luke’s counter.

“hey! you can insult any other movie, but do not insult walter white!” he lets out a fake gasp, putting his hand over his mouth before putting the packet of popcorn into the microwave. “what else do you want to watch then?”

“i’m thinking,” a big smile breaks out across your face as you think of the perfect movie, “10 things i hate about you.”

you and luke have been together for three years. your friends tell you it is a ‘love at first sight’ type relationship, and it most definitely was. after your best friend, quinn, introduced you to luke, you both fell for each other. luke knew you liked him, i mean you weren’t very subtle with it. every time he walked into the same room as you, you could barely put a coherent sentence together. luke noticed and thought it was adorable. if he’s honest, he felt the same way when he saw you.

“there’s no way i’m watching that, again!” he mocks, moving so he’s standing in between your legs. he puts his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. your fingers find their way into his curls and your legs lock around his waist.

“please,” you whine like a child, throwing your head into the crook of his neck.

he giggles, considering your movie choice, “fine.” he shakes his head in disbelief. your head shoots out from his neck, a big smile paints your face.

“really?!” your smile is ear to ear as luke nods. quickly, you connect your lips with luke’s. the kiss is passionate and lust filled. his hands move from resting on your hips, to under your butt. he picks you up off the counter. the only thing holding you up is your legs gripped around luke’s body and his hands under your ass.

just as the kiss begins to heat up, the microwave beeping indicates that the popcorn is ready. luke pulls away, taking a moment to admire your now swollen lips and flushed face. he pulls the popcorn bag out of the microwave, opening the top to let some steam come out.

“ready to watch a movie?” he grins, holding his hand out for you to grab.

“of course, my love.” you respond cheekily, grabbing his hand and jumping off the counter.

a wet dream just dangling

but your gift is wasted on me

“am i just some wet dream to you, luke?!” you yell, angry tears falling from your eyes.

“what?! of course not, y/n.” his voice is frustrated, but calm considering the situation. he reaches out to grab you and bring you into a hug, but you back away.

“don’t you fucking touch me!” you scream, wiping your face with your hands. you try to choke back sobs, but they come roaring out.

“baby,”

“i’m not your ‘baby’ anymore, so don’t fucking call me that.” you cut him off and begin walking to your shared bedroom. luke trails behind you, desperate for you not to leave.

“we are still together, you didn’t break up with me yet.” he points out, causing you to whip around.

you let out a sarcastic laugh, “is this not enough indication for you? get it through your little brain that we are over!”

he flinches at your harsh words. tears begin swelling in his eyes, as he is not going to lose you just yet, but instead of saying something then, he just watches you fill up your duffel bag with various clothing items.

“no, please don’t leave!” he drops to his knees, crawling over to you. tears start to pour out of his eyes as you take off his sweatshirt you were wearing and throw it at him. he catches the sweatshirt, looking down to it in his hands. his vision is blurry- so blurry he can barely see- but this was your favorite sweatshirt of his. it was also luke’s favorite, but he barely got to wear it because of how much you loved it.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you start breaking down. your hands fly up to your face, wishing you could stop the tears flooding out of your eyes. “i saw photos of her with you. i don’t give one fuck about how drunk you were, you still kissed her.”

“i didn’t kiss her! she kissed me,” luke argues back. you both sit next to each other on the foot of the bed. the duffel bag falls onto the ground as he wraps his arms around you. “i swear. i don’t want anyone other than you.”

you and luke cry into each others embrace. he presses various small kisses in the crook of your neck, which you once loved, but now felt like nothing to you.

you haven’t felt anything since you saw those photos of luke kissing another girl. you really wished this hug would bring you back to life. revive your relationship with each other, but it truthfully did nothing. it felt like you didn’t have anymore tears to cry.

luke on the other hand, put everything he could into this hug. he knew it might be the last one, but he did everything in his power to bring back that spark.

was this really it?

the second he saw those photos, he knew he fucked up. he was blackout drunk and only remembered the girl coming onto him. the kiss was short as luke basically threw the girl off of him, but someone happened to snap a picture and posted it. luke raced home as fast as he could, wanting to get home to you before you saw the photos, but it was too late. you had been tagged and sent the photo by a thousand different people.

“i’m so sorry.” he cries into your neck. you knew it was an accident, and you knew luke was sorry, but the photo was tattooed into your brain. every time you looked at him, the memory tainted your mind.

“i know you are,” you pull yourself out of his chest to look at him. his eyes are swollen and bloodshot as tears keep pouring out of them. “but we need a break. i need a break.”

before he can protest, you stand up, grabbing your bag and heading out of the bedroom. he shoots to his feet just as you are about to exit through the front door, “i-, i love you.” his sobs make him stutter out the sentence.

in response, you only nod your head- giving him a look of pity- and finally leaving the house.

i was thinking about who you are

your delicate point of view

i was thinking about you

it’s officially been three months since you and luke broke off your relationship officially, and you are both broken.

it’s been hard for you to come home to an empty apartment. you missed the feeling of coming home to luke attempting to cook in the kitchen. or even when you’d come home to him passed out on the couch after a long practice.

i’m not worried about where you are

or who you go home too

i’m just thinking about you

it’s been equally as hard for luke. at first, his mind was filled with thoughts of you coming home to someone else- someone better than him. but as the weeks went on, he started to only think about you. when he passes coffee shops or flower fields, he can’t help, but remember the little things you’d say about them. you always had a delicate point of view for many little things like like that. what he didn’t realize at first, was how much something like this affected him, but it did.

laying on your bed, you scroll through the tv channels in search for something to watch. slowly, you pass by the hockey channels, coming to a sudden stop when you see the devils game. noticing that they are ahead two to zero, you set the remote down, allowing yourself to watch the final minutes of the game. there was barely three minutes left in the game, what’s the harm in watching that?

however, you didn’t seem to realize that luke had scored both the two goals- making him the star of the game. you used to love watching the postgame interviews with luke. it was obvious he was a little camera shy as he was fidgety and kept his answers fast and short, but it was adorable to you. but now as you watch him do the postgame interview, sadness courses through your mind. the interview is barely a minute long, but you can’t even get through five seconds of it before switching the tv off.

on the other side of the tv, luke always wondered if you watched the games and silently supported and cheered him on. in fact, it was the only thing that motivated him to play his very best, but he knew deep down you passed by any and all hockey channels as fast as you could, not even wanting to hear his name.

now an hour after the game, both you and luke, stared at your phones. your finger hovered above luke’s contact name- wanting to call him and confess that you miss him- but you don’t. on the other hand, luke’s thumb stayed hovered over the send button- waiting to send his text that read ‘i miss you. can we try again?’- but he doesn’t send it.

you both know it’s for the better, but it hurts so bad.

[simplegenius042]

Music Monday & OCs as "Patron Saints of..." Quiz

Tagged by the lovely @inafieldofdaisies @voidika and @cloudofbutterflies92

Tagging @imogenkol @josephseedismyfather @direwombat @noodlecupcakes @socially-awkward-skeleton @adelaidedrubman @hollywood-is-bleeding @derelictheretic @cassietrn @aceghosts @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @carlosoliveiraa @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @florbelles @minilev @justasmolbard @softtidesworld @yokobai and @seedsplease + anyone else who want to join.

Music Monday for The UnTitledverse, Wings And Horns WIP and A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore, and OC quiz results for OCs from The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters. You can find the Quiz here and enjoy listening/reading below the cut:

Remember how I said Lena would be uncovering skeletons from Fazbear Entertainment's closet in my Five Nights at Freddy's WIP More Than Bargained For?. Well, the corpses of children stuffed in animatronics after being murdered by a serial-killing co-founder isn't the only think she discovers; Lena, with the guidance of one "Mike Schmidt", she also uncovers a history of tragedies surrounding one family feud in a house full of nightmares and a forgotten rental service too. Unbeknownst to the young Elliot woman, she is inadvertently aiding Mike under the company's untold policy of "Paragraph 4", with the intent of bringing all Fazbear-related animatronics back to one ultimate pizzeria. What could possibly go wrong?:

"There is a legend A legend born long ago About a wicked A wicked man no one knows Went and unraveled Six innocent little souls

Those souls found bodies The bodies started to move Some say they still walk Walk the halls, staying from view

I got a secret that I am here to tell you That place is this very place And all the stories are true

This world's a scary place We're not monsters, just changed Bigger hands for grabbing ahold We were lost to foul play But we got an upgrade Lots more teeth for eating you whole

Here comes another chapter Your heart is beating faster Because you're the one we're after Five Nights at Freddy's 4 Thank you for bringing us home

We were just like you Like you, just playing a game That's when the wicked Wicked man lead us astray Without a warning Our lives have been rearranged

As for our story The story's not over yet There's still one secret One secret left to be said

Tonight when you are Safely tucked into your bed Close all the doors that you want We're already in your head

This world's a scary place We're not monsters, just changed Bigger hands for grabbing ahold We were lost to foul play But we got an upgrade Lots more teeth for eating you whole

Here comes another chapter Your heart is beating faster Because you're the one we're after Five Nights at Freddy's 4 Thank you for bringing us home

Thank you for bringing us home

Here comes another chapter Your heart is beating faster Because you're the one we're after Five Nights at Freddy's 4 Thank you for bringing us home

Thank you for bringing us home

Thank you for bringing us home

Thank you for bringing us home!"

Now on one hand, I don't initially believe this song actually fits my Wings And Horns WIP. However, on the other hand, in relation to Jezebel Ba'al's story (and maybe a bit of Cadet Azriel's too, being the implied soul of a particular bearded cult leader's dead daughter and all, plus committing to her service as an Angel of Death just so she can finally reach reincarnation), I think this can fit within the context of a story that's centered around the pros and cons of living in a world where a divine system like the Soulmate System exists, especially when you have two young characters like Azriel and Jezebel, the former hearing nothing but good things about having a Soulmate while the latter (and other's like her) have been directly harmed by the system's flawed structure, and how both are influenced by their well-meaning if extreme father/authority figures:

"Down the rabbit hole, we saw you come in Through the glass of our cages chained up where we live Where we live Please don't be afraid We're a little bent Broken souls looking for a way to start again Start again

How can we ever be free When our prison is skin deep Left to rot* underneath Buried us down below so no one sees Daddy's little monsters

Listen to the voice keeping you alive You need us, we need you, it'll be alright Yeah, it's alright We don't wanna stay under lock and key You can help break the curse, we all wanna live** Wanna live**

How can we ever be free When our prison is skin deep Left to rot* underneath Buried us down below so no one sees Daddy's little monsters!"

[*Given rust is more for metal, rot fits well enough for both physical flesh and the "soul flesh" that Cadet Azriel and Jezebel have both experienced. **I used "live" instead of "leave" because even... well... the latter doesn't really make much sense in this context, while the former can be interpreted as Jezebel saying "we all want to live our lives without being it being predestined for us" especially with out trapping being fated to a soulmate can be (especially for the likes of Jezebel whose experienced a bad fating, and Azriel wants to be reincarnated so she can live again, but not be stuck in a similar fate to Jezebel if she gets the chance of rebirth, so at this point, here is where Azriel's opinion on the Soulmate System begins to shift].

In the unnamed Fallout 2 WIP from my A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore series, Ore returns to California (where last time he was there, his father Arcane Urias had mutilated his face after Ore declined joining him on his quest of human destruction) after exploring the Wastelands a bit more and to say goodbye to a good friend. However, instead he not only meets his friend's granddaughter Finidy Mona, but also finds evidence that his father has returned in the area. He decides to partner up with Finidy to help him track down and kill his father to stop him and his nefarious deeds by retracing his steps from Shady Sands to New Reno. This also relates to how, chronologically timeline-wise, this WIP is the last prequel of sorts and closing the chapter on Ore's story in California plus Urias and Talos' origins before the focus goes onto Ress.

"You set the stage all by yourself You have a job, do it well And play your part to host their final farewell

An event Just like the first time Put to rest Their souls tonight

It's going back, back, back, back They've been through this before It's going back, back, back, back The final page of the lore The sound of cheer, the need for fear The souls of the kids are free Rewind the tears

It's going back, back, back, back Back, back, back, back, back Back, back, back, back, back Back, back, back, back, back It's going-!"

Now for the quiz results for OCs from my The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters series. Most of these will likely be unfamiliar to you guys:

HUNTRESS CAROLINE JÄGER (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [BLOODBORNE])

Pretty accurate given the ending she gets. Unafraid to face what others refused to see, and too stubborn to look away from it. If it's something she could fix, then the Horrors be damned. Is it a shame, though, if it meant she could no longer wake up from such a terrible, horrible dream, if just to get a glimpse of the rising sun?

HUNTER TOBIAS JÄGER (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [BLOODBORNE])

How different these two are; the sister transcends to something new and unfamiliar, but here, the brother holds onto what made sense and what was once precious to him, even if holding on stops him from moving forward. And all he has to show for it is a fragment of what he lost.

DARKBEAST CONSTANCE (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [BLOODBORNE])

No matter how much he boasts about being true to Yahar'gul's ideals, he is still a lesser man than he is a true beast.

LOGAN THE VAGABOND OF NO RENOWN (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [ELDEN RING])

Fucking poetic considering what he does and who comes crawling out of it. While Logan is an unpleasant and selfish person, he himself becomes a vessel for all the good things he'll pass on to his successor; someone that will succeed against the destined odds where he and everyone else failed.

RICO (LIFE, DESPAIR & MONSTERS [CYBERPUNK 2077])

Staying in Night City (whether it be for the guy you were always at the beck and call of, not just out of loyalty and idealism, but genuine love, even if he didn't necessarily share the same love you felt and eventually became a stranger to you, or for the mentored young woman you see so much life coursing through her veins within a city as horrid as NC, and also see so much of yourself and the other in, yet is cruelly destined for far less than she deserves and spends that little time with others that aren't you, knowing this goodbye is the last goodbye you'll ever make as she leaves behind everything for those final months of something better... or maybe you stay because it's all you've ever known and believe you'll be useful in) does not have much benefits.

LORA (LIFE, DESPAIR & MONSTERS [ARCANE: LEAGUE OF LEGENDS])

Ever wonder if, in spite of how much you try, you're just destined to be alone? Lora chases after something things that won't ever leave her fulfilled or satisfied. In the end it's this that dooms her to solitude.

[thepro-lifemovement]

The infamous abortion facility at the center of the case that overturned Roe v. Wade is no longer in business.

Nicknamed the “Pink House” because of its bright pink exterior, the Jackson Women’s Health Organization (the Jackson in Dobbs v. Jackson) aborted unborn babies for many years and was the only abortion facility in Mississippi after 2004.

Now, Mississippi protects unborn babies by banning abortions, and the “Pink House” is no more. The abortion facility stopped aborting unborn babies last year and later was sold. This week, the pro-abortion blog Jezebel reports the building has been repainted white and soon will house a consignment store, Hunt The Shop.

Meanwhile, the former abortion facility owner, Diane Derzis, recently moved to Bristol, Virginia and opened a new abortion facility. Already, she faces two lawsuits, including one accusing her staff of pressuring a teenage girl into an abortion and hiding it from the girl’s parents.

[lerulpes]

to the rescue (Emmrich x f!Rook)

A little something I had in mind because of the old man brain rot. Enjoy if you'd like to Warnings: mentions of blood

A wave of hand, a whispered spell, a spark of lightning, and the last enemy falls dead with a loud thud.

Victorious, Jezebel fixed her cuffs; she frowned when she noticed drops of blood all over them. Well, that'll teach her not to wear white fabrics on the mission.

Trying to compose herself after the fight, she took deep breathes a couple of times and looked around. No one was in sight; what a relief, she thought to herself. She wasn't ready to show it, but she was drained - both physically and mentally.

"We should move on," Neve's stern voice appeared out of the darkness. The detective checked if the assassins were dead indeed. "This alleyway doesn't seem like a good place to think about life, don't you agree?" She was right as always, but Jezebel couldn't force herself to move forward.

A gentle, yet firm grip landed on her shoulder. Emmrich's soft voice sounded distant. "Jezebel? Are you alright?" She turned her head to face him; hair slightly disheveled, a genuine concern on his face.

"Of course I am, I just need to..." Jezebel stopped when she noticed Emmrich's eyes widen. "What? It's like you've seen a ghost," she said with a smile. They both were Mourn Watchers, and seeing a ghost wasn't something extraordinary for them, but it still amused Jezebel to say so.

At this moment she felt a liquid on her lips. Jezebel brought her hand up to wipe whatever it is, but, seeing the liquid on her gloved fingers, she realised it was blood. Moreover, it was her blood.

The picture worked as a catalyst, as if this unawareness was keeping her from losing this last bit of power she had. Jezebel's knees betrayed her, and she felt like she would fall any minute now. "Shit..." she exhaled, bending forward.

Halfway down to the ground, Jezebel heard something else hit the pavement and felt hands around her body. When she managed to open her eyes, she saw Emmrich's concerned and focused face very close to hers. His hand touched her cheeks, her forehead, helped him expect her eyes; it would've been romantic if she wasn't on the verge of passing out.

"What's wrong?!" Neve picked up Emmrich's staff and stood next to them. Her voice, always reserved, now was filled with worry.

"She's exhausted. We can't move forward while she's in this state." Neve asked if he could do something. "I can, and I will if you'll give me some time." After these words Neve nodded and walked away to check if there were any pursuers, ensuring the safety.

The necromancer smiled softly. "Oh, mistress Jezebel, if you'll go on like this, I'll proscribe you stepping out of the Lighthouse." Jezebel managed to chuckle.

"Mistress Jezebel... sounds pretentious, don't you think?" She tried to rub her eyes with her hand, but Emmrich stopped her by catching her wrist. He planted a small kiss on her knuckles and let go of her hand.

"Please, lie still," his voice was still soft, yet commanding. "The spell will work better if you won't move." Jezebel felt healing energy flow through her body; the power she lost in the fight was slowly and steadily coming back.

"Alright, monsieur Volkarin," Jezebel closed her eyes and heard Emmrich chuckle. "I'll behave for now, if you'll promise me a kiss on the forehead for being a good patient."

When jokes like this were exchanged between them, Jezebel felt like she was walking on thin ice. Little did she know that Emmrich felt the same. At this point it was just a question of who was going to give up first and succumb.

Jezebel opened one eye. Emmrich was inspecting her face for signs of better state - indeed, her cheeks changed their color from deadly pale to her ordinary pale, and her lips regained some strength.

"The spell will work for about 15 minutes from now, but we've already achieved the main goal of saving you from dying or passing out big time. Congratulations, mistress. And, as promised..." He closed his eyes and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. Emmrich lingered for a moment too long. "A normal temperature. Spectacular. If you don't mind, I'll reward you for this with one more kiss." The necromancer pecked her cheek, provoking a chuckle from Jezebel - now it sounded like a chuckle of a healthy human, not a bark of a dying dog.

"Oh, Emmrich, you're the best healer in town," Jezebel grunted when the necromancer helped her to stand up. "Thank you. Please, tell me, my nose stopped bleeding, did it?" She recieved a positive answer. "Oh, thank you once again, Emmrich," she nodded her head to strengthen her words.

"Just doing my job, darling," the necromancer answered. The last word hopped off his tongue on it's own.

"Darling? I like the sound of that," she fixed Emmrich's hair, returning his touches. "I'll come up with something like this for you, professor, if you don't mind."

"I'll look forward to it, darling," Emmrich smiled. When she noticed the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deepen, Jezebel couldn't help but smile in return. Something in the back of her head suggested she claimed his soft lips here and now, but Jezebel tried to perish the thought. Nevertheless, it was disrupted by Neve's return; she informed the group that the path was clear and they could go on if Jezebel was alright.

The next few minutes were walked in silence, but Jezebel muttered a silent "darling" to herself from time to time.

[preet-01]

Maxiel Political AU

Word Count: 864

Summary: Max Verstappen only had one goal - to be President. It's all he's wanted since he was just seven years old and all that he's worked towards. But bachelors don't get elected as Presidents, for the most part. Enter Daniel Ricciardo. Daniel's the ideal candidate for the country's most prominent and stressful unpaid job: the President's loving partner, a pretty bauble for the country to fall in love with and look towards. In secret meetings, contracts are signed and a marriage is arranged. Max and Daniel must convince the American people that they are a loving couple and perfect for the White House

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Chapter Three

Jos Verstappen didn’t often breach the boundaries that Max had set once he left New York for the House in DC. He attended the big events, posed for pictures, and didn’t run his mouth in the press – despite how much he wanted to talk about his difference in opinions with the current President or the Senate Majority Leader. It was a compromise they had found after many arguments over Max’s politics. 

However, he’d heard from Victoria, by no fault of her own Jos was just nosy when it came to his son’s political career, that his new campaign manager for 2028 was suggesting a political arrangement of sorts. While Jos was no politician, he was a blue-collar working man who unlike his neighbors in the city had gotten no handouts from the government, he did understand how things in the world worked.  A political arrangement of sorts was just fancy speak for marriage. Max’s lot loved their fancy speak when it came to everything, nothing was what they said in that swamp city. 

He would have to make his way down to the hellscape they called their great nation’s capital to ensure his son doesn’t do something stupid and ruin everything before he even got to put his name in the running. Some hussy chosen by another political elite wasn’t going to be the answer. No, his son needed a good, normal American woman, not another political Jezebel more focused on her own career than Max’s. 

The trip from Manhattan to DC is just four hours by bus. A handful of buses leave from Penn Station and head straight to Union Station in DC. Just perfect for his travels. No need to inform his son about his arrival or tell his daughter that he won’t be in the city. 

_______

In California, however, Joe Ricciardo was cursing his father. 

Joseph Snr. had great hopes for their family, just as his father before him had, and his father before him, and so on it went stemming from when their ancestors resided in Australia. Each man wanted more than the previous. Joseph Snr. had made himself a national figure and was one of the most respected men when it came to politics, but he had never made it to the White House. 

Nor had his son, much to his displeasure. Joseph Jr. or just Joe as he preferred to go by in silent rebellion to his over-involved father, had only made it as governor of California. His presidential hopes had been lost when the children were still young. Sometime around Daniel’s eighth birthday, Joe thinks. 

When Daniel was a child, Joseph had turned his attention to him in an effort to make a Ricciardo that would finally take the family to the White House. He had high hopes for  Daniel, more than Joe would’ve ever put on his young son. And when Daniel’s carrier status had been confirmed, Joseph had pulled away that attention as if it were something small and irrelevant. Luckily for them, Daniel was more capable and mature than most men his age had taken his grandfather’s snub as well as one could by moving across the country and only returning home every other holiday. 

But now, Joe thinks his father has gone too far. It was one thing to make a careless remark during dinner while his son was vulnerable, it was another to foist some strange man onto him in the hopes that said man would be President one day. Joe hadn’t meant to hear the conversation between Daniel and Grace – a weekly occurrence ever since Daniel had said he would be building a life for himself in DC and its surrounding suburbs instead of sunny California where the rest of the family resided. 

Joe had never blamed Daniel for doing as such or held it against him, he had understood the desire to not be so close to the rest of the Ricciardos and their various political dreams of varying concerns about the state of the county. Grace hadn’t taken it as well. While she understood why Daniel wanted to live in DC, she did not like that her baby was so far away and demanded weekly calls to make sure that he took care of himself. 

So Joe had not been the intended audience when Daniel said, “Grandfather has suggested another man.” Joe hadn’t even known that there was a first. “He is not bad from the looks of it and Seb seems to like him. I’m thinking of meeting him,” Daniel continued, relaying his thoughts to his mother. 

So yes, Joe Ricciardo was cursing his father for being so focused on the family legacy and a tie to the Oval Office. Daniel shouldn’t be the one with the weight of generations on his shoulders where Joseph Snr. and Joe Jr. had both failed 

But Joe also knew his son. Daniel was the pragmatist of the family. He was just like Grace in that regard. Daniel would meet with this man that Joseph Snr. thought would be President in a few years. Joe just hoped that Daniel wouldn’t share his grandfather’s opinion and would say no to the match. 

________

This was technically supposed to be the chapter where Daniel and Max had their first meeting, but the dads needed their POVs. So the next chapter will be the first meeting now

[clarkes-and-god]

"So how's he doing? Honestly, I can't believe they have him locked up with all those awful criminals just because he made a little mistake. It must be so hard for him, he always was a sensitive child."

"I think he's doing ok, considering the circumstances. I put some money in his commissary account so he can buy some extra stuff and call us if he wants. I know it's a long way for you to travel to visit him, so hopefully that'll be nice."

"That's sweet of you, Cherish. You really need to keep visiting him though, it'll keep his spirits up. I mean, he must just be feeling horrible in there, even if he didn't tell you. He probably just doesn't want to worry you. Losing my husband was the worst thing that's ever happened to me, so I do know how you feel, but you're very lucky that you're going to get him back. I bet you just want everything to be perfect for him when he gets out, I certainly would if I could get my sweet husband back."

"Oh, I'm really trying to make everything perfect. Actually, I was going to tell you, but you know how I've been working more since this has happened? I was offered a promotion to manage one of the coffee shops in Evergreen Harbour, and Tobias wants me to take it!"

"But why? I mean, I understand that you might have to work because of all this, but a manager? You're probably going to have to be in charge of men, that's not right, and it seems like it might be a lot of work while you have all your sweet babies to look after. I never had to work after I lost Toby, being a manager seems like far too much. And Evergreen Harbour is so far away!"

"Well, we were talking about it and it'd only be until Tobias gets out and finds another job, maybe one that pays a little better than Christ Chicken. Until then, I can use the extra money to get me and the kids settled in an apartment, and when Tobias gets out, I can go back to staying at home and homeschooling them!"

"I guess that is a nice idea, but I do worry -- Evergreen Harbour seems very worldly. My daughter, Miriam, apparently lives there. I can't find her Instagram profile anymore, I have no idea why, but that's what Moriah tells me. Honestly, I hope for your sake that none of your little ones turn out like her, I pray for her soul every day. The way she's living is just awful, she's a tattoo artist of all things, she's not married but she's living with this awful man who looks like a girl! And they have a little girl together! That poor child, bless her heart, she's never going to know the Word with parents like that."

"Oh, that's awful! I can't even imagine what that must be like for you, you must be so worried. We should be ok though, I really don't think everyone there is like that, and the kids have been going to public school for a while now, and they're still fine. If anything, it'll be better seeing as we'll be able to afford to homeschool them there. And it's only a couple of hours away, we can still come up here for Christmas and Easter and everything!"

"That'll be nice, I love seeing my sweet grandbabies. Of course it would be better if you could just stay here, but if Tobias thinks it's best for you guys, I can't say no. At least it's not Oasis Springs. I'm certain that was all Mallory's idea, the little Jezebel. Markus is too nice for his own good sometimes, I still can't believe he left me all alone to move over there. And Dolly and Birdie in college! It's just awful."

"Of course we'll come visit as often as we can! My Momma and Daddy live here too, so it'll be nice and easy. I wouldn't want the kids to miss all their grandparents and cousins. Speaking of the kids, I think we best be going, it's getting a little late and they've had a long day."

"Alright sweetheart, I'll see you at church in the morning!"

[queer-cinephile]

30 Days of Classic Queer Hollywood

Day 9: George Nader (1921 - 2002)

Actor George Nader, who acted in such films as Sins of Jezebel (1953), Congo Crossing (1956), and The Female Animal (1958), was discreetly gay throughout his acting career. He was in a committed relationship with his life partner, actor Mark Miller, for 55 years. Nader and Miller were very close friends with similarly closeted actor Rock Hudson.

Nader is perhaps best remembered for his first starring role, in the campy low-budget 3-D sci-fi film Robot Monster (1953), which has been called "one of the worst films ever made".

While Nader was closeted throughout his career, he did not feign relationships with women to throw reporters off the scent. When asked why he wasn't married, he would just tell them he hadn't met "the one" yet. When this wasn't enough, he and his partner moved to Europe, where Nader found success in a series of German films.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Temptation Chapter 3

Summary: Father Barnes is devout, steadfast, and undeterred by flirtatious congregants.  So why does this fallen angel tempt him so?  You cannot serve two masters.  Will he choose God, or his heart? This is a short chapter...Priest!Bucky x curvy!reader Warnings: eventual smut; religion (yes it's a warning); mentions of past sexual assault

Previous chapter Next chapter

The day after Christmas Y/N snuck into the church quietly.  It was late and she didn’t want to risk running into Bucky.  She skirted around the edges of the area as nuns walked around, cleaning up after Mass the day before.  She managed to get one nun’s attention.

“Excuse me, Sister, um, are confessionals being held tonight?”

“Yes, they are, both Fathers are here tonight,” the Sister smiled at her.

“Okay, uh, could you tell me which one Father Richards is in,” Y/N felt like she was shaking as she asked.

“He’s in…oh, he should be in that one on the far end.  I don’t think anyone is in there now.”

“Thank you.”

Y/N walked over to the farthest confessional room, tapping on the door a few times to make sure no one was in there before entering.  As she shut the door behind her and settled on the uncomfortable seat she sighed, waiting for the telltale noise of the screen moving so that the priest could hear her.  There was a scraping noise and a rattle, and she could hear the sound of breathing on the other side.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” Y/N immediately started.

Bucky nearly choked as he heard her voice.  He looked over, being able to slightly see who was in the box even though they couldn’t see him.  There she was, looking apprehensive and jittery.  He cleared his throat.

“What troubles you?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound different.  He wasn’t sure why he did this.

“Father Richards?  You sound…different, are you alright?”

And there was his reason.  She wanted to talk to Richards, not him.  He knew this was a lie, but felt compelled to keep up the ruse.  “Forgive me, I’ve been battling a cold for a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I hope you feel better soon,” Y/N rattled off, very little care in her tone.  Bucky smiled at that.  “Um…I’ve been having impure thoughts lately.”

“Impure thoughts?” Bucky ventured.

“Yes, about someone that I shouldn’t be having them about.”

“And may I ask who you’re thinking about?” Bucky didn’t need to be asking this, Father Richards would probably have not asked, but he needed to know.

“It’s about…Father Barnes.”  Bucky let out a quick breath.  He was feeling elated, pure ecstasy flowing through every limb.  “And I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way, thinking these things.  He’s a priest for Christ’s sake…oh God I’m sorry!  I mean gosh!  Ugh,” she grunted in frustration.  

“I see,” Bucky kept his voice low, trying to sound less than interested.  “And how long have you been having these thoughts?”

“8 months,” she breathed, rubbing her face with her hands.  “I’m trying so hard not to.  No offense but I hate coming here, so I never do, and yet somehow we keep running into each other.  I was just wanting, needing, a friend, and it very quickly morphed into this sick, twisted thing that I don’t know how to stop.  I feel like I can’t trust myself.  And then Sister Carter called me his temptation, a Jezebel–”

“She called you a what?” Bucky seethed, somewhat keeping up with the facade.

Y/N sighed heavily, a hard sniff coming from her on the other side.  “A Jezebel.  That bitch…sorry,” Y/N sounded exhausted and exasperated.  “That’s what Father…I mean, someone else called me a long time ago, and now I’m just…I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”

Bucky tried to regain control of his rage as he vowed to give Sister Carter a verbal beating.  “I’m sorry she said that to you, that was wrong of her.  You are not either of those things.”  

Y/N scoffed.  “Aren’t I, though?  She said she sees the way I look at him, the way he looks at me.”

“What did you mean when you said you can’t trust yourself?” Bucky reverted to her earlier statement.

“Oh…awkward,” Y/N huffed out a laugh.  “Yeah, I uh, I’m afraid of being left alone with him.  Not that he would hurt me or vice versa, just that, if given the chance, I wouldn’t say no.”

Bucky palmed himself through his pants.  Listening to this was torture, sweet, delicious torture.  “I understand,” he cleared his throat again.  “So you want him…sexually?”

“Desperately,” Y/N whispered.  

Bucky’s head tipped back as he absentmindedly reached into his pants.  He was definitely going to hell now.  Jerking off to a confessional?  He hadn’t touched himself in years, and it felt too good to stop now.  “What are these thoughts you’ve been having?”

“That seems kind of personal, Father,” Y/N sounded dubious.

“You’re right, but I need to understand the level of impurity so I can help you…” Bucky slowly stroked himself, biting back a moan.

“Um…well, just, things of a sexual nature.  Him having me in some, inappropriate places, in inappropriate ways.  Like the altar,”  She sighed.  “Me taking him to my favorite places I’ve traveled…having fun on a beach in Bora Bora.”

Bucky bit his lip, his eyes shut tight as he imagined it.  Him and Y/N on a beach, her barely covered curvy body on top, riding him into oblivion.  Him laying Y/N down across the altar, hiking his sermon robes up and taking her right there in front of God.  He shuttered and then felt his balls tighten, a sudden gush coming from him.  He covered his groan with a cough.  He tried his hardest to keep his voice even.  “What do you plan to do?” 

”What can I do?  He won’t choose me.  I don’t want to make him choose at all.  I have to leave.  Once everything is figured out, I’ll move on and get back to work.  I’ll be the temptation, the harlot he was able to withstand.”

Bucky wanted to jump through the screen and shake her and scream.  How could she think of herself that way?  She wasn’t in charge of him or his choices.  As much as he wanted her, as evidenced by the mess he made of his pants just now, that was his choice he made.

”You are not a harlot.  Temptation is not a sin, and even giving into it isn’t always a sin, either.  You are human, as is Father Barnes.  I think…” he paused, unsure of how he wanted to go about this.  “I think you should talk to him.”

”Talk to him?”

”Not as a confession, just as a friend, to clear the air.  And then you can decide what to do from there.  Until then…” he snuck his hand out of his pants, using one of the tissues in the room to wipe his hand, “I absolve you of your sins.  Say three Hail Marys.  The Lord be with you.”

”And with your spirit,” Y/N answered automatically.  She scoffed at herself.  “Thank you Father.”  She left the confessional room.  Should she actually talk to Bucky?  It felt like putting herself in the line of fire.  Father Richards was getting old, maybe he just had too much fun hearing about a congregant having a crush on his junior priest.  Pervert, she thought.

**picture if from Pinterest, it's A.I. so there's no "artist" or "creator"**

@wintrsoldrluvr

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Some angst, some nudity, hints at sexy times.

A/N: This one is a bit longer than intended; but I did want to include the boys in it at some point!!!

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork @lialiwasneverseen

Chapter 17:

Aching Bones

You almost felt disgusted with yourself.

On one hand, you killed some grimy losers that were apparently serial killers. Or, well, more accurately, the one whose neck you snapped was the leader of their little troop and the other two were weak-willed lackeys who followed him out of fear or want for something--not really loyalty if the one left clinging to life was anything to go by.

But the part that disgusted you was not the death, but the fact that you didn't seem to feel any guilt anymore. And it had only been two days. You were anxious, yes, but that was only because you expected to have the FBI kicking your door in at any time, ready to shoot or arrest you.

But they never did. Though people reported a woman disappearing into the night with those men, Khonshu ensured no cameras were working in any vicinity you were in that night to protect your identity from any fallout of the very likely and imminent media circus that would surely follow the story like a shroud.

Many speculate that the "Jane Doe" (as you were identified in the news to be) was simply rescued by a vigilante--after all, they were a dime a dozen in New York these days--and ran off into the night, too scared to come forward about her near-death experience.

But nobody ever found you, thanks to Khonshu and Yehya's subtle intervention. You didn't know if, but Yehya told Khonshu if anything came of it and you were at risk of being identified, he, as Hunter's Moon, would take credit for accidentally killing the assailants.

You couldn't help but still feel that pang of nauseous anxiety settle in your gut like a bad meal.

Why was Khonshu so goddamn invested in you? And whose voice was that in your dream that told you they loved you?

And more importantly, why were you dreaming these things?

You sighed roughly, sweeping a hand down your face as you stared at the statue of Khonshu that still stood on your makeshift altar. You were honestly tempted to throw the damn thing out; but a better part of yourself knew it'd probably just piss off the already ornery god, and you just didn't wanna deal with it.

Especially if the bastard was gonna hit you with his staff, again!

You still wanted to have some strong words with that fucker after that. But part of you was... Thankful, in a way. Khonshu had brought you home, apparently watched over you since it was his fault you injured yourself in the process.

You couldn't help but wonder, if he seemed so annoyed with you, why bother? Why not leave you to die, or be interrogated?

You rested your elbows on your knees, staring at the statue in thought; the stone staring back lifelessly.

"I'm guessing you'd be in big trouble if something happened to me," You muttered. "So you're probably covering your ass and making sure I don't die. That it, Big Bird?"

Silence was your answer.

You knew you were right, of course. What else could the excuse be? It certainly wasn't because he liked you. If anything, to him, you were like an annoying pest buzzing around; or maybe an annoying yapping dog that would simply not stop nipping at his heels.

And now, a student that, through his own admittedly hasty training, inadvertantly taken life and nearly got injured or worse from the strain.

You flexed your hands, watching the muscles and tendons roll and move as your fingers curled and opened again. You hadn't felt your palms itching, yet. You wondered if Jezebel had been right.

Your visions, your "feelings", the itchy and burning palms... maybe it was because your magic had been building and building over the course of your life and your body just couldn't contain it anymore? Like an infected wound that needed to be drained (as gross as the thought was), your magic needed an outlet before it made you any more ill.

And... well, it was true that some of your visions had begun to come into better focus, some of them were still blurry or murky. NAmes, and faces of some were a blur.

You snorted a bitter laugh. If only you could prove to other people--it you truly were Merit, reborn--then you'd wondered, just how many of them would wet themselves. A lost link to an ancient past so many dedicated their lives to studying.

You personally had met Akhenaten, were apparently friends to Nefertiti. Your own father was personal friends with Amenhotep III. You yourself hd apparently been a scholar, raised in the courts alongside the Pharaoh's children. Your mother was friends with Queen Tiye...

You were apparently every historian and archaeologist's wet dream, personified; if anything of your memories could be verified.

You only wished Jezebel would tell you a little bit more, instead of leaving you to figure it all out on your own. You were growing increasingly frustrated; and not just emotionally. As some of your memories were... not very family-friendly.

The memories--the visions--felt so real to you that sometimes you could still feel the ghostings of intimate touches from your dream-lover; you could feel how thick his--

You suddenly sat up straight, not wanting to bother yourself by recalling those heated moments from your mind's eye. The last thing you needed was to give in and take some "personal time" just to have Khonshu appear at the most inconvenient moment. You would never be able to live without him mocking you for it.

You would probably prefer being struck by lightning, honestly.

You groaned; a part of you felt like, if only you could just remember his face, his name--that maybe you would find some semblance of peace.

You pulled out your phone and checked your calendar.

Your paid leave was dwindling. You had little time left to sort this out, if at all. You sincerely doubted you'd be able to, as much of your dreams were scattered amongst the timeline of Merit's life. Some dreams consisted of girlhood dreams, others were of the grief Merit suffered in her adult years. None of it was in chronological order. If you had a way of--

You jolted, like you'd just been shocked. Of course!

You got up and went to the cheap thrifted end table you had, lifting old bills and notices until you found the barely-used composition notebook you kept forgetting to toss out. Maybe it was a good thing you didn't.

You pulled yourself to your small kitchen table and grabbed a pencil.

Maybe recording your dreams would help, in the end.

You had a feeling you were going to need more than the one notebook.

Your tiny feet stumbled slightly as you toddled about, endearing smiles coming from those around you as you shuffled past on unsteady feet.

You were largely nude, save for the cloth wrappings that covered your nether-bits. Your head was cleanly shaven; you did not wear a pleated braid, but rather a small golden headdress that had been gifted to your mother on the day of your birth.

It had dragonflies, ducks and flowers carved into it, painted and bejeweled on an artistic level that nearly rivaled the diadems that were crafted for the royal family. Yours had hand-crafted beads dangling from thin strips of leather at your temples. Bracelets and bangles hung from your thin wrists and ankles.

A large collar hung over your bare chest, a large golden collar with various beads carved in the shape of foods and fruits, the flat ends that connected to the chain having vultures carved, there. That particular part of your wardrobe was gifted to your parents by the Pharaoh, himself. It was your favorite shiny bauble you possessed, your eyes always drawn to it when it was removed, waiting patiently for your mother to help you put it on the next day.

Your eyes scanned the rows of people; watching as they ate and drank, laughing and singing. Some merely sat and observed, content with their seating at the banquet. You, on the other hand, were bored. Even your doll, Aya was bored! Her carved little face practically called to you: "Merit! Let's go do something fun!"

And so, you heeded the voiceless suggestion. You managed to slip away from your parents as they spoke about with family and close friends--your mother was busy helping tend to one of the other royal wives; as she was having a difficult time nursing. Your mother on the other hand, was still producing milk; so she had been called as a nursemaid for the infant.

You couldn't deny you were a little jealous, you wanted your mother's attention. And when she had gently urged you to let her tend to the baby, you huffed and pouted, setting yourself aside to play with Aya, until the itch to explore became too much to bear.

Your father was busy with the Pharaoh, his other children playing a game you yourself did not wish to--mostly because you did not understand or care to learn it--and so you were left to your own devices.

You hummed an out-of-key song as you skipped, holding Aya aloft as you pretended to imagine her flying like the bird she was named for: a pretty white ibis.

You giggled and squealed to yourself as you imagined fictitious adventures for the both of you--fleeing scary monsters, Aya calling upon magic only she possessed to "save" the both of you, flying away to safety once again.

You stopped playing when you noticed a man sitting at the very, very fringes of the party. He had various little jars and papyrus scrolls surrounding him as he described the scene in front of him. But... the thing that interested you the most was... was the man. The other man.

Like the bird Aya was named after, he had the head of an ibis. Black feathers adorned his face and ended at the base of a fluted beak, fading into dark skin with ivory-white tattoos inked into his skin. He wore long, crisp white robes with gold hanging from his person.

He stopped slightly, peering at the work of the man kneeling at his feet as he wrote. They appeared to be conversing; of what, you didn't know. But you were drawn to them.

Before you knew it, your little feet walked you up to them. You managed to tear your gaze away from the other, looking instead at the scribe, and his work.

He peered at you with a warm smile, setting his reed pen down.

"Hello, little one." His soothing voice greeted you. He did not know who you were, but judging by your appearance you were at least of noble blood. Couldn't have been more than three or four years old.

"What 're you doing?" You asked, your little voice slurring some of the words as you studied his incomplete papyrus.

"I am recording the banquet, for the Pharaoh." He replied curtly. The other chuckled, his voice sounding like a soft flute-song. You pretended not to notice him.

"Oh, so you're, um, a scr--" You pursed your lips as you tried to sound the word out in your head before finishing, "Uh, a scrrr--script?"

"Close," He and the other chuckled at your youthful mispronunciation. "A scribe, little one."

"Yeah! One of the smart people." You chirped proudly; your words making the man break out into a full grin, his earth-brown eyes twinkling.

"I suppose, but one can only be as smart as what they know. And I am still learning." He replied. "We all still learn new things."

"Even if you're big?" You asked, tilting your head at him.

"Especially if you're "big"," He nodded, "It's important for adults to learn, as well. So we can help little ones. Like you."

He playfully poked your belly, making you giggle and squirm.

The other leaned in, again, before kneeling next to the both of you, his beak nearly touching you.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore, and openly stared up at him. "Who're you?" You demanded, pointing up at him.

They both seemed shocked, their heads rocking back before looking at each other in disbelief. It wasn't typical mortals could see the gods unless the god themself allowed it. But there were some rare instances, of course; typically small children. And it seemed, as fate would have it, you were one of those instances.

"I..." The other began, a hand on his chest. "Am Thoth. I have many aspects, but am most accredited to helping bring knowledge. This is Minmose, he is my Avatar. He helps teach others. And you, little one, are Merit, are you not? Daughter of Djedefhor and Benerib?"

You nod, tucking Aya against your chest.

Thoth tilted his head, nodding towards the little doll, "And who is this?"

"Her name's Aya..." You mumbled.

"Ahhh... a little bird, then?" Thoth extended his hand, "May I?"

You weren't sure; Aya was your bestest friend, she had magic powers! What if he dropped her?

You stared up into his dark, obsidian eyes. He seemed to have the patience of millennia behind those irises of his; and... He wasn't exactly scary. Weird, yes. But not scary. So... You held out Aya for him, the doll fitting almost perfectly in the palm of his hand.

He nodded, "Thank you. It will be but a moment."

Thoth held the doll close up to his face, examining Aya from every possible angle, his touch gentle and serene. He reached for one of Minmose's reed pens; a clean one, but it appeared that he didn't need ink. He carefully lifted the little linen dress you had Aya dressed in and etched in some small lettering, the words glowing in a faint light before vanishing; like they were never there to begin with.

Thoth handed Aya back to you, and you lifted her little dress to check for yourself if the marks were truly gone--and they were. You looked back up at him, "What'd you do?"

"I merely blessed your little friend. And you." He reached out to gently pat your little head, his massive hand almost entirely encapsulating it. "May you ever be blessed with knowledge, and grow to be a beautiful flower."

"That's weird." You said, your little nose scrunched up.

Thoth and Minmose laughed together at your blunt comment.

"Ah... Yes, it may be "weird"," Minmose chuckled. "But you've just been blessed by the gods, little Merit. You will be capable of great things, one day."

You opened your mouth to speak, but your mother's voice rang out in a shrill cry, "Merit! Oh, gods! Don't ever run off like that, again!"

She reached down and scooped you up; clutching you tight to her breast in a fierce hug. You were surprised--she didn't seem to notice Thoth. Why? You looked back, only to realize Thoth had vanished, leaving only Minmose. He simply smiled kindly up at your mother.

"I--I am sorry..." Your father panted, rushing up to you both. "We turned our backs and she was gone!"

"It's all right. You have a very curious girl," Minmose complimented.

"Yes!" Djedefhor laughed, straightening his wig out. "Yes, she is very... Inquisitive. She loves to explore."

"I hope she didn't bother you, sir scribe." Benerib sighed, kissing your cheek and making you giggle.

"Not at all." Minmose nodded, "She is lovely, a skilled conversationalist. And... Maybe a future peer, one day."

Your parents exchanged looks, and your father puffed his chest out with pride, "But of course! I only want the best for her; she will study with the Pharaoh's children, come the next year."

"Ah! Lovely." Minmose grinned, bowing his head, "Many blessings to you and yours, sir."

"And to yours." Your parents said in unison before turning to whisk you away, back to the party.

You peered over your mother's shoulder, to see Thoth once more, waving sweetly at you.

And you waved back.

Khonshu sighed, looking down at you. He had come to collect you for more training.

But here you were, slumped over your notebook, sleeping soundly.

Disappointing... but at least you weren't moaning for help in your sleep, or crying like before. But sleeping in this position was not good for your back, surely.

You were beginning to sincerely irk him. Not because you were necessarily annoying, no. It was because he had developed a nasty habit of beginning to care about you--allowing that weakness to take root.

He should only care about protecting you. Yes, he was curious about you. Yes, he wanted to learn more about you and figure out why you were able to summon him directly--why, out of the few thousands that whispered his name, were you able to invoke him so strongly?

A puzzle, definitely. An irritating one, but a puzzle nonetheless.

He sighed again, shaking his head as he leaned his staff against the wall. Muffled sounds from the television next door faintly bled through the cheap plaster and insulation, your neighbors unwise to your goings-on.

Khonshu leaned down, gently scooping you up in his arms and turning, walking over to your bed. He leaned down, placing your unconscious body down onto the semi-soft surface before covering you up with your blankets.

He watched you, for a short time; the rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your lashes.

"Troublesome little pest." Khonshu muttered, reaching for his staff again.

But... He stopped. His gaze was caught by the notebook you had been using as a makeshift pillow.

His hand reached for it, curious to see what you had been writing down. Your dreams seemed to be the most likely answer.

Khonshu paused, his fingers clasping the book. But something inside of him hesitated.

A puzzle. A puzzle.

No.

He slowly closed your notebook and sighed.

He would discover your secrets for himself. He wouldn't be cowardly and take the easy way out. No. He would only get true satisfaction by using his wit and cunning--by chipping away at whatever walls you erected around your secrets.

Even if Jezebel wouldn't tell him; Khonshu would find a way.

He reached for his staff, and turned.

Sparing one last glance at you, he stamped his staff down and vanished, the lights in your apartment extinguishing and leaving you in dimness.

She lounged back against him, her caramel skin still slightly damp with sweat as she let out a slow, deep sigh.

"How many of our arguments have ended this way?"

"Too many." Khonshu laughed, playfully snatching his nemes back from her.

Merit reached up behind her and scraped her nails across his scalp, eliciting an involuntary shiver from him. Khonshu wrapped his arms around her and pulled her impossibly closer, growling playfully as he kissed the junction where her neck met her shoulder.

Merit turned and planted a sweet kiss to his cheek, humming.

"And how many of our arguments would you say you've won, my love?" She purred, her voice laden with tease.

Hmmm." He chuckled. "None."

"Because I'm always right, and you can't resist me." She said haughtily, turning in his arms as she crawled up his body, planting her palms on his chest. Her lush lips curled up into a seductive smile; a gorgeous smile.

"Oh, so prideful. You know, many would consider that a shortcoming, Merit." Khonshu replied, cupping her cheek.

"Yes, well, you tend to be rather prideful; so what does that say about you?" She smirked, leaning back to sit up straight, the cushions beneath them light and plush.

"Fair..." He conceded, his eyes sweeping over her naked form appreciatively; her smooth skin, her soft breasts, toned arms... A beautiful profile that rivaled the beauties of Isis and Nut themselves.

His hand slowly crept up her arm, smoothing over the soft flesh, coming to rest around her throat. Not a squeezing gesture; almost a comforting one. To remind him she was there. Alive.

The first and only mortal to ever make him feel this way; perhaps the only being ever to make his heart beat so erratically. To make his body crave another so richly and often.

He felt the thump of her pulse, the air flowing through her as she took each breath.

She closed her eyes, letting his thumb sweep a gentle caress over the beating vein in her neck.

They were somewhere undoubtedly private; a cliffside, her home far off in the distance, only illuminated by braziers and great fires. All others were too dim to see from where they were perched. Khonshu had laden the areas with the softest cushions and blankets--his love deserved the best, after all--and for a moment he wondered, if truly, he had hoped he would lose this argument from the very beginning.

It made the apology all the sweeter. It always did.

The stars dotted the sky above, not a single cloud in sight. The moon was high, fat and glowing brightly, casting cool shadows over Merit's lovely skin. Soft candle flames cast flickering shadows that contrast to his moonlight. Typically, he'd prefer to only gaze at her under the light of his moon...

But Merit was a beauty to be appreciated in every way possible. And oh, was she so beautiful.

She turned her head, her lashes briefly sweeping her cheeks until her vibrant green eyes locked with his. Another heart-stopping smile greeted him, and he couldn't resist the urge to smile back; especially as she crawled up his body, her hips swaying a little hypnotically.

She was almost nose to nose with him, their breaths mingling with one another, "I think we should probably get back to our... apologies. Don't you?" Merit purred.

"Hmm." Khonshu hummed, his eyes searching hers; finding warmth, love, and a rather heady need.

"Khonshu..." She whispered, leaning in.

Her lips were sweet--tasting of the finest wines and fruits.

"Khonshu."

"Khonshu!"

The ancient god jolted, his head snapping to the side to look at Marc Spector; his brown eyes irritated and his dark brows furrowed slightly, thick arms crossed over his chest.

"What?" Khonshu sneered, his fist tightening around the thickest part of his staff.

"We're done." Marc replied, jerking his head towards the street below.

Khonshu looked down, spotting the men he'd dispatched Marc to hunt tied to a light pole, bloodied but alive. He'd much rather they'd be dead... But as long as his will was done and Marc didn't complain as often as he used to, Khonshu supposed it was a... negligible trade-off.

"Yes, yes... Fine." He waved his hand, his mind shaking off the nostalgia of his heated, passionate affair with Merit. He hadn't allowed those memories of her to affect him like this--let alone in front of others--in a very, very long time. He was beginning to grow ornery.

"We are done. Tonight." Khonshu grumbled, turning away from him just as Layla dropped down onto the roof next to him.

Layla put her hands on her hips, frowning as Khonshu vanished in front of them, "Gods, what's been up his ass, lately?"

"I dunno, but he's... Have you noticed he's been a bit..." Marc wiggled his hand slightly.

"Spacey? Still grouchy, yeah..." Layla huffed as she looked towards Taweret, who manifested herself and seemed to be staring off where Khonshu had disappeared; her large hands wringing themselves as she licked her lips nervously.

"Taweret?" Layla asked her, her defensive posture softening--Marc's, too--in the presence of the sweet goddess.

She didn't seem to hear her.

"Taweret..?" Marc pressed, his brows rising in concern.

The hippo-woman jumped, her ears flopping and wiggling as she looked down at them. If she could blush, she surely would have. "Oh! Um, yes?"

"Are you... okay?" Marc asked, his heart skipping a beat. Taweret could be a little silly and spacey, yes. But she seemed... riddled with anxiety for a moment, and it worried him.

"Oh! Oh, yes... I'm simply... wondering, is all." She replied, sighing with a shake of her head.

"Wondering? About what?" Layla inquired, blinking.

"About... him." Taweret answered, gesturing to the empty air where Khonshu had once been standing moments prior. "He seems rather out of it, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah. Still an irritable bastard, though." Marc snorted, crossing his arms again.

"Yes... Yes..." Taweret replied, shaking her head. "I suppose the old bird might be wondering if he can convince the Ennead to let him back in? After all, now that my Avatar," She gestured proudly to Layla, whom in turn smiled bashfully. "And you have proven, that we gods can interact at a closer margin while being a tad "garish" as Osiris put it, perhaps he is wondering if he can use it as a bargaining point to convince them?"

"Or manipulate them," Layla frowned in turn, "We still don't trust him, Taweret. He's not exactly nice--he's an ass."

Taweret sighed, her shoulders slumping as she turned to look out upon the city, the twinkling lights, the bustling of people, cars honking...

She frowned sadly, "Yes, he's... not exactly a lively individual to be around, anymore."

"Anymore?" Marc sputtered, "I find it hard to believe Khonshu hasn't always been a dusty bag of bones with a penchant of lying and being an asshole."

Taweret's hands clasped one another, "Yes, as hard as it is to imagine, Khonshu hasn't always been... this. You could easily ask Hathor, to be honest. She was his closest friend, at one time. A long time ago."

"What changed?"

"..." Taweret turned away slightly, her warm brown eyes downcast and sad. "...I'm sorry, loves. You'll have to understand, you see... it's... it's a rather big deal with the Ennead. All I can say is that it has something to do with Khonshu's exile... And how he nearly revealed our presence to all of humanity."

"Top-secret God stuff... right." Marc yawned, stretching his arms out above his head.

Taweret smiled fondly at them as Layla brushed a stray curl back against Marc's scalp, "You two should get some rest. There will be plenty of evil to fight another day. For my sakes, eat a good meal and get some sleep!"

Marc and Layla laughed as Taweret vanished, walking hand-in-hand back to their flat. Home. Where likely Steven will take over and fuss over the lack of food both he and Layla hadn't taken in.

They were just happy that Khonshu wasn't hanging over them like a depressing cloak of dread as often as he used to. They could be happy--Marc, Steven, Layla... And Jake.

They had each other, and they had their happiness and love.

Who needed that old bag of bones with a depressive aura, anyway?

And in any case, Layla refused to believe Khonshu had been anything but what he was now:

A ruthless, calculating manipulator.

How could anyone stand to be around him, if they weren't his previous Fists, anyway?

Chapter 18: Not sure once again! Mom and little brother got into a car accident so we're trying to deal with that!

[elvisabutler]

a love supreme seems far removed

summary: it appears old wounds between you and professor presley die hard after one particularly pleasurable but exhausting incident. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: professor! elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x student! female reader ( nicknamed belle ) word count: 2462 warnings: big daddy elvis. elvis using a walking stick/cane. implied praise kink. student and professor relationship ( everyone is of legal age ). use of the derogatory name jezebel,in a negative way toward oneself. caning in a sexual way/sexual punishment way. negative self talk. dom/sub dynamics though not explicitly stated. near use of a safe word. sub drop. mild daddy kink? it's there, belle calls him that once or twice and elvis refers to himself as big daddy once. abandonment issues. author’s note: so this was sort of an accidental fic. once upon a time an anon came into my inbox and mentioned liking my fic about belle and professor presley with belle experiencing sub drop. i had never written that but between my right hand woman for belle and elvis @butlersxbirdy ( seriously, y'all she is the reason this entire series exists ) and my baby girl @stylespresleyhearted going "OKAY BUT CAN YOU DO IT THO I WANT IT." this fic was born. special thanks as always to my discord wives, christi and marina and for kicks also bee who i made love big daddy with these two. as always i love the love this fic series gets and truly i live for comments and questions regarding it or any of my serieses/fics. hell, the reason this series is a series is because y'all keep requesting more stuff from it. pay no mind to the moodboard as far as physicality goes or ethnicity, i just basically fell in love with her face because of daisy jones and she's got the right vibe.

It's funny, you think, how once upon a time the things you do with Elvis were things you shied away from with your other- partners if you could even call them that. There's something to be said about the sheer ease at which Elvis puts you in to make you agree to anything. You figure it's because you know he'll always take care of you. You figure it's because of how he'll stop if you cry out in more than just a pleasurable pain. No, he'll make sure you're alright, make sure his precious Belle, his angel sent from God himself is alright.

Smack.

A low keen leaves your mouth at the sting of his cane against your ass, hitting a spot still a bit tender from a week ago. Elvis had asked if you were alright with this, asked if you were ready to take this on this soon and it had been an easy question to answer. Of course you were alright because you had been the one to ask for it again. It's not that you needed it- craved it every second of the day but you knew very well you had nearly gotten yourself and him in some very hot water. It deserved more than his words of admonishment murmured against your neck and your hair. It deserved the caning that he rarely brings out but that you know tends to set you straight. Tends to keep you in line in a way you'll both never admit or question beyond these moments when he uses it. Your hand starts to move toward your ass, wanting to rub the spot that's sore before—

"Hands on the bed. Ya know better. Keep 'em where they're 'posed t'be," Elvis commands as your hands settle back against the bed. Back to where they ought to be because Elvis- Big Daddy- Professor Presley told you to keep them there.

"Elvis—" you start before another smack of the cane has your ass jiggling and has him chuckling a little as his ringed hand palms the area. You hiss.

"Ya asked for this, 'member? Told me ya needed the lesson, hm? Needed t'be 'minded that ya need t'be good, right? Keep that tongue o'yours in check. Doin' so good, Y/N. Doin' so good. What number we on?"

Your mind, fuzzy as it's becoming can focus on the number, can focus on something, settle on something that allows you to not float completely away. The grounding element of everything that keeps you tied to the Earth, tied to him and your life together. Your mouth opens and one single word falls out, "Three."

"Outta five, that's right, Belle. But ya haven't been countin' 'em out loud, have ya? Been tryin' to keep me from hearin' ya? Hearin' what my cane does to ya?" Elvis allows himself to lean against you, to press his stomach against your burning backside, his own warmth both a balm and an irritant against it. His chest hair scratches at your skin and earns a light whine as some rubs just the wrong way, the friction unwanted for now.

"Yes," you whine, arching your back as if to tease when really you only want to chase after the feel of the cane, of his body against yours in order to float and to feel safe. At your arch, he moves off of you and brings down his cane once more, this time closer to your vagina, in that dip where your thighs and butt meet. The part where his hands would grip and squeeze and slap when you rode his cock or his thighs. The number slides through your brain and into your mouth. "Four!"

You hadn't meant to shout the number but the sting overwhelmed you, the sting almost had you telling Elvis to stop, that this was too much too soon after the last week. It stopped though, the urge to tell him to set down his cane and pull you into his arms stopped. Still, even with your lack of asking, there's a pause with Elvis, a pause that has him leaning against you once more, his hand automatically starting to palm your ass. "Y'alight?"

He expects an honest answer out of you as you expect honest answers out of him when he wants to pretend his body isn't betraying him and hurting him. The bright side of when you do things like this, when you trust him to remind you to be a good girl- a good woman- you'll always tell him the truth.

A nod is what you manage before your body slumps forward just a little, the effort of holding yourself up on your hands against the bed becoming just a bit too much to handle. Elvis ought to stop right there and he knows it, can see an exhaustion settling into your body but a promise is a promise and he allows himself one final smack of the cane, lighter than all the others at the most fleshy and least bruised part of your behind.

"Five," you murmur against the sheets of the bed, your eyes a little glassy as he moves the cane to the side and tries to pull you up to a standing position. He manges it just barely but you lean against his chest, hand snaking up his chest to run your fingers through his chest hair. "Shower?"

You think it's you who asked for a shower but you're not sure, not sure with how your clit throbs and aches as it always does when Elvis does this to you, whenever you do something similar to this. Whenever he disciplines you like you deserve to be, because a simple talking to wouldn't have done, your body needed to know what was at stake. Whoever asked didn't matter as Elvis helped you walk to the bathroom anyway, his hands moving between your legs, playing with your clit, sliding his fingers between your folds gently as you rested your body against his own. It doesn't take long to finish the shower, doesn't take long for Elvis to wrap you in a towel and dry you off, only detaching himself to grab pajamas for both of you. You hadn't been this way last week but it had been earlier in the night, perhaps you were just tired from the day.

The bed sheets and Elvis provide a warmth that finally drags you into the land of sleep willingly and gladly.

It's cold.

It shouldn't be cold, you think. Elvis runs as hot as a furnace and usually makes you so hot that you have to slip from under the covers in the middle of the night. Your eyes blink to try and adjust to your surroundings and you realize it is the middle of the night. Why is it cold in the middle of the night?

Your heart lurches in your chest, moving upward to your throat as your hand moves to Elvis's side of the bed only to feel cool emptiness beside you.

Elvis isn't there. Elvis isn't beside you. You are alone in your shared bed. Was it shared any more? Was this his way of telling you to leave? After everything? Had you finally made him realize you made a mistake?

There's a sliver of your brain, of your mind that knows the thoughts that are swarming your mind are silly and yet you can't listen to that sliver. It's wrong. Elvis isn't here with you. Why hadn't he fucked you to sleep? Why hadn't you woken up with his soft cock inside of you? Had Daddy- Had Elvis taken care of you after he hit you? Where was he? Why wasn't— Why wasn't he here? He left you. He's leaving you. He's going to kick you out when the first rays of sunlight enter through the curtains.

You don't know when you start to sob, don't know when your body starts to shake, the overwhelming lack of warmth settling into your bones, don't know when your stomach threatens to empty onto the bed. All you know is that they happen all at once. All you know is that you've done something to make Elvis abandon you.

Maybe, maybe he was still in the house, maybe you didn't disgust him so much he had to leave the entire house. If you called for him maybe he'd come. Maybe you could find out— maybe you could convince him that it was fine. You were still worthy of his love.

The wail that leaves you would embarrass you in any other context. It would mortify you if your brain could process what was happening.

He hadn't quite registered that the noise he heard was you. Hadn't quite registered that the wail he heard was you. Graceland occasionally made noises that didn't make a whole lot of sense and that hadn't changed in the entire time you've been with him. It's only when he gets closer to your shared room that he hears your wail, your moan of unmitigated distress and anguish and knows it's you. He moves as fast as his body will let him and practically slams open the door, ready to use old karate moves and the gun he's got hidden in his dresser to defend you only to realize there's no one in the room but you.

There's no one in here who could hurt you and yet you're clutching at your stomach, curled in on yourself, looking as if you want to vomit all over everything. When you look up at him he sees your glassy eyes staring back at him, unshed tears in them to go with the ones streaming down your face. He opens his mouth to ask you what's wrong only to hear your whimpers and whispers to yourself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry D- Elvis. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It practically sounds like a mantra, a chant you'd only a monk say. It sounds wrong coming from your lips. What did you have to be sorry for? What would make you act this way? In what feels like a flash he moves to sit next to you on the bed and starts to touch you.

For once you shy away from his touch and Elvis's heart falls through his body to the ground. You never do that, even when the two of you hadn't worked through the dumbest set of issues known to man you had never shied away from his touch. Normally you would sink into it, but— what had he done to you. Had earlier been too much? Had he broken something inside you in a way he hadn't before?

"Y/N? Belle? What—" He doesn't get the question out before you whimper.

"You were gonna leave me like I did to you. I— I was alone. You hate— you don't love me anymore. Don't want to be with— you realized what everyone else does."

Tour Guide. Used. Whore. Bel— Jezebel. Not worthy of being with him or anyone else. But especially not him. Not worthy to spend the rest of your life waking up with him. Not worthy to have children with him.

Your hands tighten around your middle even more, as if that's the part of you that needs shielding the most. As if that will make the nausea you feel go away. As if it'll keep your stomach from revolting even as you feel Elvis's hand on your shoulder, tight as it was the first day he met you.

"My— Y/N. My angel from heaven. My Belle. No—" He pulls you into a hug despite your protests and your shaking head. "I couldn't sleep. I was downstairs. You—Belle. I— After everything, I would never do that to you. I could never hate you."

"You did," you whimper, your shoulders shaking even as you feel some form of warmth from him sinking through your pajamas and into your soul. "You did. You— I left you and I deserve— I don't— I made you hate me. You're gonna—"

Elvis shushes you, forcing your body against his, forcing your chest to rub against his, his chest hair brushing against the faintest bit of skin your pajamas show. "No. You're my good girl, Belle. Always have been even when I was so angry with you. I'm here. Your Big Daddy's here." He uses the nickname you had let slip that one time so long ago, knowing he finds it funny. It's supposed to put you at ease and he feels a tension in your shoulders lessen at it.

"For— You won't make me leave?" That's the question you ask, not does he still love you, because the two go hand in hand in your mind. For him to love you, he can't abandon you.

His answer should be silly, it should make you roll your eyes but something deep inside you finally uncurls when you hear him sing one of his own song lyrics acapella. "A team of wild horses couldn't tear us apart."

A sob, stronger than the rest wrenches itself from your throat, finally earning a proper release as he holds you even tighter through the tears, his hands petting your hair, murmuring soft words of comfort. You know the position has to be uncomfortable for him but he doesn't complain, too focused on making sure you're alright. Your tears and shivers finally settle into something manageable after what feels like hours and Elvis moves to lay you down on the bed, his hand still rubbing on your chest, right where your heart is. A whimper escapes your lips in fear only for him to shake his head.

"Let me get on my side of the bed. Then ya can curl up to me," he says and to show you how serious he is, he manages to clamber on top of the bed from the bottom, his hands never leaving your body, the warmth from his touch— his always burning hands allowing embers of warmth to blossom slowly but surely inside of you.

The second he's under the covers, you move to lay on top of him. He can't abandon you, can't leave you without warning if he has to move you from atop his body. Your hands haven't left your stomach as it still continues to roil and twist inside you, the nausea refusing to abate. Elvis looks at you and follows where your hands are before placing the hand that rubbing against your chest onto your stomach. For some strange reason it calms your stomach, allows for your body to settle down, and allows for you to lock your arms around Elvis's middle.

"Stay," you whisper, placing a kiss against his skin.

"Wouldn't dream of doin' anything but."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted y'all know the drill with the taglist by now.