#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

[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

[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.

[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

<< Prev ||| Next >>

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: Mentions of attempted sexual assault, death, child death, certain amounts of grief, mentions of incestual marriages (It's ancient Egypt, y'all c'mon) canon divergence/merging

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Hah! Betcha I had y'all convinced it was Khonshu creeping through the window, didn't I? :D But also yeah, there's gonna be some inaccuracies here and there while I merge the show and comics (hello, it's fanfiction, duh) Also we get more backstory on Jezebel! Also idk why but this chapter feels off to me, maybe I'll be able to comprehend better (and possibly make edits) once I've had some sleep!

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Chapter 5:

Pomegranates

"And you're positive it's her?"

Jezebel gripped at the inside of her wrist, knuckles white. She swore she could feel the scales burning her palm.

"I know it's her. It has to be." She affirms.

Zephyr croaked from his perch nearby at the man who stood in a darkened corner of the room.

His hands clasped behind his back, his stark white suit stood out from the rest of him (save for the bots of golden button-up that peaked from beneath his collar). A cleanly shaven head, tanned skin and dark, piercing eyes fixing Jezebel with an intense glare from behind his glasses.

"Jezebel, there is no such thing, really, as knowing, and at the same time thinking something has to be what you want it to be."

"Yehya..." She hissed through her teeth, pressing her fingertips to her temple.

"I don't... I can't explain it to you. You don't understand. I know it's her. I don't know how I do, but... I just do. Trust me, okay?" She looked up at him, her brows softly pinched in a plea.

"I would never do anything to cause Him harm. If I ever did I would sooner kill myself. This could... This could lift Him up, Yehya..." She said to him.

"If it wasn't for your intervention, as well as Khonshu's... I would be dead like almost all of Ammit's blind followers. I would rather my heart serve the Moon, than serve the Soul-Eater."

"Well, Jake Lockley saw to that loose end being tied." Yehya Badr sighed, his posture slumping somewhat as he paced.

He looked at the small golden idol depicting Khonshu, the moon disc proudly displayed upon his head, and his gaze softened.

"Yes, He seems rather keen on utilizing Jake, lately. Whether or not Marc knows about him I cannot say, yet. I must admit, I missed Khonshu's voice whilst he was away, dealing with Spector's insistence on letting his alter, Steven Grant live a "normal" life..." His fingers brushed the base of the statue.

"I just wish he came to me for help. One Fist isn't enough to defend the world."

"It is a war on more than one front. Two Fists means He has more than one weapon to defend the innocent in different places." Jezebel said, sipping her spicy tea.

"Perhaps Khonshu kept you here to carry out his will in his absence? He trusts you enough, believes in your abilities enough that he doesn't need to hang over your shoulders like he does with that Spector fellow and his... brothers."

"Maybe you're right." Yehya said, tilting his head as her turned to look at her again.

"But we're getting off track." He moved to sit in the chair across from her, gingerly holding the teacup in his large hand as he sipped silently.

"You've seen her?" Jezebel asked, quirking a brow.

"Yes. And frankly, she looks like death. She looks like she isn't sleeping, or eating. I'm honestly curious as to when was the last time she saw a doctor."

"There's a reason for that." Jezebel set her cup on the small plate with a clink.

"And that is..." He asked, raising an eyebrow in return.

"She came to me almost a week ago, now. She's been having what she assumed were dreams, but from the little context she's been able to disclose they sound like... visions."

"And these dreams only happened after..."

"She's had them her whole life. They've gotten more intense, more disturbing to her after I gave her the statue and told her to pray to Khonshu for protection."

She reached out to the crystal ball in the middle of the table and waved her hand over it. Briefly, an image of the moon swirled in its depths, before vanishing.

She showed him the conversation she'd had with you, the things you said happened, what you dreamt and what happened to the man who tried to rape you.

Yehya's brow furrowed deeply as he listened, absorbing every detail before the images in the crystal vanished.

"...That does sound concerning. You... Do you think Khonshu himself saved her? Directly?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Jezebel sighed. "She can't ascertain any details of her dreams for me to build more, and well... Given that it has been so long, perhaps she has access to magic, like I do. It can explain some of the things she dreams, her "feeling" as she describes it... Things change, though that body isn't the original, who is to say she doesn't have a gift for magic in this life?"

"You're a mystic. A priestess. This woman... She cleans offices." He said skeptically, leaning back in the chair.

"Merit was simply the cousin of a wealthy man." Jezebel said, her gaze narrowing sharply. "She was a scholar, a scribe. That isn't much higher than a cleaner, these days."

"...A scribe with the ear and arm of a god." He murmured.

He met her gaze with his own.

"But you don't know for certain."

"It... It might not be Merit. It could be someone else, but I just..." Jezebel ran a hand through her hair.

"I feel it, Yehya. Inside me. I feel a connection to her, and it's one I haven't felt since..."

Yehya reached out and touched her hand in a comforting gesture, knowing the subject was a tense one for her.

"I know." He said. Then, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes with a sigh that he exhaled slowly.

"I will investigate, watch this woman from afar. I will see if there is any truth to your suspicions. And if there is, I must watch her, ensure she is kept safe so history does not repeat itself."

"...Maybe she can tell us who killed her." She whispered softly.

Yehya's head snapped to look at her. "Whoever it was is most likely long dead."

"But if they aren't... Justice might finally be dealt. He can finally have closure to the mystery." She insisted, tapping the table with her fingers.

"Perhaps." He conceded.

Yet again, Jezebel astounded him.

"Has Khonshu mentioned any changes with Merit's tomb?" She asked him. "Has anybody found it?"

"No, it is tucked so far away within the desert and hidden with magic. The previous Fists did well to conceal her tomb and keep her safe. Khonshu would certainly have mentioned if interlopers had raided the place."

"Good. Maybe one day..."

Yehya made a dry chuckle.

"If this woman is Merit. Maybe. But who wants to visit their own grave?"

"You'd be surprised, Yehya." Jezebel smiled, sipping her tea.

"Graveyards are often haunted. By the living and the dead. Some by choice."

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

You pulled at the hem of your apron beneath the table, nerves frayed and body exhausted.

When was the last time you ate? You ate this morning, right? You were sure of it.

You had honey and bread, with some dates.

Or... did you? Was that another dream, too?

But, wait...

You hadn't slept. At all. You were so sleep deprived that the line between the waking and sleeping world were blurred so well that you were jumpy, seeing things even when you were awake.

You would be walking down the street and all of a sudden you'd be on a cliff, overlooking some kind of town, or a city, the stars and moon shining high above you. You stopped yourself before you fell over the edge, or a large hand on your shoulder jerked you back.

Yeah, when you snapped out of it you saw you had almost been hit by a car and a cyclist pulled you back to safety before you got turned into street pizza.

You were dreaming even when you were awake, it seemed.

Right now, a horrid pit was in your stomach, your nerves tangled and twisted violently together. You had been up for nearly three days. You knew that legally you were insane once you'd gone past the 72 hour marker. But you were just so afraid to sleep because of your dreams that you just... You couldn't. You couldn't stand it.

And here you were, in your boss's office. Not just the guy in charge of the cleaners, but the whole building itself.

It was currently 9:27 am, your old, beat up watch told you.

You raised your eyes to look at your reflection in the small mirror on his desk, and squeezed your eyes shut.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

The incense filled the air, the smell coming in off the Nile and the blooms around it being carried on the wind, straight into your house.

You hummed as you looked into your golden mirror, applying with great care and practice your kohl eyeliner, applying your wings; being careful not to poke yourself with the stick. Then, you begin drawing out your eyebrows, the end slope following the curve of your wings.

You take a moment to admire yourself, smiling proudly at the turquoise coloring you'd applied on your eyes, and how well it complimented your looks, highlighting the blackness of your liner, and stood out starkly against your darkened skin.

Setting the kohl stick down, you grab the reed with the red ochre attached and begin to daintily apply it to your lips, giving yourself a nice red tint.

Once finished with that, you placed your used tools on your makeup pallet.

When you were finished applying your makeup, you set down your mirror and reached out to your cosmetics box, and grabbed a small ivory pot and opened it and dipped your fingers in the scented oil, dabbing it on your wrists and throat, rubbing it into your skin in gentle circles, the spice and sweetness mixing together into an intoxicating scent.

You run your hand over your shaved scalp, feeling the fuzzy beginnings of new hair growth start to form. You frowned.

Ugh, you'd have to shave it again when it got too long. You did not want to risk getting infested with lice.

You would cross that road when you came to it.

You stand, and go over to the chest at the foot of your bed, trying to decide on what to wear, as you were still only clad in your small trappings that only covered your nethers.

It was rather hot today, the heat already stifling in the early morning.

So, you decided on your beaded dress. A garment that left little to the imagination, yes, but given the summer heat many opted for the most breezy and comfortable clothing available in their wardrobes, the richer ladies opting for beads to accentuate their beauty.

You grab the garment and slide it over yourself, beads tinkling as you do so. The upper edge lay on your ribs below your breasts, the straps coming up and over your shoulders to cover your breasts (barely, given the style of beading).

Once clothed, you walk back over to your vanity and grab the golden and beaded neck collar your father gifted to you a week before he died. It was your favorite piece, depicting the face of your mother, who, passed away not long after your younger brother, whom had drowned when playing in the Nile. His body had gotten swept away in the currents and it was a full day before they fished him from the waters.

Your mother mourned painfully, loudly... Her cries, you felt, could still be heard even in your dreams as a girl...

Your father told you the pain of losing him was simply too much, and the Gods decided they couldn't keep her separated from her younger child any longer; that her prayers and desperate cries for her son broke the very heart of Anubis himself, so they showed mercy and claimed her early so she could reunite with your brother and ease her suffering.

After your father's death, the golden collar had been modified at your request, showing a depiction of both your father and brother as well, happily holding onto one another in Sekhet-Aaru.

The only members left of your family were you and your cousin, whom your father once tried to marry you off to. You declined, and surprisingly your father accepted. Mostly because your cousin had already expressed an interest in the daughter from another noble family, one closely related to the royal line. Your cousin graciously allowed you to live with her and his new family, mostly because you and his wife had become steadfast and loyal friends, especially after you helped her through the birth of their daughter. Your cousin exalted her birth and graciously left lavish offerings to Taweret and Hathor as thanks for their protection during the pregnancy and birth.

You sighed wistfully at the thought of family. Your parents would never see you wed, or have children of your own. Your father passed away three seasons ago, leaving you the last of his line.

The collar had always allowed you to feel their embrace, even if it was only by the cold of the soft metal and beadwork.

You sigh once more at the sentiment and go to put in your heavy turquoise earrings (to match your makeup and the beads on your dress). Then it was the ivory bracelets on your wrist, and the simple silver anklet that hung over your foot, the cold material soothing you.

It had been a recent gift from your lover. It pleasantly surprised you, you honestly hadn't expected him to be one for gifts such as these.

Inside the anklet were carvings depicting a poem of sorts dedicated to you.

"To my love,

Without you I would have no sky.

There would be no inky black to hang the stars,

The jewels of the night.

Or for the Moon to rest and shine down upon you."

You giggled as you reached for your crimped wig, sliding it comfortably into place before applying the gold and silver chains you hung as a sort of extra ornamentation. After that, you reached for your linen shawl and draped it over your shoulders, tucking it in so it concealed yourself just a bit more conservatively than your dress on its own did.

Afterwards you slipped on your most comfortable sandals and grabbed your basket, as well as whatever items you would need to trade for things you'd need or like. Sure, you could have the servants do the shopping, but then you'd never get out of the house, save for when your lover whisked you away into the night.

You wanted to feel the sun on your skin, as blistering as it was, feel the breeze on your face; feel the atmosphere of a bustling market.

You pause to look at the altar across from your bed, where the incense burned and your offerings lay.

You wondered if you should shed these clothes once you got back from the market, or from the Palace this evening.

You certainly had an excuse, it was hot, after all.

He would come tonight, your lover. And already you knew what the night would entail once the two of you embraced.

Before you leave your room, you lean over and kiss the statue on the altar, smiling happily.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

You jerk your head up with a start and blink when you see your boss sitting in front of you, looking concerned.

You glanced down to your watch.

9:32 AM.

It felt like hours you had been in that dream. Maybe less, but it sure felt like a while. But it had only been a few minutes. Did you nod off when you weren't paying attention..?

He repeated your name again, and you cleared your throat.

"Y-yes sir?" You asked meekly.

"I've received several concerns from your coworkers about you." He sighed, opening the file and flicking through the papers.

"You've been a loyal employee, you've almost never missed a day since you were hired..." He continued to list off the hood things you'd done since coming to work, there.

However that icy, nagging feeling in your gut wouldn't go away.

"But the concerns are regarding your well-being. At first I paid them no mind, until I saw you with my own eyes." His bushy brows furrowed deeply, a frown crinkling his salt-and-pepper beard.

"Alec is a good friend of mine, and he as well told me how you've been feeling. He also told me recently about a man who has been spotted in the vicinity, watching you through the windows."

"Th-that was one time..." You peep.

"Well, given everything that's happened to you, kid... I'd rather not risk it." He scribbled something down in one of the binders on his desk, before hastily typing on his computer.

"As of this second, you're on your PTO."

You felt your mental train derail as you blinked dumbly at him.

"But--"

"No buts, missy. You're obviously not well, and I can't have you passing out on the job or falling down stairs. That's dangerous to your health and my company's reputation. You've racked up enough time to..." He blinked outrageously.

"...You've worked long enough that you could take a few months off work. For now, I'm giving you just two. You need to see a doctor, and get help."

He locked his gray eyes with yours.

"I think you got narcolepsy, kid. I had an aunt who had it when I was a kid. It's not good, that's what got her killed. Passed out at the wheel and got into a wreck."

He stood up from his chair, walked over to you, and rested his hand on your shoulder, fixing you with a gaze most would save for their child or grandchild.

"Trust me, kid. You're one of the best cleaners I've ever hired. Probably the smartest, though Alec tries, bless his soul. The man has admitted he's never been the sharpest tack in the box..." He chuckled a bit. "I'd hate to lose you to your health, of all things. It'd be easier to handle if you were poached out by some other company."

Your jaw hung, opening and closing but you couldn't think of words to say.

"Go on, kid. I have a meeting to get to. Go home, eat something, and take a nap."

As you were gently ushered out of his office, you were left in the quiet ambience of the sterile hallway, the buzzing of the lights above droning endlessly into your ears.

Great.

Just great.

What the hell were you supposed to do for two months?

Maybe... you could conduct some more research. Learn more about Egypt, keep writing your dreams down, and go see Jezebel again...

But first things first... You had to figure out why your hands wouldn't stop tingling.

That would have to wait. At this point you didn't care if you didn't get well-rested.

You needed sleep.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Chapter 6: Link

[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.

[rosemaidenvixen]

Witch Hunter

Chapter 25

<Previous

Ao3

Claire watched the dirt boil and seethe as her vines dragged Temperance down to her living grave. Frightened gaze vanishing beneath the earth, fingers scrabbling on the surface until they too were pulled down. The dirt shifted and churned a few moments more before going still, not a trace of Temperance remaining.

She thought she’d feel some sense of satisfaction at this, some finality. Instead the searing rage shooting through her sank deeper, smoldering low and dangerous.

“Satan’s harlot!”

She scowled, rage surging back in full force, as she turned towards her other prisoner.

Hopkins squirmed against the ground. Held in place by her vines. Hair all askew and face red, practically spitting with rage.

“Foul jezebel! You bring rot and ruin to god’s creation–”

Claire narrowed her eyes and tightened her fist. Her vines tightening around Hopkins’ leg, cutting off his protests with a pained grunt. The vines wound tighter and tighter until a loud crack echoed through the air as his shinbone snapped. Hopkins letting out an ugly shriek.

“Shut up,” she spat, stomping towards him “This town’s always been a backwards, narrow minded little hovel, but you were the one who spurned them on, that convinced them a witch was the cause of all their troubles,”

She threw an open hand in his direction. The vines around his other leg tightened instantly, going tighter and tighter until both his legs were ensnared. There was a loud snap as his other shinbone snapped but Claire didn’t relent, tightening her vines further and further, pulverizing already broken bone and shredding flesh, blood welling up around the thorns. 

“Lying whore,” Hopkins spat through gritted teeth “Puppet of the prince of darkness–”

She threw both her hands forward and squeezed, heat in her belly smoldering, more vines shooting up to ensnare Hopkins’ arms.

“I wasn’t a witch until after you put me on the wheel,” Claire spat “Did that even matter to you? Or were you too caught in being Arcadia’s savior?”

“I have been ordained this mission by god,” Hopkins managed to speak, voice tight with pain “Even if you kill me I was be most high–”

She tightened both hands and twisted, her vines shattering both of his arms at once. His tirade cutting off into a guttural scream.

“You break my bones,” she tightened her fists further, the vines constricting even tighter, grinding the already broken bones to powder, blood staining his sleeves and trousers “I break yours.”

A giggle came up from beside her, Claire glancing over to see the witch sitting on a barrel beside the meetinghouse. The fire around her surged, spreading closer, the witch gracefully leaping down in a flutter of gold silk and copper hair just before the flames could touch her.

“Excellent work so far,” she crooned “And I hate to interrupt your grand finale, but there is someone you missed…”

Claire followed the witch’s gaze only to go still at the sight of the familiar figure staggering towards her.

Her heart stopped.

Pale, dark hair and blue eyes. Limping ever closer, uncaring of the vines and fire.

Her only friend in this god-forsaken town. The one who stabbed her in the back and left her to die.

For a second she was too stunned to react, numb shock filling her. Then searing bloody rage took its place. The vines responded in kind, shooting up and dragging Jim to the ground as Claire stomped towards him.

Jim made no move to get up from where he was crumpled on his knees, tearing at the bandages on his hand with his teeth. The fire in Claire’s chest burning even hotter.

How dare he. How dare he kneel before her in some show of subjugation, as if he had any right to beg for forgiveness after what he did to her. Jim had been the kindest, the best of them, the one person who hadn’t treated her like scum for praying with a rosary. Temperance and Hopkins and their ilk may have been rotten from the start but Jim had been her friend only to betray her in the worst way possible–

Her hands tightened into firsts, the vines constricting in kind.

That made him the worst of all.

She raised a hand, the vines curling further around Jim’s body, thorns cutting scarlet trails on his skin. Jim appeared not to notice, continuing to tear strip after strip of fabric off his hand.

Claire curled her fingers, the vines snapping tight around his throat, red dribbling down from beneath the thorns, struggling now, Jim nevertheless continued tearing at his wrapped hand with his teeth.  

Anger burned bright and hot within her. Curling her fingers and vines ever tighter, one good squeeze was all it would take to tear his throat open–

A flash of black tumbled to the ground from beneath the white fabric, Jim grasping it with fumbling hands and tossing it towards her.

Claire was so startled she lost her grip on the vines, faintly aware of Jim gasping in a deep breath, glancing down towards her feet to see–

A single plait of shiny black hair, glimmering in the glow of the firelight.

A cold, slippery something wriggled in past the all consuming anger.

Her mother’s hair.

“I…I’m sorry…”

She jerked her gaze back up towards Jim, staring up at her, face a mask of utter misery.

“I…I betrayed you in the worst way possible,” he said quietly “Saving this little piece of your mother doesn’t come close to redeeming it but it was something I could do…”

He hung his head, shaggy tangles of black hair hanging down in his face “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I don’t deserve forgiveness and I don’t ask for it, I only promise that I won’t try to escape my just punishment,”

“A sweet story…” the witch cooed “But pretty words don’t mend broken bones–” she glanced towards Claire, her smile turning vicious “Or broken hearts, go ahead and finish him sweetling,”

Claire didn’t move, she had no eyes for the single braid of her mother’s hair or Jim’s heartbroken face, too busy staring at his concovered hand. Each of his fingers was unnaturally bent, swollen to the point they didn’t even look real anymore, the thick bandages around his left hand told her it was in a similar state. Another bandage with a dark stain was wrapped around his leg.

Jim hadn’t been walking straight when he’d approached, what other wound was inflicted on his leg? How many more were concealed beneath his clothes–

Did you think Hopkins would be any gentler with him, show him mercy? Hopkins didn’t have a merciful bone in his body

Tears ran down his dirt smeared face, shining in the firelight.

It– it didn’t matter. What a little pain? What mattered was that Jim had forsaken her, betrayed her–

But for how long hadn’t he?

The thought was ice water crashing over her.

How long had he held fast while they’d broken his fingers, destroyed his hands, wounded his leg? How much pain did they have to put him through to make him force the words out?

His hands were as ruined as her arms and legs were, he’d never so much as hold a spoon again

More ice crept it, rapidly overtaking the smoldering fury.

S– so what if he’d broken during her interrogation? Later at her execution, he could have done something, said something–

Then they would have broken him along with her, maybe Barbara to, maybe even Enrique. Her fate had already been sealed by that point–

Did he owe it to her to die with her? Is that what friendship meant?

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, grit her teeth, and balled her hands into fists, vines snapping tight, Jim choking out a gasp.

Of course he did! He was the one who gave them her name in the first place! The least he could do to atone was suffer along with her, bear the same punishment as her, then he…then…

Then Hopkins and his hunters would have too tallies in their ledger instead of one

Her fingers loosened, vines doing the same. Ice and fire warring inside her. She was still angry, she was so so angry. The one person she’d allowed herself to trust had betrayed her and left her to die. She was furious with him–

But she didn’t want to hurt him either.

The witch made a tutting sound in the back of her throat “Darling I know you want to take your time, but I do have places to be, hurry up and finish them won’t you,”

Claire didn’t respond, slowly reaching down to pick up the plait, soft and silky against her scaly skin.

“No.”

The witch snapped her head around “What did you say?”

“No.” Claire gripped her mother’s hair in her clawed fingers “I won’t do it,”

The witch scowled “You’d really spare this wretch!?” she stabbed an accusing finger in Jim’s direction, his only response was to continue hanging his head in silence.

“He betrayed you! Sold you out to the witch hunters, make him pay with his life!”

“No!”

Fury twisted the witch’s features “Why you arrogant little wretch!” she stomped towards Claire “You owe me blood! His blood! And I’ll not be cheated just because you’ve decided to indulge in some misguided sense of merc–”

From out of nowhere the witch stumbled, staggering and struggling to remain upright

Glancing down, Claire saw one of the vines, her vines, twined around the witch’s ankle, bright red blood beading up from under the thorns.

Glancing around, Claire saw more of them, dark vines crawling towards her and the witch. She could still feel their warmth smoldering inside her, but when she tried to pull them back, push them away, nothing happened. Vines creeping ever closer. Strangely enough, despite being close to him the vines left Jim untouched.

The witch ripped her leg free with a scowl “I tire of this petty squabble,” she grabbed Claire by the shoulder, fingers digging in painfully tight “Kill the boy before I tear off your head!”

Claire blinked at the vines then slowly looked up at her “Ruination…that’s it isn’t it? You called down ruination to give me power, and now there must be ruin to pay. And if Jim doesn’t pay then we have to,”

The witch’s face darkened, telling Claire she’d struck the truth dead on “Kill him,” she hissed “Or I’ll tear his head off myself,”

“I don’t think so,” despite the hammering of her heart, vines already starting to wind around her ankles, Claire looked up and stared her straight in the eye “It has to be me, doesn’t it? If you could kill him and settle the debt yourself you would,”

The witch’s face was a mask of cold fury. Fingers digging so hard into Claire’s shoulder for a second she thought the bones might break all over again.

She opened her mouth, but before the witch could get a word out another voice spoke up

“Come now mother no need to lose our composure,”

Both of them turned to see the Englishman striding towards them, vines shifting and parting beneath his feet to allow him passage “Death is not the only road to ruination,” he held up a glass jar filled with black liquid “There are other, less traveled, paths, and even in ruination opportunity can be found,”

In an instant the witch released her grip on Claire’s shoulder to pluck the jar out of his hands, rage from moments ago replaced by an easy smile “My Strickler you always were a clever one,”

She turned and all but threw the jar at her, Claire catching it reflexively “Here, pour this on the boy. He will live on unharmed and your debt will be paid in full,”

Claire stared down at the jar, dark liquid sloshing within “What…what is this?”

“A potion of sorts,” the Englishman spoke up “Whomever it touches shall be as Cain. Shunned from the world of men, turned away with stone and spear, even the light of the sun will forsake them,”

Claire still didn’t move, staring at the dark liquid swirling within the jar. 

“And whatever you do choose be quick about it,” the witch said snippily “Or soon enough the choice will be made for you,”

A sharp sting in her calves had Claire glancing down. The vines were twined halfway up her legs now, even with her leathery skin she could feel the bite of the thorns. Lifting her gaze back up to stare at the swirling contents of the jar, her thoughts at war with themselves.

She didn’t want to die, she’d fought and clawed her way back from the maw of death and the last thing she wanted was to go back. But…to do this to Jim, it was almost worse than killing him. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t want to die– 

A sharp tug on the edge of her skirt had her whipping her gaze down. Jim held the edge of her tattered dress in one ruined hand, having crawled across the ground towards her. Staring up at her, eyes filled with pain.

“Do it Claire, any earthly punishment is better than the boiling pit of Hell I deserve, and I don’t want you to suffer any more because of me,”

Something heavy and hot and neither pleasant nor painful shot through her, swirling in her stomach and twisting in her chest. Then before she could stop herself she tore the lid off the jar and dumped the contents on his head.

Ink black liquid cascaded out of the jar, crashing over Jim’s head, soaking his hair and staining his shirt, dark rivulets trickling down his arms and chest.

Immediately the black vines sank back and pulled away from her feet, Claire sent a tug and she could feel them back under her control. 

Jim moaned, pitching to the side and collapsing in the dirt.

There was a part of her that itched to help him but Claire didn’t move. Watching as Jim groaned and writhed on the ground. 

A crack of bone, Jim’s arm jerking skyward, mangled fingers unnaturally curled, skin of his hand dark and bruised.

More cracks, more spasms of limbs. His arms, his legs, his neck. Jim twitching among the dirt and vines like a smashed insect. Moans of pain turning into howls of agony.

Then those howls became roars.

Fabric ripped and bone crackled as Jim’s limbs grew longer and thicker. Pale skin darkening to a deep indigo. His hair became coarser and thicker, spreading down to his exposed back. A beastly howl of pain and a pair of bones erupted from the top of his head.

Claire forced herself to look away, now empty jar tumbling to the ground. 

But in looking away from Jim her gaze landed on Hopkins. A low, throaty sound of pain escaping him as he spasmed on the ground, shattered limbs twitching.

His eyes found her.

“F– filth– filthy witch!” he hissed, foam flecking at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh next I suppose you’re going to want to spare him to,” the witch spoke in a clipped, impatient tone, stepping up to Claire’s side.

Claire stared down at Hopkins for a few moments longer, then turned towards her, meeting the witch’s cool gaze head on.

“All his arms and legs are broken, that counts as ruination right?”

The witch’s lips thinned “I suppose it does…”

Claire glanced back towards Hopkins, then back towards the witch.

“Your younger son, is he still hungry?”

The witch blinked in surprise before a wry smile broke out across her face “I think I may end up liking you after all. Oh Bular darling!”

Loud thudding reverberated through the ground as the dark, hulking figure of the troll king approached.

The witch smiled up at him “This little sweetling is all done here,” she pointed down at Hopkins “Do you want this one?”

A wide toothy grin split the troll king’s face. Hopkins’ eyes widened, gasping and jerking his ruined limbs in a futile attempt to crawl away.

The troll king strode forward, lifting up Hopkins by the shirt, broken bones crackling as his shattered, useless limbs dangled in the air.

“Wh–” Hopkins struggled to speak “Wai–”

The troll king reached forward and ripped off Hopkins’ arm, the scream he made so pained it barely sounded human. The troll king paid no mind, popping the limb in his mouth like a biscuit.

He reached for Hopkins’ other arm but Claire looked away, allowing the sounds of screams and snapping bone to fade into the background along with the roar of the fire and the steady hiss of vines. Turning back over to where Jim was.

Jim, undeniably changed but still utterly recognizable, sat on the ground, staring at his fingers in wonder. There were only nine of them now, skin deep blue and nails dark as charcoal, crisscrossed with rows upon rows of silvery scars. But whole and unbroken all the same.

He was taller, broader, his features more angular. His dark hair more a mane now, sharp tusks jutting up from his jaw and large ivory horns sweeping back out of his head.

So this was what the Englishman meant by ‘as Cain’. Jim was still himself, one look in his eyes assured her of that, but anyone who saw him would see only a beast. Any town he approached would drive him out on the end of muskets and pitchforks.

“As fun as this little detour was, we'd best be on our way,” the Englishman strode forward, sparing a glance down at Jim “Care to join us?”

Jim jerked his head up “What? But I’m…”

“Yes yes rejected from the world of men,” the Englishman waved him off “But we’re not the world of men now are we?”

“I…” Jim turned towards Claire, face twisting up with painful uncertainty.

She looked away “Do what you want. You betrayed me, I cursed you, as far as I’m concerned all debts between us are settled,”

“But…”

“Come now darling it isn’t as though there’s anything left for you here,” the witch gestured around them, the burning buildings and mangled corpses, every inch of ground overgrown with thorny black vines “Come now dears, this detour has been delightful but we have places to be, enemies to conspire against,”

She began striding away from the meeting house, back towards the forest, the troll king and the man in black keeping pace with her.

Jim stayed where he was kneeling on the ground, watching them retreat. For reasons she didn’t fully understand Claire stayed where she was, lingering.

Suddenly there was a yowl, a large shape bounding up to Jim and pressing into his side. 

Jim turned and stared at the beast, mouth dropping open, tusks on full display, and eyes going wide “Cinder….?”

The large cat let out a pur, licking his cheek.

For a few moments silence stretched between them, the only sounds Cinder’s purs and Arcadia continuing to burn.

“...where’s Enrique?” Claire said at last.

“The Williams were given custody, they went to the next town over to…beg for assistance from Goody Williams’ brother, my mother accompanied them, they departed just before…”

“Good,” Claire said curtly “The Williams are kind folk, they’ll take care of him, far better than any life I could give him now,”

Silence lapsed between them once again. A raven swooped down and perched on her shoulder, she made no move to wave it off.

“I truly don’t bear you any more grudge,” Claire said quietly, making Jim jerk in her direction.

“I…may not be able to call you my friend, not the way I did before, but…but you’re not my enemy,”

Jim looked stunned, appearing to struggle for words “What…what will you do now?” he said slowly.

“For now I’ll follow them, learn all I can about what it means to be a witch. Later. perhaps I’ll go to Spain and kill my uncle, perhaps not,” her voice lowered “But whatever comes…I wouldn’t mind a familiar presence, even one that’s not my friend,”

With that she turned and quickly began striding away, doing her best to cross the distance between her and the witch’s company. Cinder perked up and bounded after her, leaving Jim alone.

For a moment Jim stayed there kneeling on the ground, watching them retreat. Then he slowly turned towards the meetinghouse. The building was on the verge of collapse, more flame than timber now. The other buildings nearby fared no better. It wouldn’t be long until the entire town was ash. Mangled corpses lay scattered all about, illuminated by the firelight, all twined with the wicked thorny vines. 

The vines were everywhere, tangled around every corpse, spreading as far as the eye could see and wrapping around every building they touched. Consuming what little was left of Arcadia.

Then Jim looked down at his hand, with one fewer finger than the other.

He slumped forward and let out a heavy sigh. Then after a moment he braced his legs underneath him and stood. The motion was smooth, both limbs fully supporting his weight.

He cast a long, lingering glance towards the place that had been his home then turned away. Following in the path of the others, leading away from the fire into the depths of the dark night.

What is well documented is the disaster that occurred the evening following the witch's execution, an event now referred to as ‘The Witch's revenge'. There are numerous accounts with varying contradictions, but all agree that the town of Arcadia was burned to the ground, foodstores destroyed, all the livestock slaughtered, and many people were killed. And many more starved to death that winter. It is also believed that this event was the origin of the witch creepers (Sanguis malefica), a species of predatory vine, unique in that it is an obligate hematophage, which only lives in Arcadia. As this is the first known record of their existence.

*

--according to legend the witch was broken on the wheel and left hanging from a tree outside of town. That night when the devil came to aid her he cut off the arms and legs of a demon and gave them to her to replace her broken ones. However, determining fact from fiction is difficult due to the scant documentation of the witch's life and execution.

While most historians scoff at the idea of magic being at the heart of this disaster, the fact remains that before 1624 it was well documented that Arcadia was a thriving agricultural community. Then after ‘The Witch's revenge' and the appearance of the witch creepers it marked the end of Arcadia as a farming community, as the witch creepers outcompeted every single attempted crop and inhibited the grazing of livestock, and were highly resistant to all attempts to eradicate them. But while farming and agriculture were an impossibility, the town of Arcadia rebuilt itself around the legend of the witch and the study of Sanguis malefica into the thriving community we know today.

There is still much we don't know about the exact events that transpired four hundred years ago and may never know, but one thing we are certain of is that the legend of the Witch of Arcadia will live on for many years to come.

--Excerpt from the presentation by the Arcadia Oaks Historical Society from the Arcadia Oaks Quadricentennial Celebration

It was late into the night, but bright street lights kept the large banner hanging over the town hall well lit. Illuminating the words 'Four Hundred Years of the Witch' for all to see. Not that there were many left to gaze at it. The celebrations of the evening had largely died down, leaving only crumpled paper cups and stray fliers dotting the ground as evidence of the large crowd that had been there a few hours before. A small group of stragglers lingered, giggling and passing a bottle concealed in crinkling brown paper between themselves. Drunken mumblings of 'Season of the Witch' echoing through the near silent square.

Had they been a bit more sober, or perhaps glanced up, they would have spotted another figure hovering at the edge of the square. Quiet, unassuming, hood pulled low over her face and hands shoved into her pockets.

She glanced up at the trees. Strands of glowing orange lights hung from their branches, twined with the thorny black vines that grew on and around every tree in the square, the two firmly entangled. She had no doubt that there would be many cuts and injuries when it came time to remove the lights. 

Her gaze shifted to the other objects adorning the trees. There were countless of them, some made with clear artistry others with clumsy, childish hands. 

Crafted with wood, paper, and metal. Adorned with ribbons and paint, spikes and nails, thick lumps of glue covered in glitter. They ranged from the size of her hand to as wide across as her arm. No two were alike, but all shared one common trait.

They were wheels.

Hang a wheel on your door

Witch will trouble you no more

She stared up at them, swaying cruelly in the breeze. Many times when she gazed on these wheels it filled her with blinding range, but now she could only feel a numb emptiness.

Turning she made to leave only to be halted by a tugging on her coat. Glancing up, she saw a vine, one of the so-called 'witch creepers' stretching out from the tree towards her.

She made to lift her arm and then hesitated, glancing at the intoxicated group. There was a chance they were too tipsy to notice, that in their drunken haze they'd barely be aware of their surroundings. But what if they did notice, what if they saw, screamed, ran? Wailing about the horror they'd witnessed. Would she escape their notice or would the legend of the witch gain new teeth this night?

After a few more moments of introspection she found that she didn't truly care.

Pulling her arm free she held it out towards the vines, black scales glittering under the orange lights, curled talons mirroring the thorns on the vines. Something that would have looked far more at home on a lizard or a dragon than a human arm.

The vine wrapped around her hand, thorns respectfully curled inwards holding back their sharp points, winding around her fingers, palm, and forearm in a caress.

A twisted, hateful creation showing deference to its creator.

After a few moments the vine pulled away and she shoved her hand back into her coat. A glance to the side revealed that the drunken revelers hadn't noticed either the vine or her malformed limb. 

She glanced up at the banner again, giving it a long, lingering stare before turning away with a heavy sigh. Walking out of the brightly lit town square away into the shadowy streets.

[blitzsicedcoffee]

Chapter 5-Making An Adjustment

Once Blitz told Loona, Millie, and Moxxie about the news, everything went really fast. She didn't look concerned in the moment but late that night Blitz could tell Loona had been crying..

He made her confetti cake in a mug and she took it with a rare smile. But once her door closed, it made Blitz frown. He was so much younger when his mom was diagnosed. But it doesn't lessen the sting of knowing that the only person who cares for you is potentially dying.

That's not technically what Doctor Jezebel said. Apparently there are new medicines for the disease that were made since his mother passed, and Stolas chimed in saying they'd try anything he recommended. It was a lot of jabber and Blitz tuned most of it out. But Stolas took notes. He'll have to look at those later.

Stolas insisted that he and Loona move into the palace. He was reluctant at first but then was surprised when Loona was fully onboard.

"You really wanna live there? Like- we'd be living with them", it was already weird talking to her about his and Stolas's relationship. He didn't expect to have to talk to her about this so soon. But she just shrugged, "If you'll have access to better care then by all means", she said. So the money, he thought. She wants him to have better access to Stolas's wealth. He doesn't blame her, if he was in her spot that's what he'd be thinking for his Mama too.

-------------

Nethertheless whether Blitz was ready, within two weeks they moved in. Millie and Moxxie and Fizz all assisted with the move, and Stolas and Loona kept open portals to ease the transition from one place to another. Blitz was barred from carrying anything heavy, he was levitated away from any boxes by Stolas, so he decided to knock on Octavia's door. Since, well, he'd be living with her now.

"Come in", she says and he cracks it, giving a sympathetic smile, "Hey....Via", he says. She glances up at him and back down at her novel.

"Hi.", she replies. He awkwardly walks into the room and rubs the back of his neck.

"Watcha reading?", he asks. She shrugs, "Some vampire book". Blitz's mouth forms a line, "Cool. Hey can we just-get it out of the way now that it's awkward that I'm moving in? I mean- do you even like me?" He asks candidly and she sighs and puts down her book.

"Shouldn't you be helping move stuff?" She asks. He laughs, "Your dad won't let me".

She cracks a small smile, "He really cares about you".

Blitz rubs his arm which is starting to burn with every casual touch and he winces a little, "Yeah-for some reason I still can't understand".

Via notices him wince and hops off her bed, walking over and preening her head in the mirror.

"I'm sorry about your sickness", she says.

Blitz blinks, "Thank y-" she cuts him off, "But don't think for a second that if you stop making my dad happy, that I won't retaliate".

Blitz looks away and sighs, "..Yep, got it". He goes to leave when he spies her struggling with a feather in the back and walks over, "Lemme get it", she starts to protest when he glides a claw gently over the back and smoothes it over. She pulls her head away from him, "...Thanks". Blitz smiles, "Don't mention it", and leaves her room.

He walks back into the living room to watch everyone bring in boxes, and throw away trash. They'd thrown the old couch. They'd protected all his horse menagerie. And according to Stolas, Loona is already in her room decorating.

"Thanks for helping with all this Stolas", he mentions and Stolas smiles, "Of course. It was my suggestion after all". He closes the final portal for the move and puts a hand on Blitz's back. He winces, "Sorry...Stolas could you take your hand off my back?...Hurts", he mumbles and Stolas pulls his hand back, "Oh! So sorry love, of course". He already feels guilty that Stolas can't even touch him sometimes. If he can't go to work, he can't do things around the house, he can't make Stolas feel good, what can he do?

Fizz wipes the sweat off his brow then looks to Blitz, "I forgot about something!" He runs to the coat room and bring back an extendable cane, shiny and purple.

"It was mine when I was..recovering", he says sheepishly. Blitz blinks, "Why did you keep it all this time?" Fizz shrugs, "In case I needed it again. But I have plenty of them".

"You do? I've never seen you use one", Blitz mentions and Fizz chuckles, "Just cause you always see me at my best doesn't mean I don't need help sometimes. We all do. Nothing to be ashamed of", he says proudly and smiles towards Blitz who looks away shyly.

"Right-sure...", he tries the cane by putting it in his dominant hand and it does help steady him. He no longer feels like his feet will collapse under him at least.

"Thanks, Fizz. Really", he says and Fizz hugs him, albeit a little too tight. "Fizz", he winces, "Too tight". And his best friend quickly relinquishes him, "Hah, sorry. Don't be a stranger Blitz. Really".

Stolas opens a portal home for him and Blitz sighs, staring down at the cane.

"I think it makes you look dashing, sir", Moxxie says, walking over with Millie.

"Uh huh. Don't worry by the way we'll figure out IMP, i-" Blitz starts but Millie puts a finger to his mouth.

"B, we have savings. It's okay. Just focus on healing, Kay?" She says and he thinks, well, it's chronic so he doesn't know if he even CAN heal from this, but he nods in defeat anyway.

Stolas opens their portal and they leave, and Blitz leans on the cane, feeling drained.

"Blitz? You alright?" Stolas asks. Blitz nods, "Need sleep". Stolas scoops him up and brings him to the bedroom, laying him in bed and folding up the cane and putting it in his side table drawer. He floats over a cup of water to leave nearby and some crackers.

"Try to eat if you can, love. You didn't have dinner" Stolas mentions but Blitz's eyelids are almost closed.

"Sleep..." He mumbles and Stolas kisses his forehead and pulls the blanket over him as he watches Blitz curl up into a ball.

He slowly closes the door and turns around to Loona behind him.

"Oh! Hello. How's your room coming along?" He asks. She smiles, "It's alright. Blitz go to sleep already? It's barely evening", her face fading to worry. He nods, "Yes he is very fatigued. Maybe he will feel better in the morning. We start a new treatment". Loona fiddles with her hands and grabs Stolas's hand, pulling him to the living room and sitting on the couch. Stolas joins her.

She breaks down, tears falling down her face now.

"I'm so scared", she tells him and Stolas frowns, holding in his own tears for her sake. He outstretches his arms and she falls into them, his hand stroking the back of her head.

"I know. I am too. But we can get through this. Just like he can", he tells her. She sniffles, "Promise me he isn't going to die".

Stolas looks at her seriously and narrows his upper eyes, holding onto her shoulders, "I would never let that happen".

[orangeboulevard]

And The Cities Burned (Oneshot)

Day nine of kinktober, dayumm. Smut, religious talk, triggering elements in this one such as stalking and grape, if that is potentially harmful please dont read. Monster in this one, also can be read as a reader insert? spooky!! Dynamics: monster x human, yandere/stalker and their darling Content: stalking + biting/marking Word Count: 702

It's true what they say: by the time you've realised I'm hunting you, it's already too late; I've been following you for days. 

You're so loud, purposefully attention-seeking in everything that you do, in the way that you that your footsteps fall heavily onto the slated paths around my forest, in the way that your breath comes out in measured deep exhales, in the way you slam your door shut when you return to your home, and in the way you languidly peel your sweaty tight running clothes by your open window. 

You're inviting me in with your whistling, you decided to take a late-night jog by my forest yet again. I've had to restrain myself the last two times. My thighs still bear the deep claw marks. I don't want to be like this. I don't know why God saw it fit to burden me with such a cursed mind, I'm crying at night, praying for these... impulses, to go away. I want to look at you and wish only that you go home safe and sound, far away from my forest and the other creatures lurking here. I wish not to look at you and think of the most depraved and disgusting things; this is your fault, if you would just stay away...

Maybe God has sent me to punish you. You are Sodom and Gomorrah reincarnate and I shall be the cleansing rain. You are required to feel the burn and choke on the sulphur if you wish to atone and be forgiven. I am your reckoning, I am your saviour. 

You should be thanking me when I tackle you to the ground and drag you into the depths uncharted, not screaming. You're being too loud again. One look at my red eyes has you shutting up. Finally. You're prettier when you don't speak, when those sultry lips are curled into a frightened frown, your eyes wide and watery. 

I stop to coo at you, my cheek brushes against yours -I ignore your flinch-, You mustn't be scared, I am going to deliver you to your salvation. You're an unholy creature of seduction, Jezebel's bastard daughter, Baal's seed. If it is not His will, why does he not save you? Why have I not been struck down? This is His will then, he has abandoned you to me. 

So don't squirm away when I pull at your clothes. I said don't. You turn your face away from me now, laying still, tears falling over the high arches of your cheeks. Submitting yourself. Good. The sight of your bare body is not foreign to me, yet it does not fail each time to arrest my attention, captivated by those gently painted curves, those hand-sculpted mounds of tainted flesh. The red crown of my teeth in your shoulder is my mark of Cain, a promise: I will purify you. 

You cry out when I enter you, the stretch no doubt is a searing pain, but you'll live. My body looms over yours completely, you're sizably quite smaller. No matter, your body will heal. When my hips start to rock, your hands grip my chest, your nails digging in, I allow it. Your face is scrunched up, your brows knitted and your eyes squeezed shut. It hurts, I know, I know. My cheek brushes against yours again, I coo softly at your harsh yelps of pain.

I know you're still adjusting but I need more already. I am a slave to my degenerate mind, this is your effect. My hips slamming into you more relentlessly, the obscene sounds echo, from the way that you're screaming now, you act as if I'm splitting you in two. Your entire body moves up when I thrust into you, I have to pull you back down, further onto me. 

I start to lick at the bloody bite mark I left on your shoulder, I'm repeatedly hitting your G spot because of how big I am, it's starting to turn your screams and cries into reluctant whimpers and then moans.