#like the Ghoulishness of them leaving the one eye

[voluptuarian]

I'm finding this cultural pattern in the ancient and medieval middle east and into eastern europe where defeated enemies, especially ones with potential links to power (deposed kings, competing family members) are blinded by rivals. Like it happened to Hormizd IV, it happened to Arsaces of Armenia and his father Tigranes, and a number of earlier kings among the Parthians, Sasanians, Seleucids, Achaemenids, etc. I'm not going to dig through my readings to look up. I also remember a Georgian poet who was related to the royal family (I thought this was Shota Rustaveli and Queen Tamar, but nothing I search brings it up) who was possibly blinded to prevent him taking the throne (this would be as late as the 1100s). Interestingly these blindings aren't just done on anyone who pisses of the people in charge, either-- I'm only seeing it in situations where someone is being deposed, or prevented from inheriting by another power-- implying some sort of connection between candidacy for kingship and the possession/loss of eyes. It's fascinating, none of the sources I'm reading are making any comment about it, and I desperately need more information!!

[jaylalolz]

❛ 𝐌𝐑 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

ENEMY!reader x ENEMY!nicholas

SUMMARY, Nicholas didn’t enjoy attending parties, but he was forced to attend one. he immediately is drawn to a fascinating girl he saw, with a mask, only to discover that she is his only enemy.

WARNINGS, smuttyyyy

A/N, i love this plot sm. i hope you guys enjoy!! make sure to heart and leave a comment 🪽

The Halloween party was full, the throbbing beat of the music vibrating through the walls of the old house. Fog machines puffed clouds of smoke that snaked between costumed dancers, and the flashing strobe lights made it hard to tell where one person ended and another began. Everyone was masked, faces hidden behind elaborate disguises. Nicholas stood near the edge of the dance floor, observing the chaos around him through the dark eyeholes of his Ghostface mask.

He hated parties, hated the noise, hated the feeling of people crowding in too close. But what he hated most of all was her. Yet here he was, lingering on the outside because she was supposed to be here tonight. He didn’t know why it mattered—maybe he just wanted to see what kind of ridiculous costume she’d chosen. Probably something overly dramatic, like her personality.

Nicholas tugged at the sleeve of his black robe, adjusting the plastic knife in his hand. His friends had laughed when he chose the Ghostface costume, saying it was cliché. But right now, he was thankful for the anonymity it provided. He could watch, unbothered, shielded by the mask.

He scanned the room. People twirled and laughed, faces painted in ghoulish shades of makeup, masks obscuring their identities. Then he saw her.

She stood at the bar, her dark curls cascading down her back, black lace gloves covering her hands as she leaned against the counter. She was dressed in a black corset, the burgundy velvet of her skirt flowing around her legs. Her lips were painted a deep red, and even through her masquerade mask, Nicholas could tell she was trouble.

He didn’t know who she was, but there was something magnetic about her. Something familiar, though he couldn’t place it.

His feet moved before his brain could catch up, taking him toward the bar where she stood. She was sipping from a crimson-colored drink, her eyes scanning the crowd with an air of detached amusement.

Nicholas cleared his throat as he approached, and she turned to look at him, her gaze flicking over his Ghostface costume. She raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smirk playing on her lips.

“Nice mask,” she said, her voice smooth, but there was an edge to it, like she wasn’t easily impressed.

“You too,” he replied, though he had no idea what her costume was supposed to be. He wasn’t exactly up to date on vampire shows or whatever dark, gothic look she was pulling off.

She tilted her head, her eyes glittering beneath the mask. “Katherine.”

“Ghostface,” he shot back, earning him a chuckle.

Without another word, she downed the rest of her drink, then slid the glass across the bar. Her gloved hand extended toward him, a playful challenge in her eyes. “Dance?”

He hesitated for a second. Dancing wasn’t his thing, but something about her made it hard to say no. Maybe it was the mystery, the way her body moved with fluid grace, or the way she didn’t seem to care what anyone thought. And that smirk—it was infuriatingly tempting.

He grabbed her hand, the warmth of her fingers a surprise through the lace gloves, and let her lead him onto the dance floor.

The music shifted to something slower but still pulsing with energy, the bass thrumming through his chest. Around them, people swayed, masks blending into the darkened space, the flashing lights creating a disorienting blur of color.

She moved in closer, her body pressing against his as they danced. Nicholas felt the sharpness of her hips against his as she swayed, her arms snaking up around his neck. The contact sent a jolt through him, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he moved with her, their bodies falling into rhythm.

For a moment, he forgot about everything—the party, the rivalry, the irritation that always bubbled under the surface when he thought of her. All that existed was the masked woman in front of him, and the strange pull between them.

She tilted her head up, her lips barely an inch from his ear. “You dance better than I thought.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Nicholas muttered, his voice low, but there was no venom in his tone. It was strange, the way she was getting under his skin, making him forget about the person he usually was—the person who was always at odds with someone else.

“Big talk for someone hiding behind a mask,” she teased, her breath warm against his neck.

“You’re one to talk,” he shot back, his grip tightening on her waist. The banter felt effortless, but different. There wasn’t the usual bite to it. Just an undercurrent of something electric.

She let out a low laugh, her body pressing even closer, her hand sliding up to his mask. “What if I take it off?”

He froze, his heart thudding. For some reason, he didn’t want her to know who he was. Not yet.

“What if I don’t want you to?” he replied, his voice a little rougher, his thumb brushing over the fabric of her glove.

She paused, eyes flicking up to meet his through her mask. For a moment, the space between them crackled with tension—like they were standing on the edge of something neither of them quite understood.

Instead, her lips curled into a small, knowing smirk. Without a word, she nodded toward the stairs, a silent invitation.

Nicholas hesitated for a second, his thoughts tangled. Should he do this? But something about the way she moved, the subtle tilt of her head. It felt different. More dangerous.

And despite every instinct telling him to walk away, he found himself moving toward her.

She turned and started up the stairs, her skirt swaying with each step, and Nicholas followed, his heartbeat quickening. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he couldn’t stop himself from being drawn into whatever this was. The rest of the party faded away behind them, the noise muffled as they climbed higher, leaving the crowd below.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, glancing back at him with that same mischievous smile. "Coming?" she asked, her voice a little breathless, though still laced with challenge.

"Do I have a choice?" he muttered, his tone sharp, though his feet kept moving toward her.

"You always have a choice, ghostface," she replied, her gaze flicking over him like she was daring him to turn back.

But he didn’t.

She led him down a quiet hallway, stopping in front of a door that was cracked slightly open. Her fingers brushed the doorknob before she pushed it open wider, revealing a small, dimly lit room. It looked like a guest bedroom, draped in soft shadows from the single lamp in the corner. The sound of the party downstairs seemed miles away now, the noise distant and muted.

She stepped inside, casting a glance over her shoulder. "So," she said, her voice lower now, softer, but still carrying that familiar edge, "was the dance everything you expected?"

Nicholas stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, the click of the latch loud in the quiet space. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with careful eyes. "What are you playing at?"

She shrugged, moving to the center of the room, her fingers trailing along the edge of the bed. "Who says I’m playing?"

"Why did you invite me back here," he shot back, his eyes narrowing.

Her lips quirked up, but it wasn’t the smug smile he was used to. There was something else there, something more dangerous hiding just beneath the surface. "Wanna play a game, Mr ghostface?," she said quietly, turning to face him fully.

Nicholas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"Yes" he says, his voice more certain than he intended.

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest. "Simon says.. lay on the bed" Her eyes searched his, her hand lingering over the fabric of his shirt.

Nicholas tensed under her touch, his heart pounding. Every fiber of his being told him this was a trap, that she was playing with him. But another part of him, the part that had spent the entire night dancing with her, wasn’t so sure.

"Okay" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He lays down right at the center of the bed.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark. She starts crawling to him in all fours and sits on his crotch; making him gasp. “Wanna make a deal with the devil?”

Her words hung in the air between them, thick and heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. Nicholas felt his pulse quicken, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

Before he could think about it any longer, she was closer, her breath warm against his neck as she looked up at him. Her hand slid up, fingers lightly grazing his neck. "What’s the matter, Ghostface?" she murmured, her voice teasing but softer now, more intimate. "Scared of a challenge?"

But instead, he reached out, his fingers sliding through the soft curls at the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "I never back down from a challenge," he whispered, his breath mingling with hers.

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable, and for a moment, they were frozen, caught between something much more dangerous.

She took a slow, deliberate lean closer, looking up at him with that same devilish smile. “Simon says.. take my corset off”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but then his hand moved finding the ribbons on her corset and untying them. She didn't move, her eyes locked on his, and the air between them crackled with tension.

"Good boy," she said softly, her lips curving up into a satisfied smile.

“Tell me you want this.” she demands

He nods his head eagerly. “Y-Yes i want it..” he says softly.

"You wanna grind a bit baby?" she smirks in interest. He nods in desperation, dying for it at this point.

He undoes his belt and is about to undo his jeans. His bulge is visible when he unzips, but it is kept hidden by his briefs.

He gently begins to rub himself up and down against her as he rubs his confined erection against her covered core. Her lips parted with an involuntary whimper into his as her gut clenched a sharp knot at the sensitivity.

Her lips twitched at his mercy, pressing herself up against him through the flimsy covering they wore. Her legs began to expand, which allowed him an enormous amount of access. He stretches out his hand to take a firm hold of her hair. "Fuck sakes—that feels good." she responds, pushing his bulge up and down.

He grabs her throat with a forceful motion and turns them over onto the large bed. He reaches down into her panties and runs two fingers up her slit while hovering above her. "Are you soaking wet for me, princess?"

He touched her clit, and she parted my lips. He holds her throat, caressing her core with his fingers.

"You sure you want this?" For the last time, he says. She nods rapidly, aching all over now and pleading to feel him. She cusses, unable to wait any longer, "Please fuck me."

He slowly presses his hips forward while maintaining his position. He drives his tip inside her calmly, her body stretching around him. "Fuck..." He lets out a low sigh.He gives a deep sigh of relief as he pushes just past the head, freezing with just enough. Along with the sensation came a surge of intense pressure and pleasure.

He tries to ease her into the change very slowly, rocking with only half of himself.

“Shit.." He whispers to himself. "You're so tight”

He continues to press until she eventually feels his hips reach the back of her thigh, which was now fully in contact with his chest. She threw back her head and stretched a little, gasping out as she was so full and tight around him. "I can feel you clench around me.." With a stutter of delight, he stammers into the air, the squeeze tightly holding him.

He begins to make more rhythmic hip movements. She felt a warm sensation of pleasure begin to flare up in her lower abdomen as he began to swear. She arched her back involuntarily, but he quickly secured her back into a flat position on the bed.

"Yes— right there." she cried out in pleasure. Her fingers came in contact with her mask as she yanks it out of her face.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

It was her. His rival. The girl he couldn't stand-the one who always got under his skin, who infuriated him more than anyone else.

The realization sent a thrill of anger— and something else-coursing through him. “Fuck!” She presses against his shoulder as he loses control and grips the back of her neck, slamming her against him. She gasped at the abrupt angle, but before she could react, he grabbed hold of her and began thrusting up into her.

He shouldn’t have continued what he was doing when he realized she was rival his him. But instead, it motivated him to move more quickly. She slams her head back against the mattress. Her thighs quivering in his presence. She was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that she didn't say anything during the high.

She groans at the sensitivity even though she was suddenly exhausted by his sloppy and sluggish thrusting. She couldn't take her eyes off him, even if her lids were heavy.

He twitches inside her, then instantly releases his hold on her stomach by pulling out. Releasing in his climax, he was death grasping the bed cushion above and behind her head. his big hands gripping her sides and his head was buried in her chest.

“Are you gonna take your mask off?”

“I think It’s best If I don’t”

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Candles and Cuddles | Azriel x Reader

Summary: You take Azriel to get a personal wax mold of your hands intertwined, and after overcoming insecurity, settle into each other’s warm embrace.

Word Count: ~ 1.3k

Warnings: Mentions of past injuries, scars, insecurities, fluff, nothing bad.

A/N: Really liked writing this, hope you enjoy it <3

Requests are open!

You had originally gotten the idea when you’d seen all sorts of cute pictures of couples getting wax molds and melts of them holding hands in a heart shape or fingers interlocked. It was, in your opinion, positively adorable, and so you decided to drag your mate along with you for this particular adventure.

“What, pray tell, are we looking for?”

Azriel’s deep voice, calm and gleaming with curiosity, spoke softly. His head was tilted slightly to the side as you walked excitedly down the bustling streets of Velaris, your soft hand holding his larger, scarred one and pulling him gently along.

The children played in the streets, vendors calling out their prices as some roamed the streets with baskets of fresh products or supplies to try or test, hopefully, to lure in some customers. It was a warm evening, a cool breeze blowing through that lifted the autumn leaves to stir around your feet, only to settle in piles before being further blown away, or gathered into piles as the children jumped into them.

“It’s a surprise, Az, you’ll know when we get there!”

You said, being drawn into the direction of one street corner by the warm light coming from the building, only to find exactly what you were looking for with a quiet sound of triumph.

A small smile graced Azriel’s face as he peered down at you curiously, studying your happy smile and the twinkle in your eyes, one that spoke of joy, and an innocence he would gladly protect with his life.

“You’re going to love this, it’s so cute.”

You said, eagerly entering the store hand in hand with him. He ducked to avoid the top of the doorframe, wings folding in tightly to not disrupt anything inside of the small business. His shadows curiously observed and watched, taking in information on the surroundings on instinct.

There was a small desk at the front with a woman who he assumed was running the main operation, and to the left of it in another open room were pots full of different colored melted max, with a few other people already dipping a dry white base into it to make their own custom candle. It looked..intriguing, he would admit. He was ashamed that he’d never come to see all these small thriving businesses in Velaris.

“Come on!”

You said, bursting at the seams with excitement as you paid the woman up front and eagerly pulled him along to the wax room. He’d been so caught up in thinking he’d missed your entire conversation with the other female. Oops.

He patiently followed along, until you were both standing in front of a blue wax pot, a deep, rich blue like the siphons he had. Blue was a nice color. Maybe even his favorite.

“See? We dip our hands in together, and it makes a wax outline we can keep.”

You explained, beaming up at him. He returned the smile, a warm one spreading across his lips as he intertwined his hand with yours.

“I understand, love.”

He replied, waiting for you to begin moving first before submerging both of their hands in the melted wax, letting it sit a bit before pulling it out and dipping it again, and that went on for a few more layers until both of your hands were covered in a thick layer of blue dried wax, about the consistency of a babybell cheese wrapper.

A worker came over and helped you both get the wax off of your hands, leaving the mold of your hands together before the worker spoke up. It was a male with short brown hair and ghoulish skin, and distinctly Fae eyes in a shade of chocolate brown. Maybe a mix between a ghoul and Fae? The shadows seemed to think so as well.

“We could use the wax mold to make a quick concrete markup?”

He offered, at which you eagerly nodded.

“I’d love that, how long would it take?”

You asked, at which the worker simply waved a hand.

“Not long, only like, five minutes. We got a new concrete mix, the stuff works like magic! I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t some sort of enchantment on it…”

The worker went on, before seeming to realize he was rambling and giving a little chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ll have it ready for you in five, just take a seat somewhere.”

He said, gesturing to some of the seats in the small business area, before walking off to the back room with you and Azriel’s wax mold in hand. You both went and sat down next to each other, and he tried to pull you on his lap. You gave him a look. He only smirked.

“What? Shouldn’t we save space for any other potential weary customers?”

He asked with a playful tone, still smirking, at which you laughed and shook your head in fond exasperation, finally sighing and sliding onto his lap.

A few minutes later, the worker returned, the wax mold gone, but with concrete of you and Azriel’s hands intertwined together. He smiled and gave it to you, and after paying a bit extra for the stone structure.

After walking back home, and a short flight, you triumphantly set the stone structure on your favorite bookshelf in a space with good visibility.

“Don’t you love it?”

You asked Azriel with a happy grin, leaning back into him. He nodded, but when you glanced back at him, you saw a hint of worry and hesitation in his gaze. You turned to face him, wondering what was wrong. Had you done something to upset him? Had the wax made his sensitive, scarred hands start aching?

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You asked, one hand sliding up to his cheek to move his face so he was looking down at you. He hesitated before speaking. That was odd. He never hesitated much, if ever.

“You don’t think my hand looks a bit…out of place? With all the..scarring against your smooth skin?”

His now tentative and quiet voice asked, eyes studying the structure with a meticulous gaze, picking apart every minor detailing of his winding burn scars the wax mold had picked up, and the contrast of it against your smooth, soft skin. You pulled his gaze back to yours, taking his hands in yours.

“No. Not at all. Your hands are perfect just the way they are, and they look perfect in mine, and they belong there. If you ever start talking about them like that again, I’m revoking hand privileges for a week.”

He raised a brow because of the last statement but seemed a bit comforted by your statement, going to pull his hands away, but you wouldn’t let him, instead going to kiss every inch of his scarred hands until he was a blushing mess, his shadows looking more purple than usual as they crossed and danced around you in an embrace.

“Alright, love.”

He murmured, a small smile gracing his lips as he began gently pulling you towards the bed, a sign that he wanted to go to bed. You laughed softly, relenting as you pulled your bra off from under your loose shirt, tossing it onto the floor as you crawled into bed.

Azriel shimmied out of his leathers and crawled into bed wearing only his boxers, settling under the blankets before wrapping his arms and wings around you in a cocooning embrace, his head in the hollow of your neck, deeply inhaling your scent as he allowed himself to relax.

“Goodnight, Azzie, love you.”

You murmured, already sleepy. He smiled against your skin, shadows dancing before gently settling around you and him, before closing his eyes and replying.

“Goodnight, love.”

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 3)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You rush to the Ghoul's aid, but find that hospitality doesn't come cheap in the wasteland.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, talk of cannibalism, mention of child loss, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, grief, yearning, rejection.

Word Count: 8.8K

A/N: This is late! I'm sorry this wasn't finished last week, but it took me a while to get the ending to a place where I was happy with it. Part 4 coming up next! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

In the weeks that followed, a palpable tension thickened the air, suffusing every moment with a sense of unease. The Ghoul, ever cautious and seemingly intent on minimizing any unnecessary interaction, forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he adopted the role of a silent sentinel, perched upon whatever seating deemed acceptable as he watched over the entryways of your temporary shelters. There he would remain, a solitary figure in the dim moonlight filtering through shattered windows, his hat pulled low over his ghoulish features, shrouding them in shadow.

As you lay awake, restless and watchful, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to him, silently pleading for him to abandon his post and join you in the refuge of your shared space. Still, he remained steadfast, his bed beside you still empty and unused by your departure the following morning.

During the days, you travelled in silence under the relentless glare of the blistering sun, each step bringing you closer to your elusive destination. You would pause occasionally, your keen eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of abandoned treasures that could be sold for a fine price. Each discovery was accompanied by a hopeful glance towards your companion, a silent plea for approval. More often than not, his response was a grunt or a dismissive shrug, leaving you to carry the weight of your excitement and disappointment alone.

He had truly reverted back to the aloof and distant man he had been before that fleeting moment of connection shared around the crackling fire—the night he had gifted you the Pip-Boy. It had felt like a heavy reminder of the vast divide between you, a symbol of the distance that must remain for your child's safety.

The internal struggle waged within you relentlessly, tearing at the fabric of your resolve as you walked alongside him. On one hand, the instinct to protect your child, to prioritize their safety above all else, pulsed through your veins like a guiding light. But on the other hand, an undeniable longing stirred within you, a selfish desire to throw caution to the wind and reach out for him, to seek the comfort of the companionship you had felt briefly.

You remembered the warmth of his arms briefly wrapped around you, the intimacy of talking freely together like you had done that night by the fire. The memory tugged at your heartstrings, igniting a fierce longing that threatened to overwhelm your senses. And despite your best efforts to bridge the conversational gap, to break through the walls he had erected around himself, he remained stubbornly distant.

The silence between you grew more pronounced with each passing day, a distinct barrier that seemed to stretch endlessly between you. You couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over you. Some divides were simply too vast to bridge, and perhaps, you thought with a heavy heart, yours and the Ghoul's were among them.

It wasn't until one particularly hot mid-afternoon as you battled against a relentless radscorpion that had sprung at you from beneath an overturned refrigerator in that evenings shelter, the Ghoul's patience reached its limit. With a single, precise shot from his magnum, he dispatched the giant arachnid before turning to you with a sour expression.

"Outside," his voice commanded, firm and unwavering.

You followed behind him obediently, watching in silence as he collected the empty Nuka-Cola bottles scattered on the porch and lined them up along the railing. Once satisfied with his work, he turned to you and nodded, signalling you to follow him. Together, you descended the steps and moved further away until you reached a spot that provided a clear shot at the makeshift targets.

You eyed him cautiously, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you waited for his next instruction. But when his gaze settled expectantly on the gun holstered at your hip, you knew what you were to do. With quick hands, you fumbled to unholster the weapon, your fingers closing around its familiar grip as you prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

Despite the sweltering heat and the sweat that trickled down your brow, you squared your shoulders and raised your weapon, determined to prove yourself to the Ghoul—to show him that you were capable of holding your own beside him. And as you took aim at the makeshift targets, a sense of determination surged through you. Today, you vowed, would be the day you proved yourself worthy of his respect.

Pulling back the hammer, you let out a shaky breath as you pinched the trigger. The shot rang out, reverberating through your body like a thunderclap as you felt the recoil jolt through your arms. Taking a step back to steady yourself, you lowered the gun and peered ahead at the targets, your heart sinking as you realized that all five bottles remained stubbornly intact, mocking you from their perch.

A sense of annoyance bubbled up inside you, mingling with the disappointment that weighed heavy in the pit of your stomach. You heard the Ghoul sigh from his spot to your right, where he leaned against a a utility pole with his arms crossed.

"Again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "And keep your eyes open this time."

His words jolted you out of your reverie, pulling you back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. Despite the simmering frustration within you, you nodded in acknowledgment, steeling yourself for another attempt with the gun raised.

"Feet further apart," he instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and adjusted your stance, grit crunching beneath your boot. You heard him tut, then suddenly felt him beside you. His heavy boot kicked at the inside of your own, widening your stance even further. His gloved hands pressed against your shoulder with a firm tap, guiding you into position before withdrawing just as quickly. "Again."

As the Ghoul moved back to his post, you steadied the gun out before you, pushing down the giddiness that surged through you like a current. It was an unexpected sensation, sparked by the lingering heat left behind by his brief touch—the first physical contact he had initiated since your embrace around the fire. You took aim at the first bottle, and with the memory of his guidance in your mind, you pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, its echo reverberating through the desolate wasteland. A split second later, the sharp noise of the bottle smashing reached your ears, the shattered pieces scattering across the ground like sparkling jewels.

"Yes!" you exclaimed triumphantly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you raised your arms above your head in victory. Turning to your mentor with a wide grin, you hoped for words of praise, but you were instead met with a stoic nod of approval, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a steady gaze. Disappointment panged in your chest, a fleeting moment of deflation amidst the rush of triumph.

"Four more, then you can celebrate," he gestured towards the remaining targets and you eyed him with defeat as your arms dropped to your side.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, you rolled you neck as you prepared yourself. A brief glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes as he watched you turn back towards your targets with a raised weapon.

"Four more, then you cook dinner," you countered and he laughed quietly, a short huff of air out his nose that was barely perceptible.

As the afternoon wore on, you focused all your concentration on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable not just to the Ghoul but to yourself. With each bullet that flew past its target, the Ghoul's sighs of irritation echoed in the stifling air.

He had retreated to the scant shade offered by a nearby fence, his slumped posture a testament to the oppressive heat that hung heavy in the air. From his vantage point, he observed your progress with a stoic demeanour, offering little in the way of encouragement as you struggled to find your mark. Still, you refused to be deterred by his silence, channelling your frustration and determination into each shot. With each miss, you adjusted your stance, honing your focus. Finally, the satisfying sound of shattering glass filled the air as the last bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, scattering across the ground.

Pride swelled within you as you looked down at your gun, a tool that had once seemed so foreign and intimidating. In that moment, a sense of awe washed over you as you realized just how far you had come from the life you had once known. The image of yourself as a wife, a homemaker, seemed like a distant memory, a remnant of a time before the world had been plunged into chaos. 

As you stood there, gun in hand, dirt under your nails, and a sense of purpose burning within your soul, you couldn't help but wonder how absurd your former self would find this scene. The thought of her reaction brought a smile to your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, and the person you were becoming.

A slow clap from behind you drew your attention, and you turned to see your partner walking towards you, his lips pulled into a wry smile. "Well, as long as no one moves, you might just cut it."

Despite his teasing, you welcomed the familiar banter, a reminder of the rapport that had developed between you before it's abrupt end. With a smile, you looked him over, a wave of gratitude washing over you. "Thank you, for this," you said, gesturing with the gun towards the broken glass. "I feel like The Man From Deadhorse."

With a playful grin, you raised your gun towards the Ghoul, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "I hope you like the taste of lead, you commie son of a bitch."

The sudden shift in atmosphere caught you off guard, the playful jest dying on your lips as the Ghoul's demeanour transformed with alarming speed. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you with swift, purposeful strides, his grisly features contorted with rage.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun from your hand, the dull thud as it buried into the sand was loud in the tense quiet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched in stunned silence, your wide eyes snapping back to him when he seized your arms in a vice-like grip.

"You don't play like that, you hear?" he scolded, his voice low and harsh, the intensity of his gaze drilling into you like a laser. His leather-clad fingers dug into your flesh, leaving behind faint impressions as he held you firmly in place.

With a shaky nod, you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I hear you." The tension hung thick in the air between you. "It was from a movie, I didn't mean nothing by it."

As he regarded you, the intensity of his grip slowly eased, his features softening marginally as he released you from his grasp. Though his anger still simmered beneath the surface, there was a hint of remorse in his eyes, a silent apology for his outburst. "This ain't no movie, darlin'."

"I know that," you said wistfully.

"Then act like it," he grunted, a wheezing cough escaping him before turning away. "Let's get moving," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation as he retrieved the gun from the sand and handed it back to you.

You holstered your gun, a sense of caution settling over you as you eyed him warily, your footsteps echoing softly against the gravel path as you followed him back to your shelter. He stopped abruptly a few steps ahead, his posture rigid as he doubled over, sputtering into his closed fist.

Instinctively, you moved toward him, concern etched into your features, but you halted in your tracks at the sight of his outstretched hand. "Get back," he rasped, his voice strained, a clear warning in his tone.

You watched with growing unease as he struggled to regain his composure, each laboured breath sounding like a heavy weight upon his chest. The deep, chest-rattling wheeze that emanated from him sent a shiver down your spine, but despite the urge to rush to his aid, you knew better than to defy his command. With a reluctant step backward, you maintained a cautious distance, your eyes never leaving him as you waited anxiously for the bout of coughing to pass.

The coughing had started a few days prior, coming sporadically but with increasing frequency, especially when the Ghoul worked himself up. At first, you had dismissed it as the inevitable toll of his years spent wandering through dust and dirt, but as the days passed and you witnessed the panic in his eyes one evening while he counted his stock of liquid-filled vials, you knew it was something more. The sight of his trembling hands, the frantic glint in his tired eyes, sent a chill down your spine,

You didn't fully understand the significance of the vials, only that they were his medicine—but for what ailment, you couldn't be certain. You had assumed it was for pain, a necessary relief for someone who had endured the relentless exposure to radiation for so long. You knew better than to ask him about it directly. Even in moments of calm, when the worry over his dwindling supply wasn't etched into his furrowed brow, you knew that prying into something so personal would be met with resistance.

The Ghoul staggered back to the shelter and you followed behind him with growing concern, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched in silence as he grasped the stair rails for support, his normally steady gait now faltering. It was a sight you had never witnessed before—him weakened and vulnerable—and fear shot through you like a bolt of lightning, unwelcome thoughts of what this could mean racing through your mind.

You quickly put the invasive thoughts aside, hurrying to join him inside where you found him hunched over his saddlebag. His movements were frenzied as he loaded a vial into the inhaler that distributed the medicine. With a deep, shaky breath, he puffed the inhaler, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. Minutes stretched into eternity as he fought to regain control of his breathing, his chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

You held your breath in anticipation, watching as his chest heaved and then settled, but your frown deepened when a groan escaped him. He threw himself back against the wall, his movements laboured and unsteady. His arms hung limp at his sides, the inhaler discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His hat slipped from his head, tumbling to the dirtied tiles below, leaving his bald head glistening with perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling down his tired face.

It was a sobering sight, one that filled you with a sense of helplessness as you stood before him, unsure of what to do to alleviate his suffering.

"Told you to stay away," he breathed, his voice weary as he met your gaze, exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. "Just need to close my eyes."

As his eyes fluttered shut, you moved to his saddlebag with haste, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched desperately for another vial to bring him back to you. But as your trembling hands sifted through the contents, your heart sank like a stone—empty. He had been rationing his vials for days now, telling you there was a place up ahead to get more, but that you weren't to come with him. Another one of his solo trips.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you realized that he was going nowhere in this condition. His shallow breathing reduced you to panic as you fumbled at the inside of his heavy duster, your hands shaking with urgency. Ignoring the incessant clicking of the dosimeter, you pulled out a weathered map that he had drawn up at the beginning of your journey, showing you just how far you had to go until you'd find the haven and the stops that you'd make between.

Your gaze swept over the roughly sketched lines and symbols, tracing the route ahead with a growing sense of urgency. Finally, your eyes landed on a cluster of squares topped with triangles, situated close to the location you recognized as your shelter on the map. Beside them, a lone letter "V" was scrawled, signalling the area designated for his next collection of vials. The distance seemed manageable, just a half-day's journey at most—perhaps even less if you pushed yourself.

The prospect of venturing out alone was daunting, yet despite the risk of leaving him vulnerable, of being scolded for leaving upon your return, you knew there was no alternative. He relied on those vials, and you relied on him.

With a heavy heart, you removed his gun from its holster, carefully positioning his gloved hand around its grip before settling it on his lap. Adjusting his hat back on his head to shroud his closed eyes, you hoped that any passing traveller might be deterred by the implication of a formidable foe awaiting their approach.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at your companion one last time, the weight of your decision settling heavily upon you. With a silent prayer for his safety, you asked him to wish you luck before turning away and setting off towards your new destination, determined to retrieve the vials and save the Ghoul.

The two-story house stood large and imposing before you, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon casting long shadows across the grounds. Its faded white paint was peeling, revealing the weather-beaten wood beneath, and its roof sagged precariously as if it could collapse at any moment. The yard, overgrown with tall grass and weeds, was littered with the carcasses of rusty, broken-down vehicles and an assortment of discarded debris, each piece a story of neglect and abandonment.

Stepping onto the sprawling porch, the creak of the wooden boards seemed to echo through the still air as you steadied your nerves. You rapped your knuckles against the front door that hung slightly ajar. 

"Whaddya want?" a disgruntled voice hollered from inside, and you stepped back as the door was torn open to reveal a man, his greying hair unkempt and greasy, clinging to his weathered face that was etched with deep lines and one large, pink scar from eye to jaw. "Well, what is it?"

Clearing your throat to dispel the tension, you attempted a friendly smile as you greeted him. "Hello, I'm hoping you can help me," you began, holding the unfolded map up to show him. With a pointed finger, you indicated the spot marked by the Ghoul with a "V." "I'm looking for vials, is this where I can get them?"

He peered closer to the map, beady eyes squinting as he considered it. With a dirty hand, he rubbed at the white stubble of his chin as he hummed, his gaze flicking over you quickly before straightening. "Vials, you say? You're in luck," he gave you a toothy smile, displaying his blackened teeth.

Despite the turn in your stomach, you breathed a sigh of relief. Tucking the map away in the side of your bag, you smiled gratefully. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," you laughed.

"Well, don't dilly-dally on my porch all night, girl," he said, ushering you inside.

Stepping into the dimly lit home, you were hit by the musty scent of decay and mould. The house was cluttered, filled with stacks of old newspapers, broken furniture, and various knickknacks. The man led you through a narrow hallway into a small room that served as both a living space and a workshop. A cluttered table sat against one wall, covered in tools, scraps of metal, and various mechanical parts.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a rickety chair near the table. "I'll see what I got."

You sat down cautiously, the chair creaking under your weight. The man rummaged through a pile of junk on a nearby shelf, muttering to himself as he searched. After a few tense moments, he produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table in front of you.

"Here they are," he said, his tone gruff. "How many you need?"

You glanced at box, your heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. "I need as many as you can spare. How much for all of them?"

The man scratched his head, considering your request. "Caps, or trade?" he asked, eyeing your bag.

"I have caps," you replied, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small pouch. You poured the caps onto the table, counting them quickly. "Is this enough?"

He scooped up the caps, weighing them in his hand before shaking his head. "Not hardly," he said, pocketing them as he stared down at you expectantly. You quickly fumbled in your bag, trying to find something to offer. "How about that there contraption?"

Your eyes followed his to the Pip-Boy on your wrist. What would the Ghoul say if you returned without it? He had insisted you keep it on, gifting it to you as a means of gaining some semblance of control that you desperately wanted. Granted it had recently become an unwanted reminder that loneliness would be your only companion until you met your baby, but he wouldn't want you to trade it. Yet he wasn't here, and you were in desperate need of those vials.

"Please, anything else," you pleaded, one last ditch attempt at negotiation as you rifled through the contents of your bag. "I have scrap, copper, toothpaste, you can even have my gun," you continued, listing your items in a desperate ramble before throwing your gun onto the table beside you. 

The man's narrow gaze swept over the array of items you had laid out, his expression a mask of disdain. Without hesitation, he seized your bag and upended its contents onto the worn tabletop. With a rough hand, he sifted through the items, emitting grunts of disapproval as he scrutinized each one.

"No, no good," he muttered, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality. "That thing's worth more than all that junk combined." His lip curled in distaste as he indicated the Pip-Boy resting on your wrist. "It's the gadget or no deal."

Desperation gnawed at you. You needed those vials; the Ghoul's life depended on it. Leaving empty-handed wasn't an option. Fighting back tears, you took a deep breath and looked up at the man, striving to keep your voice steady. "Fine, it's a deal," you conceded, fingers trembling as you unclasped the precious device from your wrist, placing it reluctantly into his filthy palms.

His cracked lips curled into a predatory grin as he regarded his newfound treasure. With a casual shove, he pushed the box of vials across the table towards you. Eagerly, you reached for it, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. But as you pried open the lid, hope turned to bitter disappointment at the sight within.

"There are only three vials here," you stated, disbelief colouring your voice. "We agreed on the Pip-Boy for everything you've got."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the man's throat as he he leaned back against the table, a smug gleam in his eyes. "There it is," he declared, gesturing towards the meagre contents of the box in your hands. "Lesson learned, darlin'. Always check the goods before sealing the deal."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration, cursing yourself inwardly for falling prey to such a blatant deception. Anger surged within you, fuelled by both the injustice of the situation and the man's smug satisfaction.

"That's not fair!" Your voice rose, laced with indignation, drawing a startled expression from the man across the table.

"Now listen here, you little-"

"What's all this hoo-ha about?" a woman's voice interrupted him as she entered the room. She was about the same age as the man, greying and wrinkled, but whereas his face was stern, hers warmed when she saw you. Her hands went to the apron tied around her thin waist, wiping at the dirty fabric as she spoke. "Well, who do we have here?"

The man released an exasperated sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Just a fool not knowing when a deal is done," he muttered, flinging your empty bag in your direction. "Collect your shit and hit the road."

Before you could react, her hand shot out with startling speed, connecting with the back of his head with a resounding smack. He recoiled, irritation contorting his features as he rubbed the offended spot.

"Goddamn, woman!" he exclaimed, shooting her a venomous glare. "She got the chems, I held up my end of the bargain."

Her eyebrows arched inquisitively as she scrutinized you. "And what might someone like you want with those?"

"My friend, he's unwell," you explained, rising from your seat to begin to deposit your items back in the bag. 

"So, he sent you to fetch them," she deduced.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully as you gauged the situation. Despite her apparent kindness, you sensed it wise to withhold certain details of your predicament. "Something along those lines," you replied cautiously, then pointed to the three vials. "I just hoped there were more."

"There are more," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she delivered a swift reprimand to the man beside her. "Edwin, why are you lying to this poor girl?"

Edwin, still nursing a sore spot on his head from her earlier blow, shot her a disgruntled look. "Can't a man try and make a profit in this economy?"

Ignoring his protest, she turned her attention back to you, a friendly smile gracing her features. "My husband will whip up as many vials as you need, don't you fret," she assured, her reassurance a comforting balm to your frayed nerves. Casting a disapproving glance at Edwin as he started to object once more, she added, "And to make amends for his rudeness, I'll whip you up a plate."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, but I really must hurry these back to my friend," you insisted.

"Of course you must," she affirmed, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled again. "Edwin will go fetch you some from the cellar. We can't keep such valuable stock out in the open, you understand." Her explanation was delivered with a nod of assurance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Edwin grumbled, leaving the room presumably to fetch the vials.

"Why don't you and me wait for him in the dinin' room," she suggested, her voice carrying a hint of Southern charm from the old world. "You ain't tasted nothin' till you tried my brahmin roast." 

Your protests dissolved into silence as she gently guided you into the room from whence she appeared. A grand wooden dining table commanded the centre of the space, its unpolished surface bearing the scars of time and use. Two weathered candelabras sat empty upon the worn tabletop framing an intricately designed vase that stood proudly in the centre, its once-vibrant bouquet now reduced to a collection of decaying flowers, a red hue faded to a sombre brown. Despite its faded grandeur, there was a certain charm to the room, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times.

Memories of your past life flooded your mind. You remembered the stressful joy of hosting gatherings, the meticulous attention to detail as you fretted over the correct placement of place mats and whether the centrepiece was in keeping with the latest trends from the home magazines you avidly read. Glenn, ever the laid-back husband, would often be found nestled in his recliner, savouring a glass of whiskey as the radio drowned out your worries. He only intervened when you were on the verge of tears, calling for Patti to come and mend his frantic wife.

As you took in the scene before you, a pang of nostalgia tugged at your heartstrings, a bittersweet reminder of a life left behind in the wake of the bombs. In this dilapidated dining room, this family had somehow managed to create a semblance of normalcy amongst the disorder. You only hoped to do the same for your own child.

"I'll have Junior walk you back to your friend," she announced, her voice carrying a gentle authority as she guided you to a seat amidst the array of mismatched chairs. "He's a good boy, you won't come into any trouble out there with him by your side." 

With a tender smile, she disappeared through a swinging door, leaving you to ponder her offer in the dimly lit room. However, your contemplation was interrupted by an unpleasant odour that wafted through the doorway, assaulting your senses with its acrid essence. The stench caused your stomach to churn uneasily, and you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose in distaste.

As she returned with two steaming plates balanced delicately in her hands, the offensive smell accompanied her, its presence overwhelming. Recoiling slightly, you fought to suppress the urge to gag and wondered how the woman wasn't doing the same.

Setting one plate down before you with practiced grace, she deftly produced a worn napkin from her apron, gently draping it across your lap with an air of hospitality. Expressing your gratitude, you watched warily as she took her seat opposite you, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Since your escape from the vault, you hadn't consumed anything that hadn't been prepared by your own hands or originated from a tin can. While her gesture was undoubtedly kind, you couldn't shake the apprehension that gnawed at you, fuelled by the putrid scent emanating from the meat on your plate.

You hesitantly prodded at the dish, watching as the jellied fat quivered around the thick bone it encased. A wave of revulsion washed over you, and opting instead to sample a carrot, you found it had been thoroughly drenched in the juices and carried the same off-putting aroma as the dubious meat.

Swallowing heavily, you mustered an encouraging smile for the woman across from you as she observed your reaction, her gaze expectant. Despite the foul taste in your mouth, you smiled in appreciation, hoping that it was enough to mask your unease. 

"It's delicious," you fibbed, delicately patting the corners of your mouth with the napkin. You eyed the door you had entered through. "Will your husband be joining us soon?"

You didn't want to push, but the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on your mind. Every moment spent away from the Ghoul felt like an eternity, and the thought of his deteriorating condition filled you with a sense of dread. You could have left with those three vials, but what guarantee did you have that they would be enough?

You knew nothing about his condition, nor did you possess the knowledge to provide any meaningful assistance. All you could do was return with as many vials as you could carry, hoping that the sheer quantity would be enough to appease him and alleviate any resentment he might harbour towards you for leaving.

"It's a big cellar," she offered in explanation, her tone carrying a hint of apology for her husband's delay. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on you. "Gets a mite lonesome in this old house."

You offered her a sympathetic smile, sensing a shared understanding of loneliness in her words. "And Junior, is he your son?" you asked.

"One of 'em," she replied with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting momentarily into the distance. "The only one left. Tall as a redwood and about as sharp as one too, bless his heart." There was a fondness in her tone, a mother's unconditional love for her child evident in every word. "But us mothers, we love 'em all the same, don't we?" she added with a gentle chuckle, her eyes flicking to your pregnant belly before returning to meet yours with a glimmer of joy.

Your eyes widened in astonishment at her revelation, and a surge of vulnerability and protectiveness welled within you, prompting your hands to instinctively cradle your bump. You had grown noticeably, your pregnancy now too pronounced to conceal any longer, compelling you to discard your vault suit in favour of garments salvaged from an old dresser. Amidst the solitude of your journey with the Ghoul, encounters with others had been rare, limited to a handful of oblivious traders who had failed to notice your condition. This unexpected revelation felt like a breach of privacy, like divulging a secret that had been shared exclusively between you and your companion.

"Of course," you replied cautiously, sensing the weight of her words.

"I'd move mountains for my boy, just to ensure he's fed and breathing. In this world, that's about all a mother can aspire to," she murmured, eyes glistening with the threat of tears. "It's a pitiful state when a mother can't even provide that much for her own kin."

Your heart constricted with anguish, fears surging to the forefront as you contemplated the prospect of being unable to provide even the most basic necessities for your unborn child. The notion of welcoming a helpless infant into a world of scarcity and violence filled you with terror. You had been hesitant to confront the reality of impending motherhood, unsure of how you would navigate the responsibilities that lay ahead. Despite clinging to the hope that sanctuary awaited you at the haven, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the recesses of your mind.

As you looked into her sad eyes, a pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings. This poor woman had endured unimaginable loss, yet here she was, seemingly trying to cling to a semblance of normality by creating a home for her remaining family in the wasteland.  It was a fragile existence, one that could be snatched away at any moment, and as her resilience struck a chord within you, you wondered: Could this be your future as well? The thought lingered in the depths of your mind, weighing heavy on your chest. 

"Don't feel sorry for me, darlin', I got my time with my boys," she assured you, reaching across the table to rest her hand gently on yours. 

You smiled sadly as you regarded her. "I can't even imagine what you've been through," you admitted, your voice laced with genuine sympathy.

"No, I suppose you can't," she replied softly, her hand withdrawing from yours as she settled back in her chair. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've come to realize in this world that it's not about what's been done to us, but what we are willing to do."

You nodded in agreement. You had been thrust into this harsh reality, subjected to the horrors of the vaults and the betrayal of those who promised salvation. Yet, despite the trials and tribulations you had faced, you had fought tooth and nail to survive, to carve out a place for yourself in this dangerous new world. And now, with the imminent arrival of your child, that determination burned even brighter within you.

"Are you willing to do anything for your baby?" she asked, her voice soft yet resolute. Without hesitation, you nodded, unwavering resolve in your eyes.

Her gaze dropped to the table momentarily, lost in thought, before lifting once more to meet yours. "So am I," she declared softly, an edge in her voice that belied her gentle demeanour.

With a swift motion, she brought her index and middle finger to her lips, emitting a sharp whistle that pierced through the stillness of the old house. Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of her action before Edwin shuffled into the room, trailed by a looming figure whose long hair obscured the majority of his face. "Christ, Mag, I thought we'd be waiting all night," the older man grumbled. "Junior, grab the girl."

You turned your gaze back to Mag, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave, but as your eyes searched for reassurance in hers, you found only avoidance. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, refusing to meet yours, her expression inscrutable.

Junior closed the distance with two swift strides, his towering frame engulfing you as he efficiently yanked you from your seat, flinging you onto your back on the table with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. The table's decorations rattled to the ground, mingling with the scattered food in a cacophonous crash.

As Mag's now stern voice echoed through the room, a cold shiver ran down your spine. "Don't leave any marks, Junior," she scolded, authority in her tone. Her son nodded in obedience.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached for your holster, only to curse under your breath when you found it empty. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer— you had handed your gun to Edwin during the negotiations, a decision that now seemed foolish in hindsight. Defenceless, vulnerable, and at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Like a cruel nightmare, you were back where you had started. 

"Can't sell meat that's all bruised up," Mag's words lingered in the air as she left the room and your eyes widened in terror as the door swung to a shut. You scrambled to rise from the table, but Junior pushed you back down, though this time with less force. 

"Please, you don't have to do this," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"She's not for selling, she's for eating," Edwin interjected callously, disregarding your pleas as he seized your ankles. Junior seized your wrists in an iron grip and pinned them above your head, stretching you out before them. 

"Says who, you old coot?" Mag challenged, reappearing with a hefty butcher knife gripped firmly in her hand. The awful smell filled the room again, and you felt bile rise in your throat.

"Says me, the one who got her inside in the first place," he retorted, grunting as you struggled against his grip. "Besides, I'm sick of that rancid meat. He's been festering in there for weeks." He nodded toward the door where the putrid smell was emitting from.

His words sent a chill down your spine as you glanced at the mess of food scattered across the floor. Your eyes honed in on the repulsive meat that now lay splayed on the grubby carpet amongst the ceramic shards of the plates. Brahmin meat, she had told you, but now you realized it was another poor soul who had crossed this family's path.

Perhaps you were naïve to not consider the act of cannibalism in this dire new reality, but your mind reeled at the images of teeth ripping through bloody flesh.

"Please, why are you doing this?" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks as panic consumed you, each futile struggle met with unyielding strength from Edwin and Junior. Mag moved to your side.

"We've had this conversation, darlin', you know why," Mag whispered, her face looming mere inches from yours. The warmth that once suffused her features had now drained away, replaced by a chilling resolve as she gazed down at you. "Motherhood demands sacrifice, and this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Her gaze shifted to your belly, assessing it before turning to address the old man. "We'll keep her for meat and sell the babe for a hefty sum," she declared, eliciting a triumphant whoop from him. As her hand tenderly caressed your sweat-dampened hair, a shiver ran down your spine at the realization of your fate. "I want you to know that I mean you no ill will," she murmured, her voice a soothing contrast to the horror of her words. "But my boy has to eat."

The gentle touch of her hand offered little comfort as you recoiled from her touch. When you shook your head in a futile attempt to rid yourself of her grasp, she stepped back, her voice hardening once more.

"I wish I could promise this won't hurt, but there's only one way this baby's comin' out," she stated matter-of-factly, her words ringing with finality as the weight of your impending ordeal settled like lead in the pit of your stomach.

As the blade hovered menacingly above you, your mind raced with desperate thoughts. You couldn't shake the image of the Ghoul alone, abandoned where you'd left him while you embarked on this ill-fated rescue mission. What if he awoke to find you gone, vanished without a trace? Would he think you'd left him, angry over what had transpired between you both? Or perhaps that you'd waited until his weakest moment to finally run from him. The mere notion tore at your heartstrings.

You needed him to know the truth, to understand that your departure was in aide to help him not abandon him. You couldn't die knowing that he may think so badly of you, even though you weren't sure why it mattered so much. He'd been difficult and stubborn, scolded you and made you cry, but there was a yearning that you felt for him beyond your own understanding. With every fibre of your being, you silently pleaded for a chance to return to his side, to make things right and ensure that he could never doubt your devotion.

But you were trapped, with nowhere to run and no escape from the horrors unfolding before you. The full stretch of your body left your bare stomach uncomfortably exposed to the imminent danger. The cold, unforgiving blade of the knife traced a path across the swell of your belly, its touch sending shivers of dread coursing through your veins. Though the first cut was not deep, the sting of pain accompanied by the trickle of blood down your side served as a grim reminder of the perilous situation you had walked yourself and your unborn child into.

Since escaping the clutches of the vault, you hadn't dared to picture your future, quickly learning that the dangers of the wasteland were capable of shattering your reality with ruthless brutality from one moment to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing had remained constant: your unwavering determination to protect and nurture the life growing within you.

From the moment you heard the doctor confirm your pregnancy, a flicker of hope ignited within you. Despite the deceit of your husband, the looming threat of war, and every obstacle that stood in your path, you had clung to the unwavering belief that you were destined for motherhood. It was a truth that resonated deep within your heart, but you felt it slowly being swallowed by the hollow ache of despair and regret.

With a heavy heart weighing down every fibre of your being, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for what was to come. In that harrowing moment, a chilling realization swept over you like a tidal wave: if you were to remain conscious through these next moments, you would meet your baby. You were so far from carrying to full-term, but why would Mag go to such lengths unless she was confident that your baby would survive. Afterall, a living baby must be worth a fortune in the wasteland. A commodity, as the Ghoul had described you. 

Then, the thought pierced your soul: your baby would enter the world alone, without you, unaware of what transpired or why you weren't there beside them. Growing up to think that their mother never loved them. You couldn't let it happen.

With your last shred of resolve shattered, a primal scream tore from your throat.

A distant crash from another room shattered the tense atmosphere, bringing the woman's relentless pursuit with the knife to an abrupt halt. All three members of the family turned their heads towards the doorway, their eyes widening in shock as it was obliterated before them. A deafening cacophony of splintering wood filled the air as a single bullet burst through, sending wooden fragments flying in all directions.

Instinctively, you turned your head away, seeking whatever meagre protection you could get. In the midst of the commotion, Edwin's agonized holler pierced the air, his body recoiling as the bullet sliced through his neck. With a forceful impact, he was thrown back against the kitchen doorway, his form crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated throughout the room.

Junior's anguished wails pierced your eardrums. Despite his distress, his vice-like grip remained unyielding, keeping you firmly in place even as he grappled with the shock of his father's demise.

Meanwhile, Mag offered only a fleeting acknowledgment to the lifeless form of her husband before her attention snapped back to the now-open doorway. There, a figure emerged, a silhouette framed by the shattered remnants of the entrance. With each step, the sound of spurred boots rang out like a beacon of hope.

As the Ghoul's hulking frame filled the doorway, a wave of relief washed over you. He appeared worlds apart from the unconscious man you had left behind in search of aid, and as you took in his daunting appearance, you noticed the inhaler clutched in his hand, an almost empty vial inserted inside. 

Locking eyes with him across the room, you watched as his weary gaze swept over the scene before him: you, splayed out and held down on the table, a small cut marring your belly, tears streaking your face.

In that fleeting moment, his expression darkened with a silent fury. With swift and merciless precision, he raised his magnum, his aim unwavering as he first targeted Junior. In an instant, the sound of gunfire shot through the room, a single slug piercing through Junior's skull, extinguishing his cries in a heartbeat.

Mag's horrified gaze barely had time to register the terror before her own fate was sealed. She turned to the Ghoul with venom in her eyes. "Coop—"

With ruthless efficiency, another bullet tore through her chest, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her fallen son. In the span of mere seconds, the room fell almost silent, the only sound being the Ghoul's heavy breaths as he surveyed the aftermath of his swift justice.

A low groan echoed across the room, drawing the Ghoul's attention to the source of the sound. Without hesitation, he fired off two more shots into Edwin's chest, putting an end to his suffering. As the final ring of gunfire faded, the Ghoul lowered his gun, his gaze fixated on you once more. His eyes, dark and brooding, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in their intense scrutiny.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up to sit on the table, the weight of so many emotions swirling within you like a windstorm raging inside your chest. Fear, relief, guilt, and gratitude warred for dominance, each vying for your attention as you struggled to make sense of the harrowing ordeal that had unfolded before you. In that moment of uncertainty, you found yourself paralyzed by indecision, unsure of how to proceed as you watched the Ghoul, awaiting his instruction.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he holstered his gun and tucked the inhaler back inside his coat, the look of anguish etched upon his scarred face. With a silent understanding passing between you, he beckoned you to him with a curl of his fingers, a wordless invitation for comfort that you never thought possible from him. Your body moved on instinct, propelled forward by a force beyond conscious thought, as you leaped from the table and into the safety of his waiting arms. In that moment, all pretence of strength crumbled away, leaving you clinging to him with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

You held onto him so tightly that you could almost feel the air being squeezed from your lungs. As his muscular arms enveloped you and your unborn child, a floodgate of emotion burst open within you, unleashing an outburst of tears that wracked your body with their intensity.

"I never left you," you whispered through each sob, your voice hoarse from screaming, the words spilling out in a plea for understanding. "I swear, I was coming back."

His touch was tender as he stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he comforted your trembling form. "Nobody would blame you if you hadn't," he murmured softly, then cleared his throat. "I told you, you weren't to come here."

"I had to save you," you insisted, your voice shaking but resolute.

"Sure did a fine job," he said, glancing around the room at the carnage. "Looked like you had everything under control."

His teasing stung, and you pulled away from him, hurt flashing in your eyes as you stood your ground. "You were unconscious. If I hadn't come, you would have—" your voice cracked, unable to finish the thought.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he interrupted, irritation thick in his voice. "Good thing too, because I wasn't aware just how dumb you could be."

"I didn't know if you'd make it," you shot back, your voice a raw blend of frustration and fear. "I had to do something, I couldn't lose you."

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. But it was quickly replaced by steely conviction. He pointed a gloved finger at your belly, his tone firm yet edged with concern. "I shouldn't be your concern right now."

You cradled your bump protectively, looking up at him with glistening eyes. "And yet here we are."

He was silent for a moment, his hand dropping back to his side as he regarded you with a mix of frustration and helplessness. "What am I going to do with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn't answer him. Instead, you moved back into his chest, seeking the comfort you'd felt moments before. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, the tension in his muscles softening as he held you close.

"This can't keep happening," he said after moments of silence passed between you, his words hammering at your heart. You couldn't tell if he was referring to the intimacy of your embrace or your reckless brush with death once again. Regardless, you tightened your grip on him.

"Just a little longer," you whispered, your voice barely audible. He sighed in resignation as he gently disentangled your arms from his waist, pushing you back to look into your eyes. His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved the device that would sever any remaining physical connection between you.

You had barely had time to enjoy the unbridled freedom of those moments in his embrace, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart against your cheek rather than the disturbing clicking. But now, as your eyes fell on the Pip-Boy, you realized you weren't ready to relinquish that freedom, despite the protection it promised.

"I told you not to take it off," he chided. When you started to explain yourself, he cut you off. "I don't care, just put it back on."

You shook your head, your eyes locking with his, defiance met with disappointment. "Don't make me do it," he pleaded earnestly, his voice softening, laden with a desperation you hadn't heard from him before.

"I have a choice, and so do you," you told him, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

He smiled sadly, a bittersweet expression that deepened the ache in your chest. "I wish that were true," he replied, pulling your hand gently and fastening the Pip-Boy around your wrist. The device closed with a sickening clink, severing the fragile connection between you. You held his gaze, chin high, though you wanted to curl into yourself.

"I wonder if it really is me you're protecting with this thing," you said, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow, your hand still enclosed in his as the clicking commenced. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His gaze dropped as he took a deep breath, bracing himself before looking back at you with a rueful smile. "Me neither, vaultie," he admitted, his voice a whisper of regret. He dropped your hand and turned to leave the room. "Maybe it's better that way."

He disappeared through the open doorway, leaving you alone with the heavy silence and the cold weight of the Pip-Boy on your wrist. The freedom of touch you had tasted moments ago now felt like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality that, regardless of anything else, the Ghoul was determined to keep you at a distance. 

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @sillysimping @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @spookyoat @rebelmarylou @writtenbyhollywood

[lacontroller1991]

Feo, Fuerte y Formal (The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x F!Reader)

Main Master List || Misc Master List

Summary: Cooper sees you again for the first time in over 200 years

Warnings: 18+ Strong Language, Sexual Suggestions, Divorce, Canon Typical Violence

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Feo, Fuerte, y Formal. Words Cooper Howard spoke over 200 years ago back when he was at the height of his career. Back when he had a profitable career, a beautiful home, and a beautiful family. He had fame, wealth, and a future. Until it all came crashing down. When Vault-Tec had initially dropped him from their promotional team, he was relieved, glad to be done with the corporation that was planning the destruction of the world, but with Vault-Tec dropping him, Barb did too. Once Barb found out why her Pip-Boy was acting strangely, she had it double checked by the science division to confirm her suspicions before taking it to Cooper to confront him. His mistake was that he denied he had anything to do with it. If he had lied about this, what else has he been lying about? Yet, it was mutual. Both were caught destroying the very core of their marriage, trust.

The divorce was quick to follow. Despite having the best lawyer he could find, Barb had Vault-Tec, and Vault-Tec could buy out anyone, leaving him with a whopping sum of $30,000 - compared to his net worth of 2 million - and Roosevelt. 

Of course with the biggest name in the country dropping him from their team, his agent promptly dropped him, blacklisting him from Hollywood, ending his career. His one way of making money was no longer profitable. In a way, he was relieved. Hollywood wasn’t what it used to be. It used to be a beacon of hope, a place for everyone, the American Dream. What a load of bullshit. 

If there was anything to make it all tolerable, it’s the time he got to spend with Janey and you. You had come into his life when he wasn’t looking for it. Your bar had practically become his home, but when you got tired of seeing him drunk as all get out and passed out on the bar you quickly offered him a couch to sleep on at your place, and the rest was history. 

Until the bombs dropped, and everything changed. Again. Cooper doesn’t know exactly how he survived. He doesn’t know if it was sheer rage keeping his heart kicking, or if it was the drive to find you or Janey. He knew Janey was somewhere in a vault, safe with Barb, but had you been lucky enough to secure a spot in one, or were you part of the 90% that didn’t have the means to afford a spot.

200 years later and he still doesn’t know. 

Feo, fuerte, y formal. He has ⅔ of them on his belt. Ugly and Strong. Long ago are the days where he was dignified, not that he gives two shits. He did initially. His handsome features quickly hollowed out with his hair coming off in chunks, giving him a ghastly appearance. It took some time to get used to, but after 50 years, he learned not to care. Not like there were people lining up to be with him anyways. If anything, his ghoulish features gave him an edge in everything he does. No one really tries to mess with a 200 year old bounty hunter who has zero qualms about skinning you and eating you, alive or dead. Still, it’s lonesome walking the wasteland without anyone by his side, whether he likes to admit it or not.

The town is quiet by this time of night. From his best guess of the moon in the sky, it’s a little after 1 in the morning. Walking along the streets, he eyes the closed vendors, save for one on the corner. Piquing his interest, he stalks over to the stand, eyes focusing on the elder woman in a pair of dirty coveralls.

“Get lost Ghoul, before I kill ya.” It’s a threat that he doesn’t doubt that she’d act on. Taking a step closer to the stand, he raises his hands, eyes trained on the way she inches closer to the gun undoubtedly hiding below the counter. 

“I ain’t here to cause you any trouble. Was wondering if you had some vials.” Slowly, he places some caps on the counter. He still has four vials, but having more never hurts.

“I done told you,” the lady cocks her gun, pointing it at his head but he’s unfazed, “get lost ghoul.”

“Now Janet, is that any way we talk to customers?” The additional voice causes Cooper to freeze in his spot, his blood turning to ice. That voice, it sounds familiar. A woman moves from behind him to next to him, leaning against the counter. You’ve got to be kidding me. If his heart hasn’t beaten since everything went to shit, it sure is now. 

“We have strict rules, just because you’re special doesn't mean you can tell me what to do.”

Watching from the corner of his eyes, he rakes your body up and down as you sigh. You don’t look a day over the last time he saw you and you still have that radiant aura about you. He surely has to be hallucinating. 

“It’s your store, but wouldn’t you like more money? He’s obviously not feral, just help him out. For me?” Cooper watches as you bat your eyelashes with a smile while the older lady grumbles ‘fine’ and reaches into a bag, shoving vials onto the counter. 

“You owe me big time missy.” With a smile, you take a hold of the vials, nodding your head in appreciation.

“Of course Janet. Just let me know when you want to cash in that favor.” Grumbling again, Janet scowls at Cooper before slamming the window shut and turning off the light. “Here you are. Don’t normally see new folks around this area.” Cooper tilts his head lower, allowing the cowboy hat to cover his eyes as he takes the vials from your hands, your soft looking hands. Oh how he misses those hands. Without a word, Cooper shoves them into his coat pocket and turns around, wanting to get the hell out of there before you try and make more conversation. There’s no way it’s her. She’s been dead, long dead, he thinks to himself, footsteps making a quick pace but you catch up to him, stopping right in front of him with a hand to his chest, causing him to growl. “I understand you probably want to carry on for the night, but why don’t you rest for the night? I have a couch in my living room and some fresh water. I don’t know if ghouls drink water, but I have some.”

He halts for a minute, his hat still covering his eyes and he sincerely hopes that your hand can’t feel his heart beating through his chest. She’s still too pure for this world. “Ain’t you scared imma eat ya?” 

“Pfft no. If you do then oh well. If there’s anything I’ve learned in this world, it’s to take things as they come.” With each passing moment, he feels his resolve breaking. He’s spent years looking for you, and here you are, offering him a place to crash like the first time. Is he going to deny you this time? “Just for the night?”

Sighing, he thinks about it for a moment. He’s ugly now and burnt, there’s no way you would remember him. “If it’ll get you to shut the fuck up.” 

----------

“Welcome to my humble abode. It’s not much, but with how shitty this planet is, I say it’s pretty nice!” Cooper takes a second to look around. It’s not like your previous apartment with sturdy colorful furniture and plants in the windowsill with Cash playing on the radio, but it’s still oddly, you. Barely noticing your disappearance, your reappearance in front of him causes him to lightly jump. How the hell did he not hear you? “Sorry to startle you. I brought some blankets.” “I don’t need blankets,” he grumbles, eyes still hiding behind his tipped hat, one that you wore from time to time when you would roleplay with him. From behind the rim, he watches as you shrug your shoulders, setting the blankets down on the couch before clapping your hands.

“Don’t blame ya. It’s hot as hell out there. Can I get you any food? Water?”  His eyes follow your frame as you pull out a chair from underneath the table, gesturing for him to sit while you grab food from the cupboard, fixing him what seems to be a PB&J? 

“Why are you being nice? Nice people get killed up here.”

“Believe me, I can handle myself. I’ve killed. It’s hard not to up here.” You set the plate down in front of him, taking the seat to his right. Picking up the sandwich, he inspects the bread, hesitantly taking a sniff before taking a bite, moaning softly as the creamy texture of peanut butter balances out with the fruity jelly. Did PB&J ever taste this good?

“Where the hell did you even get this stuff?” You shift in the seat next to him, crossing your arms while he munches on the sandwich. Fuck, he misses actual food. “Stole it from a vault.”

“A vault?” It’s abrupt. She’s been in a vault this whole damn time? 

He can tell that he struck a sore spot, but now he’s too intrigued. Seeming to notice that he won’t drop the subject, you let out a sigh, cracking your knuckles. “Yep. I was there when the bombs dropped. Went to my dad’s house to check on him but he dragged me with him to a vault and put me in a cryogenic pod. Woke up two years ago, found out some fucked up things, left with a shit load of food and weapons, never looking back. I mean… the stuff down in the vault… FUCKED up.” 

Cooper leans forward, swallowing the rest of his PB&J. “Go on.”

“Well, different vaults have different experiments. Mine was an interconnected vault but something always seemed off. Now I get being nice to your neighbors or whatever, but there is no reason the people in that vault were that nice. It’s like they were overly optimistic. So weird.”

Cooper huffs out a laugh, memories of you always supporting him no matter what flooding through his brain. “You were always optimistic.” The words slip out of his mouth causing the both of you to freeze. Internally cringing, Cooper wishes that he was strapped to the tip of a nuclear bomb and exploded, 20 times over.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” He can feel your eyes raking over him, trying to make a connection and he wonders if you have yet or not.

“Not until today.” Shoving the plate aside, he quickly gets up and makes a move toward the door but he has to give credit where credit is due. You’re fast and standing in his way, gun cocked and aiming at his head.

“Not so fast cowboy, who the fuck are you and how do you know me?” He avoids making your gaze but you’re unrelenting. 

“I ain’t no one, you’d be wise to let me leave.” He tries to move past you again, but you block his path, using your gun to knock off his hat, revealing all of him to you, his hazel eyes meeting yours, causing you to gasp. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She knows. “I can explain.”

The gun decocks with a soft click and drops to the floor, a pair of arms flinging themselves around his shoulders, dragging him into a soft body. She’s even softer than I remember. It takes everything in Cooper to not sink in your grasp. It takes everything in him to not take you in his arms and make up for lost time. 

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were too. You still making it a habit of inviting strangers into your house?” His arms hang by his side, not daring to return the hug, afraid of what would happen if he did. Seeming to take the hint, you let go of him and he doesn’t miss the hurt in your eyes and he wishes he can take it away, but it’s better this way. You don’t want to mess with him. He’s a monster. It’s all he’ll ever be. The Cooper Howard that you know is long gone like the world that you both knew. You deserve someone who doesn’t eat ass jerky. You deserve someone who isn’t addicted to drugs. You deserve someone who doesn’t have one foot constantly in the grave. You deserve someone who is handsome, not ugly.

“Only handsome cowpokes like yourself,” he would smile at your jest, but now he’s insecure. 200 years of living on his own forges him to be as tough as steel, removing any feelings he may have had, but one hour in your presence? It has the old him rearing his head, but a thought creeps in his mind, and he runs with it. Surely you’re mocking him.

Sneering, he takes a step toward you, opening his posture to make him appear larger. “You can’t really mean that. You think it’s funny making fun of me?”

“What?”

“Calling me handsome? I ain’t handsome.” He can tell that you can see right through him and his bravado. He knows that you can see his feelings behind his mask. 

He hesitates as you take a step toward him, hands reaching up to take his face between your palms while his breathing hitches. He hasn’t had tender affection in a while. “Cooper, it’s clear that time hasn’t been kind to you, but if you think that I really care about looks then you’re not as smart as I remember you. When have I ever cared about your appearance?”

“You digged my hair if I can recall.” He tries to play it off, but fails and you know it, so you call his bluff.

“If your skin is this rigid now, I can imagine how the rest of you must be.” He blushes, hard. “I’ve missed you.” He moans softly as you place a lingering kiss against his lips, his arousal growing rapidly in his pants. The kiss ends too soon and you’re pulling away, eyes blown wide as he gets a good look at you. 

“I’ve missed you too. More than you could know. What say we use that couch for reasons other than sleeping?”

“Sounds mighty fine.”

[pseudowho]

Infiltration, Chapter Seven: The Captive Goddess

Nanami Kento and the reader must pretend to be married to infiltrate a deadly Curse-user cult and take it down from the inside.

*SMUT/NSFW/18+*

A slow-burn fic with fluff/comfort, angst, smut and heroics from our favourite salaryman.

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Nanami Kento had long-since erected walls to the outside world. Very few were allowed a glimpse to his inner sanctum, and assessments of him as cold, aloof, ghoulish, humourless or melancholy provided his armour. He was externally unflappable, methodical, analytical; but under the water, his feet paddled frantically, and he felt his heart a million miles away, perched at the edge of a precipice.

Kento swam in Cursed energy; Father Tatsu was having trouble packing it back in-- the Cursed energy that had never belonged to him-- now he had shown his hand. The air was as thick as treacle. Grimly assessing that he had no choice but to fight if he wanted to give you a chance to escape, Kento rolled up his sleeves, the seal releasing on his Cursed energy as Overtime unlocked. Father Tatsu bared his teeth.

"Will it be me then, instead of that woman you call your wife?" Kento's stomach twisted as Father Tatsu picked at his nails, flippant and disinterested, "I say that...but she'll be gone by now, of course. No blood left for the leeches."

Kento read his adversary, his face impassive as he hummed in thought, seemingly considering you tactically, instead of with the gut-churning dread he really felt. I shouldn't have let her go, Kento tortured himself, bitter, she went back, and that's my fault, and she's gone already--

Kento went through mental acrobatics-- home and dead? Home and injured? Captured and home? Captured and taken to the Shrine? Captured and taken somewhere else? Captured but fought to the death? Captured and--

"She is useful," Kento mused, detached, "but not necessary for this part of the mission. It may be a blessing for her to die now instead of--"

Father Tatsu laughed, "Dead, my boy? No, no. The Goddess prefers to consume them while their heart still beats."

Kento felt a swoop of success at his easy fishing. Captured and taken to the Shrine. Taking a few steps back as Father Tatsu's power swelled, Kento's eyes glanced through the windows overlooking the village, in the direction of your house together. Kento sighed.

"Our mission was reconnaissance and escape," Kento lied smoothly, "so while it's a shame my colleague has likely been neutralised, there's no value in both of us being taken out. If you don't mind, I'll be leaving. I don't imagine it's long before my...institution arrives, to finish the job."

Father Tatsu snarled, his attempt to reel Kento to the Shrine failing. His Cursed-energy grew at an uncontrollable rate, and Father Tatsu appeared drunk, gulping back nausea, staggering. Both considered each others' moves; breaths balanced on a tightrope.

Father Tatsu darted for Kento, so much faster and stronger than his age would normally allow, and Kento jacked sideways into a roll. Righting himself, fingertips to tatami in a balanced squat, Kento swept one leg out under the staggering Father Tatsu, who landed with a resounding slam on his back. Dropping back to his haunches as Father Tatsu lay, stunned, Kento lifted the same leg, slamming the back of his booted foot down onto Father Tatsu's face.

With a nauseating crunch-pop, Father Tatsu's nose broke, lips split, choking on blood and teeth. Lifting his leg once more to land a killing blow, Kento's ankle was grasped in two obscenely strong hands; despite his leg being swathed in Cursed energy, he felt a crack ricochet up his leg, the pain like a gunshot.

Father Tatsu looked so briefly shocked, before his face twisted into a snarl, sloppy and bleeding, yanking Kento's leg, trying to pull Kento in by his broken ankle. He doesn't know how to control the power, Kento realised, hot pain flaring up his leg, because he's never had so much of it.

"Scum," Tatsu snarled, as Kento resisted his pull with gritted teeth and stubborn determination. Tatsu vomitted, hot blood, tooth fragments and bile soaking into Kento's jeans and the tatami below them. Kento watched in muted horror as the man's body seemed to swell and churn, Tatsu briefly contorted with torturous pain before sinking his fingers into Kento's leg, bellowing like a bear.

Father Tatsu was bloated with power, and it refluxed out of him in a gruesome, violent belch, when he stood, swinging Kento in an arc to the other side of the room. Beams splintered under the sinews of Kento's body, on the wall overlooking the village, and it buckled, part of the ceiling shunting down, showering Kento in plaster, clotting with blood on his forehead.

Kento stood, solid and tall, his breath hitching with the agony of standing on a fractured ankle. Kento focused his Cursed energy there, desperate for support, cursing himself for never mastering the art of Reverse Cursed Technique.

Kento was sloppy with distraction, each second away from you lowering your chances of survival. Father Tatsu crouched, arms and fingers twisting into himself like gnarled roots, an unstable implosion. He jutted forwards, staggering, animalistic, his face contorted with rage and failed restraint.

Kento turned on a pinhead, gripping a jutting ceiling beam, before kicking the crumpled wall with a roar of pain, striking a point of critical weakness. The wall collapsed outwards, and Kento and Father Tatsu were met with the cold slap of the drifting snowstorm, before Kento leapt, the remnants of the room's ceiling folding like a blanket over Father Tatsu.

Kento's belly swooped as he dropped three stories, landing in fresh snowdrift with a soft thud, before jackknifing away into the storm, making for the village gates, for escape. Kento heard a cry of rage from the devastated room behind, carried by the wind, making his gut churn with shame.

"Coward! Coward!"

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I'm underwater.

"...feed this one...goddess..."

"...too much...all the others already..."

Warm. It's too heavy. Hurts.

"...arguing!...orders..."

"...tender first...likes them begging..."

I'll just sleep let me sleep go to sleep--

WAKE UP!

Who is that? Love him. Want him.

You're running out of time. Darling. WAKE UP!

Your injury gripped you, and you sank, unbidden, into the deep once more.

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"If you don't ask him out for a coffee, I will. Maybe for me, or maybe for you." Your best friend cringed, squealing with laughter as you slapped at her.

"If you've only come in here to bother me," you chided, urging your friend to the staffroom door, "then go away, you must have something better to do, you pest--"

A gentle knock, and the door swung open, forcing your friend to spin back to you, grasping your shoulders with wicked joy, as Nanami Kento walked in behind her, his eyes questioning. You glared daggers at your friend, giving her an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Naturally, she ignored you.

"I'm so sorry, I can't come to lunch with you today after all!" She bemoaned, "I've got so much to do. You'll just have to eat alone." Your mouth dropped open at her shameless audacity. She excused herself quickly, past Kento, the door closing on you both.

There was a heartbeat of silence, and you adjusted yourself quickly, giving Kento a breathless smile in apology for your friend.

As you moved towards the door yourself, crippled by Kento's presence, you heard his silky voice behind you.

"I normally eat alone. The good company in this place is limited."

Your hand retracted briefly from the door handle as you turned to Kento, blushing. His heart skipped, his decision quick and life-altering as other, rejected paths trailed away, unchosen, alternate fates unravelling.

He folded his newspaper with a light clearing of the throat; "That being said...I know a good bakery. If you'd like to join me for lunch."

Your smile was as soft as dappled sunlight, and Kento felt something deep within him pass irretrievably to you.

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You woke with an agonal gasp, floundering in chains as a bucket of ice-cold water was flung over you. Your head spun and pounded, belly shaking with nauseous, racking shivers. Your wrists creaked against your chains, engraved in symbols; your stomach dropped as you realised your Cursed Technique had been completely neutralised by your bonds.

As soon as you raised your head to look around you, a backhanded slap across your cheek made your teeth crack together and your head rattle; a hit you knew, vaguely, to be from a man, instead of a woman. Your tiptoes pressed to the floor as you hung, coughing.

Nought but footsteps in front of you, something dark and slick across the stones, red-black light writhing and flickering in the gloom. Your foot caught on something as you tried to stand. A second slap had you feeling your captor was enjoying this.

"It's nothing personal, my dear." The voice tickled recognition in the back of your mind, but you hitched against the chains, your head and face battered. You tried to grab your thoughts, like catching smoke. Your captor had rightly ensured you had no chance to fight back-- no monologues, no grandiose speeches.

"Well...a little personal. Breaking into my library. Making a fool of me. The Fathers really did hope it wasn't you two, you know? Such talent."

A punch, deep to your gut. A scurry up your leg, a sharp squeaking bite that sank through your trousers and popped through the skin of your thigh. You were crying out now as you kicked the Librarian's rat off your leg, you were sure, but your head was ringing, vision spinning, cold seeping through to your bones.

You almost begged for mercy, but bit it back, wordless and gasping. Your feet slipped on the part-frozen slick beneath you. Your foot caught again, your floundering throwing something forwards; ragged fabric, dark with slurry, crunched bone, gristle and flesh peeking through it. You retched as the putrid-sweet smell of fleshy rot hit you. Leftovers, you thought.

The squirming nature of the light in this vast round chamber had you throwing your head back, staring upwards with bloodstained vision. An extraordinary mass of black arms and legs writhed above you, the inchoate flesh constantly changing as hundreds of blackened screaming faces, kicking legs, clawing hands moved within it, reaching out. As if in recognition of your acknowledgement, a pulse of Cursed-energy like a weapon of war shook your bones. You'd have dropped to your knees, if not bound.

"When your pain is pure," the Librarian continued, adoring, revenant, "she will devour. She shall be released. Our captive goddess, she of the fertile land, finally imbued with the righteous power needed to debride this festering country."

The Librarian approached you, his leathery hands cupping your face lovingly, shushing you as pink-stained tears ran down your cheeks. He spoke softly, as if gifting you such a boon.

"You will be part of something bigger now, sweet girl. You were misguided...but she is forgiving." The Librarian brushed tears from your tender, swollen cheeks and you grimaced in pain. He looked up, as snowflakes slipped occasionally down past the writhing mass, and reached into his pocket. With a flick, a pocket knife opened casually in his hand.

"Is your husband coming?" The Librarian asked, slow and thoughtful, "Perhaps not. I cannot feel him." Your heart crunched with pain, tears now rushing down your face in a strangled sob, hoping against hope that Kento was escaping, instead of dead.

"It is no matter." The Librarian supported the small of your back as he punched the knife into your gut. All the air shunted out of your lungs, your mouth hanging open in a voiceless gape, agony burning through every nerve of your body as the Librarian swiped the knife sideways through your belly. A slow, fatal wound. He pulled his hand away, drenched in your blood as you began to slip underwater again.

"She will taste your pain. She will come. Do not fear, sweet girl."

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You slipped out of the bathroom, skin still glistening with steam as you wiggled a towel around you, hunting for the tinny ringring-ringring of your phone.

Into your bedroom, throwing discarded clothes aside, and reaching into your pocket, you found your phone. You answered without looking at the caller ID.

"Hello?" A brief silence on the other end.

"I'm...sorry. You must be busy." That familiar voice, that made your belly twist and throb with want, velvet and slurred. You sat on your bed, gripping your towel around you.

"Kento?" You squeezed your phone until your knuckles were white. You heard a sigh and a shuffle, and blurted out in a panic, "No, wait! Don't hang up!"

A pause again.

"I just wanted-- I needed someone to--"

"Kento I--...I'm always here. For you to talk. About anything."

A thousand unspoken truths passed between you in silence. You closed your eyes, bringing your knees up to your chest with your arm wrapped around them. You felt Kento wrapped around you, warm as you waited.

"It's...it's just been a long week," he continued weakly, "Too much. Just way too much. I didn't get to see Haibara-- it was the anniversary, and I--"

You bit your lip, tears stinging in your nose for Kento. Reassurances flurried out of you. Kento felt himself warm through with your voice, slumped in his armchair, whiskey on his knee, shirt and tie open and messy over his broad chest.

You spoke over the phone, for the first time ever. The intimacy of his breaths, his slow chuckles, the crushed velvet of his tipsy voice...with your eyes closed, he was right beside you. He may as well have been in your bed. Your skin pricked with goosebumps as you heard him shift in his chair, releasing a gravelly groan with his aches and pains.

"You can-- you can come over...if you like. I'm not-- not doing anything," you offered, cringing with regret and anticipation as soon as the words left your mouth. You heard Kento's breathing hitch at the other end of the phone, before he breathed out a long, shivering breath.

"I...not tonight," he spoke, hesitant. Your stomach dropped, blushing, tears threatening to spill out as your face twisted in despair, mortified.

"I've been drinking...and you deserve better. So much better. But...tomorrow?" Your heart leapt, wondering how you would possibly wait that long. You bit your lip, burning with desire and delight as you nodded quickly.

"I-- yes. Yes. Please." Kento huffed out a laugh that had the hairs on your neck stand on end. You shivered in your cold, damp towel.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, just-- just still in a towel, I was having a bath." Kento's breath hitched again, and you were sure you could hear his embarrassment.

"God, I'm so sorry," he pressed against your hurried reassurance, "I'll go, just...go to bed. Warm up, I'll...I'll see you tomorrow." You blushed, kicking your legs, wiggling your toes, overwhelmed with joy.

"Okay. Yep. Bed, I'll-- I'll get dressed," you squeaked, unable to help yourself, teasing him with your feigned innocence. He hummed, low and unreadable.

"Sweet dreams," he said, voice warm as honeyed tea. A brief hesitation, as you both held on...the call ending with a beep.

Kento dropped his phone onto the table beside him, cupping his hands over his mouth. His thighs bounced on the chair in thrill, and he fumbled, swearing as whiskey spilled all over his lap.

The next day, he scooped you into his arms off bloodstained concrete, shielding your gaze as your friend's broken body was shifted into black bags.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento had long-since left the village, since heading to the gates in swathes of snow, his broken leg giving and buckling under him as his Cursed-energy buffeted. He had escaped, cold and tactically driven; better just one dead sorcerer, than two dead sorcerers, after all.

Father Tatsu was certain, howling insults into the snow like a wolf on the mountain. His bounding strides cratered the floor beneath him as he lurched through the Temple, throwing aside the questioning approach of the kimono'd woman. She slammed into the wall in a wet crunch, hit with the force of a high-speed traffic collision. Father Tatsu lurched out into the snow, retching and vomiting again.

Father Tatsu stood strong against the piling drive of snow, a maelstrom against a maelstrom. The village was barely visible in the sea of white, as he staggered towards the black-veined, dead hill of the shrine.

Watching the man zigzag up the hill from a snowy roof, a man surrounded by allies raised his hand to pull his balaclava low, his eyes tempered like chocolate, determined.

"Time to move."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Your heart crumpled under the weight of grief, for a promised life with Kento, never fulfilled as you hung, dying in the red-black gloom. You regretted nothing of the past; only the future you had let slip through your fingers.

The writhing goddess thrummed above you, and viscous pulses of overwhelming power thickened the air. You tried to drink it in, a desperate grasp at life.

A familiar voice called your name in the gloom. You had slipped underwater now, sunk under ice, tangled in reeds.

Kento had nightmares about how he found you, broken, bleeding, hanging and cold, until the day he died.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

One chapter to go! 🤭🤭

Chapter Eight: Unchained, LINK HERE!

@angelofthorr @nn-hh192 @vxmethyst @moonmalice @daisynik7 @heyitsmirae @black-swan-blog27 @vocosys @mischiefmanaged71 @silkspunweb 🐈‍⬛🧎‍♀️ @deegausserr

[delicateflowerss]

Dark Paradise

You try to adjust to a new life, married and living in a manor. But you quickly realize that not everything is what it seems, including your mysterious and devilishly handsome husband, Michael Langdon.

Warnings: 18+, DUB-CON, violence, murder, demon!Michael, blood kink, pain kink, breeding kink, dacryphilia

Word Count: 4.2k

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to the dark corridors where shadows dance in your periphery, or the damp smell that makes you feel like you’re underground. It smells of rotting fruit, a slow and lingering decay, almost like death surrounds you.

As long as it doesn’t reach you.

You’re also not sure if you’ll ever get used to the man that haunts these grounds. This tall, dark manor that sits in the middle of nowhere.

He’s not dead, he’s just your husband.

His appearances to you are scarce, only really seeing him at mealtimes and occasionally passing him in hallways.

He’s elusive, mysterious to you in ways you cannot comprehend. Ever since you arrived at the manor, all you’ve had are questions.

For an unknown reason, you can’t remember your life before this place. All you know is you were married off to a man named Michael Langdon.

Sometimes, you have the strangest dreams with a house that feels like the complete opposite of here. One filled with love and light and white walls, and not this frigidness that wraps around you now.

The days almost feel like they go on forever, blending together as nothing surprising happens.

Until one night, you’re pulled out of a peaceful slumber by a piercing scream.

It takes you a moment to blink away the sleep, wondering if it was real or part of a dream.

It doesn’t take long before another one echoes throughout the manor. It’s shrill, a seemingly female scream.

You clutch the soft sheets under you, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

You think about whether you should lie back down, ignoring it and going back to sleep. But you don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

Perhaps against your better judgement, you leave your bedroom, with only a candle lighting your path through the dark hallways.

Your white nightgown sways as you step between walls covered in paintings. The dim candlelight casts shadows on the faces, giving them a particularly ghoulish look.

You keep walking, hoping to find some sort of sign of what it is that woke you up. You’re not even sure where the scream exactly came from.

Before you can reach Michael’s room, a chill sweeps past you, extinguishing your candle, leaving you shivering in the dark.

A disembodied voice calls out your name in the form of a question.

“What are you doing out of your room?” he asks.

You instantly recognize the voice, and it stops you in your tracks. You swallow as he steps closer to you. Michael is holding a candle, illuminating the glare on his face.

“I thought I heard something. It woke me up,” you say nervously.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he replies, his brow furrowing.

“It sounded like a scream. I thought someone might have gotten hurt.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just have a nightmare?” he asks in an almost mocking manner, a cruel smirk growing on his lips.

“No-.” You sigh, stopping yourself. “No,” you say again, this time quieter.

“Come on. I’ll tuck you in and look under your bed for monsters,” he says, trying to step past you with a teasing grin on his face.

“I know what I heard, Michael.”

He stops, mere inches from your face and he can see the seriousness that settles in your eyes.

It doesn’t stop his own icy blue eyes from growing colder.

His gaze rakes over you before he leans in closer, warm breath fanning over your lips as he says, “you didn’t hear anything, Y/N. Time to go back to bed.”

You think your own breathing has stopped before he leaves you, going back to his bedroom.

That’s when your goosebumps return, Michael taking all warmth with him.

You’ve sat in the library all day, reading by the window as rain hits the glass. You decided that you’ll read every book in this place since you don’t have much else to do. You’re on 28 out of 11,200. Thunder rumbles above you as you turn the page.

Nothing has happened since you heard the scream, helping you to believe that it was either a dream or your sleep-addled imagination. You tried asking your handmaid if she heard anything that night, but she said no, giving you a strange look like you might be going mad.

You quickly shut up about it.

Michael hasn’t brought it up, which you’re somewhat grateful for because if he did, it would probably be to make fun of you some more.

Even if he has been polite enough about it, it’s been difficult to be around him. He’s always had an intense gaze but something about it has changed. It lingers for too long.

You think that’s always been the case. But now you react differently, a heat growing in your cheeks and a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach.

“Are you hiding from me for a reason?”

You practically jump, startled by the deep voice near your ear.

You close your book and look over your shoulder, finding Michael standing behind you. Amusement lights up his face and his hands are clasped together behind him.

“Do you normally spend your time in here?” he asks, eyes scanning the room, finding books from floor to ceiling and a fire raging, keeping you warm.

“Sometimes.”

You stare at him, still confused as to why he’s bothering you. Shouldn’t he be busy with something?

“So why do you seem to be in here more than you used to be?”

He steps over to the chair you’re sitting in, wood creaking underneath him. He looks over your shoulder, reading the title of your leatherbound book.

You swallow, able to smell the rich scent he wears. It’s musky with a dash of sweetness, like a piece of fruit being harvested from the earth.

“Just reading more, I guess,” you finally answer his question.

“Hm, well I wanted to apologize for the other night.” He pauses, like it’s hard to get the words out. “You were obviously shaken, and I could’ve been nicer.”

Even if his apology could be more genuine, at least it’s an apology.

“I also want to give you something,” he says before placing something on a side table near you.

You pull your brows together as you take in the gift.

“A pomegranate?” you ask, moving your gaze to him, eyebrows raised.

He picks the piece of fruit back up, mischief dancing in his eyes. In one motion, he cracks the rouge skin open, revealing hundreds of little seeds.

He gathers exactly four seeds in the palm of his hand, setting the rest of the fruit back down.

Without saying anything, he brings his hand closer to you, offering it as if you have no choice but to accept.

You hesitate for a moment before reaching to grab them from the palm of his large hand.

But when your skin brushes against his, a gasp falls from your lips, an image flashing in front of you.

It’s Michael, but he looks different…wearing different clothes than he wears now, almost like a school uniform.

The pomegranate seeds fall to the floor before you look up at him.

There’s a question in his eyes that almost matches yours. But it’s just a flicker of confusion before it disappears, turning into irritation.

He clasps his hands together again before leaning down to you and saying lowly, “if you make a mess, you must clean it up. Remember that.”

You keep your eyes away from him, not able to look at him. You can faintly hear him walk away, but your mind is too focused on the words that seem to have another meaning to them. A meaning that makes heat swirl inside you.

The sun is out today, but just barely. It peeks slightly behind gray clouds. You’ll take it over nothing, deciding it called for a stroll in the garden.

Except, as you look around, you realize there isn’t much of a garden. The flowers seem to be withering away, drooping without life and leaves almost crumbling to dust.

It must be the lack of sunshine, you think as you frown.

It’s so hard to find beauty in a place like this, instead only finding death and tragedy.

Without intending to, your mind wanders to a certain someone. You suppose not all beauty is lost.

You still have been avoiding Michael to the best of your abilities, still unsure what happened that day in the library.

You’re also unsure of your growing feelings for him. He is your husband, but it’s also true you two never consummated the marriage.

He never wanted to, and at first, you were grateful. But now, as you think of his golden curls and sharp jawline that could have been crafted by the gods themselves, you wonder if it would help ease the tension between you. Maybe it’s what you need to do in order to have a normal conversation with him.

But nothing about him is normal. He might be beautiful, but you can’t ignore the darkness that lies in his eyes and makes up his entire being.

You stop, finding a faded yellow flower sprouting from the ground. You bend down, pulling it up. Standing up, you stare at it in your hand, and you can’t help but wish it was alive.

You sigh, eyes closing, almost in defeat. But when you open them, you can’t believe what you see.

The flower is now a bright yellow, looking like it belongs in a vase full of fresh-cut daffodils.

It’s like the flower was resuscitated right between your fingers, finally getting the oxygen it so desperately needed.

There is no way you did this, so how is this possible?

Dinner is mostly eaten in silence. Some small talk is exchanged but you can tell Michael can barely bare it, gritting his teeth as you ask him how his day was.

Michael enjoys more intellectually stimulating conversation. It just so happens that usually means arguing with you or teasing you about something. So, you’re not very fond of it.

Once the plates are taken away, you think you can finally breathe, ready to take your leave to your room.

Just as you’re getting up, Michael stops you.

“Sit down. You haven’t had your dessert yet.”

“Dessert? We only have that on special occasions,” you retort, sitting back down.

“Well, you didn’t get to finish it the other day.”

You part your lips to question him again, but it’s answered when a maid places a plate in front of you.

A pomegranate split in half sits before you.

Michael seems to be waiting for your reaction when you lock eyes with him.

“What is with you and pomegranates?”

“They’re in season. I just want you try it.”

He leans back in his chair, giving a smile that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. Instead, you find a glint there instead.

You nervously look down at the fruit, mulling over what he wants you to do.

You blink and you suddenly see that the red fruit has turned into a human heart, bloody and still beating.

You gasp, eyes widening as you push back your chair.

You look back to Michael, wondering if he sees it too. You’re met with a cold stare, his finger impatiently tapping on the table.

You frown, your eyes going back to the plate only to find the pomegranate.

Tears spring to your eyes as you consider the real fact that you’re losing your mind.

You don’t notice Michael getting up to stand next to you, your broken mind too caught up with all the peculiar things happening in the last couple of weeks.

He gently puts his hand on your shoulder, taking you out of the torment you’re putting yourself through.

By the time you turn to look at him, he has a few pomegranate seeds on his fingertips. You can smell the sweetness as he brings them closer to your lips.

“Don’t think about it. Just eat them,” he says as two of his fingers move past your lips and into your mouth.

You hum lowly in your throat as you taste how delicious they are, lips clasping tighter around Michael’s fingers, your tongue swirling around them.

He breaks the seal, removing his fingers before you swallow. He watches your throat move up and down, taking his offering.

You don’t miss the satisfied smirk on his plump lips.

It’s a night of tossing and turning. You’re able to sleep but it’s restless. Thoughts of Michael still lingering hours after he fed you the pomegranate.

When you’re finally able to sleep for more than an hour, you’re woken up by a scream similar to the one that woke you up weeks ago.

You know you heard it. It’s not in your imagination. No matter what Michael wants you to believe.

You don’t even think about it as you leave your bed, practically storming down the hall, deciding to leave behind a lit candle for light.

You pass Michael’s bedroom, getting closer to the faint sounds of cries and screams.

At the end of the hallway lies a singular door painted blood red.

You’ve never dared to go through it because when you arrived at the manor, you were told it is off limits.

Every time you would look at it, the hairs on your neck would stand up, giving you reason enough to never investigate it.

But now, you know you have to, tired of not knowing the truth.

When you step through the doorway, the air feels heavy, like all the light has been sucked out, only leaving a darkness that sits on your chest, making sure you cannot take a breath.

It’s pitch black, stairs going down to seemingly nowhere or possibly the pits of Hell. So, it’s either idiotic or suicidal why you decide to go down them.

Once you go down the stairs, a sweltering heat is the first thing you feel, like fire blistering your skin. It’s so bright down at the bottom of the stairs that it reflects in the irises of your eyes.

Hundreds of candles are lit with a few fires alongside them. The walls seem to be made of the earth, like a cave.

You don’t exactly understand what is going on, crouched at the bottom of the stairs spotting Michael walking toward a man sitting on the ground.

Cries and screams of “no” fall from the man as Michael brings a small knife to the man’s throat.

He slices it open, like a bleeding smile, his cries ceasing.

A sadistic smirk paints Michael’s lips, a satisfied one that is so similar to the one he had when he fed you the pomegranate seeds.

That’s when you notice everyone else. Bodies littered around the room, both alive and dead. Blood seeping from their various wounds. The ones who are alive seem to be chained to the floor or the walls, like they’re being tortured.

You can’t help the strangled cry that leaves your mouth, your stomach churning, thinking of the horror that the man you’re married to has been enacting.

You catch yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth. But it’s too late. He heard you.

Michael meets your gaze, and it only takes you a split second to get up and run back up the stairs.

You rush through the house, finding the front doors that keep you trapped inside this prison from the rest of the world.

You fling them open, running barefoot past the garden into the trees that border the manor.

Except just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you’re entering another door, one that goes right back inside the manor.

You look around with bewilderment, your mind racing to try and figure out what is going on. But you just end up hitting a brick wall, wanting to collapse into tears while nothing makes sense. You feel like the floor is moving, like your world has been tilted.

“Don’t cry, little witch.”

You turn to find Michael at the top of the main staircase, looking at you with a sort of curiosity and feigned sympathy.

“What?” you ask, voice cracking.

He continues down the stairs, stepping closer to you.

“Stay away from me,” you yell, voice still thick with tears. “I’m getting out of here.”

“You can try as long as you want to get away. But you’ll always end up back here.”

His looming figure is blurry as you blink away the tears.

You let him get closer, his thumb wiping your tear-stained cheeks.

“You poor thing.” You hear him mutter like you’re some naïve little lamb that needs to be protected.

“You’re stuck here,” he explains. “Those seeds you ate bound you here forever. With me, little witch,” he adds with a grumbling chuckle.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You don’t remember,” he observes, tilting his head at you, like you’re his science experiment.

He thinks for a moment before continuing, “I suppose it would be better if you remembered. Then we really can have fun.”

Before you can protest or say anything, everything goes black.

Certain details are still fuzzy when you regain consciousness, but you remember it all.

You were a powerful witch in a coven. You remember your sisters and your Supreme, Cordelia.

You also remember him.

Cordelia made a deal. She knew who Michael really was, so she did anything she could to send him away, lock him up within the gates of Hell.

She had to make a sacrifice, and it just so happened to be you.

She came up with a loophole for you. The problem is that you couldn’t remember what it was when you arrived here.

You look around at your surroundings for the first time, finding yourself inside a circle of lit candles.

You try to move outside of the confines of the circle, but it’s like an invisible barrier is up.

You lie back down in defeat.

There is no fighting him or getting out. You ate the seeds of the pomegranate.

If enough time had passed without you eating them, you could’ve gotten away from here like Cordelia wanted.

Now you’ve sealed your fate. You’ve been promised to The Beast.

It’s not long before a door creaks open. The man you’ll be forced to spend eternity with, walks through the door.

“I imagine that was an enlightening nap,” he says, fighting off a mocking grin.

You swallow, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him.

“I was right that it would be better if you remember. I can feel the hatred coming off you. I like that more than indifference.”

He pauses, his eyes raking over your body, like he’s hungry and you’re his next meal.

“Of course, other feelings haven’t changed. You know, it was so hard not to say anything that day in the library when I could smell how wet you were.”

You finally turn to look at him, eyes widening at his casual vulgarity.

“Or any of the other times you were clenching your thighs together. And all because of me,” he adds, eyes full of mirth.

“You’re lying,” you argue, but you can’t deny how warm your cheeks are getting.

“Am I?” he challenges. “It really wouldn’t matter. You’re mine to do as I please with.”

You try to hide the waves of heat you feel, but you can’t successfully hide anything from him.

“What would your Supreme think if she knew how easily you gave into me? If she knew how much of a whore, you are?”

He walks around you in circles like you’re prey that he’s just playing with until he’s ready to feast.

It’s dizzying.

“Maybe I couldn’t stop Cordelia from trapping me here, but I knew I wasn’t going to let you go. Her silly plan with the pomegranates,” he laughs. “I was going to pull you down to the depths of Hell with me. Which is where you’ll be for the rest of eternity.”

You shake your head, wanting him to stop taunting you.

“You’re a monster, Michael,” you harshly say. “I’m sure you feel more at home here.”

He just gives you a humorless laugh, something cruel settling in his eyes.

“Cordelia doesn’t care about you. Her hatred for me outweighed whatever love she had for you. She’s probably forgotten all about you.”

You try to pretend that his words don’t claw at your chest.

“But if I’m going to have my little witch by my side,” he continues. “She can’t be an insolent one.”

You instantly regret hurling any insults at him.

“I think it’s time you learn how things are going to work around here.”

He steps inside the circle, barely giving you time to move out of his way.

“On your knees. Now,” he says, his voice sounding gravelly.

You scramble to kneel at his second command.

“Tell me, little witch. Who’s your God?”

You look up at him, confusion in your eyes.

“What?”

The palm of his hand meets your cheek, moving your head to the side. A slight sting burns your skin.

“Let’s try that again. Who is your God?”

You just shake your head, trying not to let the tears fall from your eyes.

His palm slaps your other cheek, the same biting feeling spreading through your face.

“We can keep doing this until you get it right.”

At least when Michael walked the earth, he had many people to subject his torture too. Now, he just has you. And any other sorry soul that might cross his path, you think. The image of crimson pouring from that man’s neck is still burned into your mind.

“You, Michael. You’re my God,” you defeatedly say.

“And how should you worship your God?”

You catch his gaze, unsure how to answer.

All he does is move his hand to undo his pants, unzipping them until you get what he means.

Your eyelashes flutter as you move your face closer to his cock.

He’s already hard, so you give a small lick to his tip, tasting the salty evidence of his arousal.

He watches you start to put his cock into your mouth and down your throat.

A groan falls from his lips as you begin to fuck him with your throat, spit spilling out of your mouth as you choke on his size.

He puts a hand to the back of your head, helping you to take almost all of him. You can feel your own arousal coating your inner thighs.

“I knew you were good for something,” he says as you gag a little.

He surprises you by pulling you off him, letting you fall onto your ass while your drool hits your chin.

He’s quick to grab you, pinning you to the floor as he puts his weight on top of you.

“I want you to feel me cum inside you.”

He doesn’t waste any time before he rips your white nightgown off you, seeing your naked body for the first time.

His own clothes come off and you hate that even if you know how much of a monster he is, all you can think about is him fucking you.

His hands have your wrists underneath them, pushed into the cold hard floor. You can’t move if you wanted to, but you don’t think you would anyway.

All you do is blink, and his face has changed. His skin is paler with cracks running through it, almost like cement. And his eyes have gone black, no light or emotion to be seen, just darkness, an overwhelming evil you’ve never seen or felt before.

It frightens you. His body is colder as he pushes inside you, a growl coming from deep in his throat.

He doesn’t care to wait for you to adjust, he’s rough in his thrusts, setting a pace that already leaves you gasping for air.

“Michael,” you cry out. “It hurts.”

You know you sound pathetic which is almost worse than how full you feel, your cunt stretching to accommodate the size of him.

“Good,” is all he says.

He licks and bites at your breasts, playing with your nipples between his fingers. It’s both pain and pleasure and it drives you insane. You can feel him deep inside you, the tip of his cock hitting that soft spot nestled in you.

You wrap your legs around him, your walls clenching around him.

He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears from the pain you have felt. He just licks it up, finding your pain to be delicious.

His lips drag against your throat, teeth nipping at the delicate skin.

He whispers, “I can’t wait to see you swollen with my baby. Evidence of how you belong to me.”

You can feel your pussy squeeze him at the thought, the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

He captures your lips in a sloppy kiss as he moves his hand down to rub your aching bundle of nerves.

It’s enough for the coil to snap. It’s only moments later when you feel him twitch inside you, coating your walls with his cum. He bites down on your shoulder, and you cry out in pain as he laps up the blood that seeps from the wound, soothing it with his tongue.

He’s breathless as he collapses on top of you, his skin going back to its usual color.

Your mind isn’t clouded with pleasure anymore, but you bring a hand to the curls on his head anyway.

He moves his head slightly to look at you, a smirk forming on his lips.

“If only Cordelia could see you now.”

[fedcrypt]

THE WAYWARD HOME

beetlejuice verse x female!reader

WRITING WARNINGS: established relationship with lydia deetz, beej is here and is bestie coded, also reader can feel energies and see ghosts when she channels into her ability!

XOXO, CHESHIRE — i love lydia sm and i wanted to make a really small ramble about the beautiful house that the deetz found and took from barbara and adam after their passing plus how beej would react to lydia finding someone <3!

the moment that lydia had brought her home, she had felt a safe comforting presence in that seemingly interesting house that everyone was curious about. y/n had felt at home, alongside her girlfriend.

there was something, some form of energy that resided here, one that made her happy and the poor girl couldn’t figure out what that was. maybe it was the deranged artwork that was put outside in the front yard.

maybe it was the nice dark wooden tones mixed with the pretty wallpaper upon the walls that gave it a similar sense to a nice little funky shaped cottage. maybe it was the small yet sensible kitchen that had been redone and made more modern by lydia’s step mother who hadn’t fully destroyed the previous style of the home during a second remodel.

it seemed like a lot of memories were made in that kitchen even with the remodel and it made the young woman smile softly to herself as she stood there while lydia awkwardly explained the situation of changing up the kitchen. the energy that sounded throughout the kitchen made y/n perk up even more as she felt someone staring at her from the entryway of the kitchen. she knew that lydia and herself were the only ones in the house and perhaps it was one of the rumored ghosts that the town had spread around.

her (e/c) eyes scanned around the room until it lead her to the doorway where she saw a man dressed in a black and white striped suit grinning wildly at her and she knew it meant trouble. “oh dude, the green really doesn’t go with the outfit.” y/n remarked before she could stop herself and her girlfriend immediately stopped rambling about some appliance in the kitchen before turning to face the (h/c) haired woman.

“lydia, babes, how dare you break my heart like this?” the ghoulish man remarked as he placed two hands over his heart to make a jointed fist and collapsed onto the ground upon the sight of seeing his beloved lydia with someone else. “you are quite literally the most dramatic thing i’ve seen.” y/n quipped with a grin as she saw the green haired man look up at her with quirked brows and a smirk upon his face.

“you can see him?!” the raven haired woman nearly screeched as she looked between her ghostly bestfriend and her lover. “surprise i’ve seen ghosts and others since i was a child.” the other woman replied as she chuckled and helped the ghost, who was begging her with a look similar to puppy eyes, off of the ground and he was quick to pull her down with him. “oh babes can we keep her? please, oh please, oh pretty please.”

beetlejuice had glanced over at lydia whom was grinning and trying to stop herself from laughing about the situation. “hmmm i guess she’s alright to keep around.” lydia teased as her girlfriend gasped at the absurdly of her teasing words which was nearly drowned out by beetlejuice’s loud cackling as he grabbed lydia’s hand and pulled her down with them, leaving the three of them intertwined in a weird embrace upon the marble flooring, which was the sight that had greeted barbara and adam, a few moments later.

[demontonic]

Ethan Landry - Perverted 2

I know it took me forever to finish this but its finally here! Read part 1 if have you havent already! This is it though i dont think ill be making a part three but heres my masterlist if you want more from me

word count: 3990

tw: blood, fighting, knife play, alcohol, dacryphilia, ethan is plowing through you idk what else to say

A month, one whole month and you had yet to tell anyone of what you saw. It was nearing halloween, more people started buying ghostface costumes unbeknownst- or rather in their own ignorance- the victims of woodsboro were amongst them. The uprising of the ghoulish mask had the group on edge, that being the original five as the others didn’t even flinch at the sight. Ethan had been getting closer and closer to you, going so far as sneaking into your room while you were awake, asleep, studying, showering. In a way you were flattered, amused by his boyish antics but there were times you had realizations that he was- no is a killer. At first the noise of your window sliding open followed by footsteps had you reaching for your knife, or any object you could defend yourself with. Now when you hear it, sometimes you don’t even acknowledge him until he speaks, questioning your behavior, lack of honesty, or even your mood.

At some point you convinced yourself he was trying to collect more information on you. Typically you could gather a lot from social media, or just being friends but you had avoided him so much, now was his time to get to know you. He told himself every time you crossed his mind it was purely for the end goal, but he knew you were twisted. He could tell by the way you never told anyone, or how you would react to him creeping through your window. There were times where he would leave, and wait on the fire escape until you fell asleep to go back in and just lay next to you, imagining a domestic life where he didn’t have a bloodlust. A life where he didn’t meet you the way he did, a sweet fairytale story to tell your future kids. He’d make sure he was a better father, never picking favorites and raising them right. You being his stay at home wife, going out everyday to provide for his family that he would love. Coming home at night and sleeping next to this beautiful being that he felt so normal around, but he would always have to leave and dream of waking up next to you.

Today was no different, you’d wake up, go to your classes, have lunch with the group, and then go home- or so you thought. Today had been slightly different, the entire university buzzing with comments about a halloween party. Like normal you had assumed you were going to stay home as you did for most parties and events. In your Literature course Ethan had decided to sit next to you, whispering a little too close to your ear about the party. He wanted you to go with him, and the group of course but he talked about you dressing as a princess as he would be a makeshift knight. Your face burned at the suggestion of corresponding outfits but you declined saying you most likely wouldn’t show. You noticed the immediate change in his demeanor, something that you had seen multiple times. He could be sweet, quiet, soft, well spoken, or he could be harsh, sharp tongued, quick witted, and stern. It was a real Jekyll and Hyde situation, at first it was frightening but now it was just a matter of knowing how to combat his remarks.

“You will look best in a burgundy dress, the color against your skin will be absolutely stunning” his breath fanned against your ear, voice dropping to the one you assumed he used when he made the calls. Ethan’s voice was as strong as the gaze he held, you felt it linger as the warmth of his body left yours. It almost made you shiver, almost refusing to meet his dark eyes knowing you’d be met with the void that accompanied this version of him. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” you dropped your pen on the dark wooden desk before averting your eyes to his. First they held that dark void that came with the demeanor, but a few seconds after they went back to warm doe eyes you had first become infatuated with. The ones that stared at you from the floor of your room when you were half asleep finishing schoolwork. A sigh left his chest, almost unnoticeable if you hadn’t known his body language inside and out.

“It’s rude not to… please come to the party tonight it’s gonna be fun,” a crooked smile found its way onto his lips, his teeth peeking out slightly. You looked back towards the professor trying to fill the blanks from where you had stopped taking notes. “I’ll think about it Ethan, I wouldn’t even be able to get a dress such short notice- I don’t even like frat parties to begin with-“

“Stop whining and try to have fun, I don’t like crowds but it’s gonna be a one time thing,” he assured you as he stared at your hand scribble on the paper. Ethan always found himself tuning out to the sound of your pen writing on paper, the smell of your perfume, shampoo, chapstick. He even became accustomed to the tinge of weed under the coconut and vanilla body spray you favored, it was your scent, every product you used. The candles you lit, the oils you put in your diffuser, even your favorite drinks like vanilla frappuccino with coconut milk, or coconut water, vanilla milkshakes- he almost had a whole journal just for you.

“I said I’ll think abou-“

“Please”

Pleading? Asking? Begging? No, it was a demand disguised as a question to make it seem like you had a choice. Did you? Of course, you were a grown woman who could make her own decisions. No matter how he looked at you with those pretty brown eyes you stood your ground.

“I will think about it”. Alarms buzzed around the room signaling the end of this afternoon class, luckily it was your last class today. You quickly shoved your materials into your bag before weaving through the crowd of students, surely losing Ethan in the process. He was a stubborn little shit sometimes as you’ve come to notice, it made you feel special. With others he was a pushover, too scared to say no and always just doing what he was told. With you he felt comfortable voicing his opinions, speaking his mind, you were far past him whispering empty threats into your ear late at night. Now you talked about what he would be doing if he wasn’t doing the whole ghostface shitshow, if he hadn’t followed the ways of his father whom he’d yet to reveal. Some nights he asked about you, your childhood, aspirations, fantasies and then sometimes you would try to talk him out of following through. He’d always laugh and tease you about trying to be his savior, and falling in love with him but maybe it was he who’d fallen for you. Through the fog and the rain, you’d sparked a lantern within him, if he’d follow was still a decision he’d yet to make.

Arriving at your shared apartment the girls sat in the kitchen talking about the party. Sam had been long gone as she went to work, Quinn helped Tara figure out the pirate-esque outfit she was to wear. It was odd however, the redhead pulled a tight lipped smile with a slight tilt of the head before Tara fully turned to you. The smaller girl ran to capture your abdomen in a hug and then jumped in front of you excitedly.

“You didn’t tell us you and Ethan had gotten somewhere!” She practically vibrated in place, waiting for you to spill some details with eager eyes. Quinn had sat down, watching the exchange with her head resting in the palm of her hand.

“That dork actually had the balls to ask for some help,” she said in a gruff voice, you assumed she was tired from her classes although it felt entirely wrong. Jealousy couldn’t be it. She had plenty of guys basically at their knees for a chance with her. “Help? With what exactly I don’t under-“

“The par- Oh my gosh! Did he not ask you yet? Were we supposed to wait?”

“He asked me to the party Tara don’t worry, I just said I’d think about it- BESIDES I don’t have anything close to what he wants me to wear… Where are you going?” You placed a hand on your hip, eyes following the small brunette as she pulled a bag up from the couch.

“Oh no”

“Oh yes”

“No”

“Ohhh yes!”

It was 6pm, time had blurred together as Tara was busying herself with getting you ready. You both decided it would be the easier route to straighten your hair, and to go with a simple eyeliner and mascara than a full caked face. On the daily you made the effort to apply mascara and eyeliner but Tara suggested a pop of color to which you reluctantly agreed. You knew once you got there you’d be splurging in the variety of alcohol they undoubtedly had so opted for a matte red lipstick. Within that time you had discovered Ethan had been in cahoots with Tara and Quinn for the past two weeks in order to have your ‘costume’ ready. The whole thing made you feel wrong, like you were being pampered for him, after all this was his money you were wearing. A part of you however felt like a high school girl getting ready for her first date, maybe over time you had grown a deeper passion for him. You spent more time together than you had even stopped to realize before. Besides that you hadn’t minded him sneaking into your room almost every night like some forbidden love. It was forbidden in all reality, it was wrong, sick, insane, but the sweet boy had weaseled his way into your heart. So as you sat here sitting in front of your mirror, spraying some perfume and patting down your hair, a smile made its way onto your face.

You held open the door for Tara, Quinn opting to stay home with her latest catch, you two started walking to the frat house. The cool air against your body helped as your heart was beating so fast you thought you’d pass out. All dolled up for a man that was burdened with sins you didn’t even remember at this point because all you could think about was not making a fool of yourself. Walking into the party was a hard task, you were already irritated from the pushing and shoving you made a beeline for the hard liquor. Tara had gone for something lighter and assured you it was okay to split up since Mindy and Anika would be with her. Chad had texted you once Tara told him you had made it, so after you had a cup of malibu with a drop of pineapple juice you started to make your way to the boys. By the time you got there half your cup was empty, in all honesty without it you’d be a shaking mess. Chad had grabbed you before you could confront the bitch you had jabbed her heel onto your foot. He always knew you were hotheaded, never scared to scrap with a random chick for fucking with you so he had to be your voice of reason.

“You just got here, try not to get kicked out so soon,” he joked as he walked you over to the doorway they’d stationed at. “Besides, lover boy has been waiting so patiently for you,” he whispered in your ear, playing it off like he was looking behind you. Ethan stood there in his nerdy cardboard costume, a bucket shaped ‘helmet’ on his head paired with a crooked smile. His eyes however held something mischievous, you hadn’t noticed until Ethan put a hand firmly on your waist that Chad left you two alone.

“I was starting to worry that you stood me up, especially after I bought this for you. I hope you can forgive me for taking things into my own hands, I wanted to spend at least one normal night with you.” Ethan spoke next to your ear over the loud music, it was almost too intimidating for you. One hand was on your waist, and the other loosely holding your wrist like he was scared you’d leave him. You laughed nervously before downing what was left in your cup, setting it down on the nearest table.

“It would’ve been rude to reject your gifts, besides it wouldn’t hurt to go out every now and then.” You placed your hands on his forearms, trying to hold your composure as everything felt so overwhelming. His eyes were sharp, like he was trying to read your expressions as if they were hard to decipher. Both of you were still in each other's presence like you were basking in the meld of your auras. For a moment it felt comforting like there would be no consequences and maybe it was the full cup of alcohol or the scenery but you want nothing more than to feel his plump lips against your skin. It would’ve been sweet if it weren’t for a red headed bitch completely inserting herself into your short conversation.

“Oh my god Ethan Landry with the basket case, what a match made in hell. Two losers made for each other, how disgusting!” Audrey, you knew her name purely because she had been a lowlife that thought too highly of herself. She had tried to get Ethan to be her lap dog in a few classes, always batting her eyes trying to get him to do her essays. He never went for it, he wasn’t some stupid jerk off dying to hump her leg like most of the male population on campus. You had been itching to ring her by that orange hair of hers, especially now.

“Oh get over yourself, you’re just a ran through whore clinging to whoever you think you can push around. Honestly it’s a bit sad how all you have now is some fake tits your daddy bought and loose pussy.” To say you shocked yourself would be an overstatement, but you didn’t expect all of it to come out so easily. Hell even Ethan looked at you as you practically ended her college reputation. The surrounding people catching on slightly to the tension turned the music down so they could tune in.

“I think you’re just mad because you’re a sad pothead with no future.”

“I think you’re just mad because you couldn’t get Ethan to do your work because the fumes from your hair dye killed your brain cells.”

“I’m a natural redhead!”

“Okay fire crotch watch how you talk to me before I check your attitude.”

“You won’t do shit you suicidal bi-“

The whole room gasped, the air felt too hot for you, you almost didn’t feel the impact on your knuckles. Ethan tried to hold onto you but you tore away from his grasp too quickly and before he knew it you had punched Audrey. For a moment you thought you drew blood, but you quickly realized it was the fake blood from her half assed vampire costume. She tried to get back at you but she tripped over her hooker heels and practically fell onto you. Of course you shoved her back onto the floor, everyone laughed at her pathetic attempt at a comeback.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink, you should take a nap baby.” You laughed as you watched her slowly rise from the wood flooring. Tears streamed down her face as her head hung down, too embarrassed to face the crowd.

“You’ll pay for this you bitch.”

“Oh boo, you whore!” She walked out of the room, the music quickly returning to its eardrum shattering volume. Ethan was leaning against the door frame by the time you made your way back to him. He had his bottom lip in between his teeth as he watched you walk back, his hands quickly resting on your hips.

“I’m not saying you didn’t scare me a little but… that was kinda hot.” Thank the higher beings for the colorful lights, your face was so red from both the heat and Ethan. Your chest swelled with pride as the serial killer applauded you for taking a swing at that stuck up bitch.

“Someone had to do it eventually, so will you come downstairs with me for a drink?” You pulled on his ‘chest plate’ as he nodded, following closely behind you. After a few shots and strong drinks Ethan had convinced you it was time to leave before you ‘got into any more trouble’. You weren’t hammered but not sober either, so of course he walked you to your apartment.

“How fun I get to walk through your front door this time,” alluding to all the times he’d climb through your window.

“No one ever said you couldn’t, I think the girls would’ve actually gotten a kick out of it.” You smiled as you walked through the door, already going towards your room. However before you opened it you realized Ethan had stopped following you. Instead he leaned onto the wall before your door, looking at you expectantly.

“Don’t act shy now Eth, you’ve been here how many times?”

“I told you I wanted one normal night.”

“Well if you ask me I think I preferred you just coming in through my window, no invitation required.” Again, his demeanor changed as his tall frame straightened and walked towards you. A small tilt of his head and then suddenly he was kissing you, it was rough, demanding, dominant. One of his arms wrapped around your waist before he reached behind you and opened your door. You stumbled back as he slammed it shut, locking it too before resuming the sloppy kiss. He walked you backwards towards your bed, lifting you easily by the hips and tossing you down softly. The diadem on your head was pulled off and placed on your side table, his helmet had been long gone, laying somewhere on your floor. He quickly pulled his chest piece off and threw it somewhere, shocking you in the process as his abs peeked from under the long sleeved shirt he wore under it.

“So you like the psycho killer version of me better than an econ geek?” His question sounded breathless, both of your faces flushed as he knelt between your legs. You dress barely stopping at your upper thighs, his hair messy and tangled from your hands.

“If I say yes, are you going to kill me mister ghostface?” You asked just as breathless as he was, a smirk plastered on your lips as you watched his expression mirror yours. You almost miss it, his god-like features distracting you as he pulls out a knife, pressing the tip to your throat.

“Of course not baby, I’d never hurt you, I’m just trying to figure out what you’re into.”

“Well this is kinda doing it for me if that helps.” He smiled before trailing the blade all the way down between your thighs, severing the straps of your panties. He didn’t pull the fabric off, not yet anyways, instead pulled his shirt off before leaving dark hickeys all over your neck and collar bones. Your fingers tangled in the mess of curls as he made his way across your exposed skin. Quiet sighs leave your chest as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to your body. His hips began to grind against you, the rough feel of his jeans caused you to shiver under his herculean body.

You don’t know how much time had passed, but the rest of your clothing had been tossed to the floor. Ethan's face was settled between your thighs as you neared your third orgasm. He was fucking you with his tongue as his thumb stayed on your clit, harshly overstimulating you. Your thighs couldn’t even squeeze around his head at this point, they rested on his strong shoulders, shaking and trembling. Tears were welling up in your eyes as your back arched off the bed again, crying out his name as you came on his face. He sat up, crawling closer to you as you trembled underneath him. All he did was smile softly, his canines poking against his lower lip. Your eyeliner had run down your cheeks, your hair tangled and frizzy.

“You look so pretty crying, shaking, and begging. I should’ve been fucking you like this every night for the past month.” As he spoke he traced your face lightly with the tip of his knife, his cock slick with precum as he rubbed it against your clit. Your legs shook with every move he made, you were far beyond overstimulated; this was insanity. You weren’t even sure if you were forming proper words as he began to slide his thick cock into your sensitive cunt. Your nails scratched at his v-line, no doubt drawing blood from his pale skin as he bottomed out. He hissed as he quickly drug his blade across the top of one of your hands. It was a small thin slice barely even bleeding, you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t watched him do it. Anyone would’ve pulled their hand away but it just made you dig your nails deep into his hips. He tossed the knife onto the floor and grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them against your chest as he began to rock slowly in and out of you. Your head dropped back on your pillow as your mouth opened in a silent whine. His lips held a smirk as his pace sped up, head dipping down to your neck as quiet whimpers left his throat. You started crying as you felt another orgasm building from his rough pace, you bit down on his shoulder since your dry throat could barely let your moans out. He groaned at your action and seemingly went faster, you pleaded against his hot skin but he only kept on. Once his hands left your wrists to hold your thighs apart, your nails clawed down his back. The moans coming from him sounded so heavenly, almost pathetic despite him having full control.

He pulled back from you, fully sitting up but his brutal rhythm was unforgiving. He held your hips off the bed as he plowed into your throbbing cunt. Finally a stutter in his pace as he neared his orgasm. He groaned, his head falling back as his thrusts became sporadic causing your body to move upwards on the bed. Your hands braced against the wall as he lost himself in the build of his climax. You cried out into the dim room, your pussy clenching around him as you came. He fucked you until you were squirming under him again, he pulled out and came onto your stomach moaning your name lowly. Ethan stilled for a moment, until finally his hands dropped your thighs and he laid next to you. He pulled your leg onto his waist, pulling you against him as you both tried to catch your breath. Your hand rested on his waist and your head on his chest, it was finally calm again.

The next morning when both of you woke up, you walked into the living room to find the entire group. When they noticed you two together it was like they snapped out of a daze. They joked about how it took way too long for either of you to make the first move. It didn’t take long however for the dread to settle back in as the news reporter spoke of two college students being murdered last night.

@hana-1235

@i-do-be-vibinn

@meh-karma

@cumbermovels

@acornacreacure

@c0untryclub

[ramblingoak]

Promise Me

For @midnight-moth who requested Terzo x Omega and a kiss "as a promise" from this list.

Terzo x Omega

~ As their bus heads to the final stop of the tour Omega finds himself comforting a Terzo who is scared of what the future holds... ~

Warnings: references to what happens on stage at the end Terzo's final performance so, you know, ANGST but otherwise it's sfw, 1k words (thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the dividers!)

His Papa was nervous.

Omega didn’t even need his quintessence to know that.  While Papa had never been good at sitting still the past few days he had been extra fidgety.  Constantly adjusting his gloves and his robes, fixing his hair, tapping his fingers against any nearby surface…twitchy is what Alpha had said.  Omega agreed with him that there was definitely something going on with their Papa and as the tour got closer and closer to ending it only seemed to get worse.

Now he just seemed scared.

“Papa?”  Omega winced when the man flinched.  He hadn’t meant to startle him but he didn’t want to wake up the others on the tour bus so he had crept up on the man while he sat in the lounge area.  “Is everything alright?”

“Sì, sì.  All is fine, tesoro.”

The endearment he used for Omega never failed to make his heart flutter in his chest.  He moved closer to the plush chair Papa was sitting in, hesitating for only a moment before dropping to his knees.  When he covered the man’s own knees with his large hands Papa was quick to put his over Omega’s.  He wasn’t wearing his gloves, in fact he wasn’t wearing much of anything.  Just a silky pair of sleep pants that felt nice and cool against Omega’s rough skin.

“Couldn’t sleep?”  His question earned him just a brief shake of Papa’s head, nothing more.  “Is there anything I can do to help, Papa?”

“Terzo.”  The man squeezed Omega’s hands hard as he spoke and the ghoul’s eyes shot up to meet the mismatched gaze he had grown to love.  There was an unreadable look on his Papa’s face and Omega couldn’t help but lean closer.  “When it’s just us, I am Terzo.  Okay?”

“Okie dokie.”  

Using Papa’s, no Terzo’s, familiar phrase earned him a smile and absolutely nothing could stop Omega from leaning in and covering those lips with his own.  Terzo’s mouth tasted like tea and the throat lozenges he popped like candy in between performances and Omega couldn’t help but push his tongue in deeper, chasing the taste as much as he could.  He pushed in closer, Terzo’s legs widening to allow him room.  While Terzo moved his hands to Omega’s shoulders, quickly slipping them around his neck, Omega kept one on his knee, the other sliding up Terzo’s leg until he could rest it on the man’s soft side.

Terzo broke away from the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against Omega’s and taking deep lungfuls of air.  His fingers had found their way into the ghoul’s hair, his nails scratching lightly at his scalp underneath the thick white strands that covered his head.  Omega began to run his own nails carefully from the man’s side to his belly, playing with the dark hair that covered him.  He couldn’t help but move it higher, up and up until he could scrape a claw gently over a nipple.  Omega would have kept going, had planned on continuing until the nipple was hard and swollen from his work, but with a whimper Terzo pulled one of his hands out of the ghoul’s hair and abruptly covered his, making it so his palm was pressed flat right over the erratic beating of Terzo’s heart.

“Terzo?  What’s wr–”

“Tell me.  Per favore, tell me.”

Omega shook his head slightly for a moment, unsure what Terzo meant.  Tell him what?  When Terzo’s heart seemed to beat even faster he wrapped his arm around the man’s waist, tugging him even closer to try and comfort him.

“I’ll tell you anything, anything you want to hear.”  He pressed a gentle kiss to Terzo’s swollen lips before pulling away and whispering a quiet phrase in Ghoulish against them.  His Papa had heard it enough by now that all the tension seemed to leave the man’s body at once and he practically melted against Omega.  Still, it was worth repeating in English and any other language the ghoul could learn.  “I love you.”

“No matter what?”

“Terzo, I don–...did something happen?”  The man in his arms shook his head but Omega could practically taste the fear that was coming off of him in waves.  “Whatever happened I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

“Promise me.”  Terzo pulled away enough so they could look into each other’s eyes.  “Promise me that you will love me no matter what.  That you will stay with me no matter what.”

Omega brought both his hands up to cup Terzo’s face, stroking his thumbs across the man’s cheeks and brushing the tears that had started to fall.  He leaned close so their foreheads were resting against each other again.

“I promise, with everything that I am, that I will never stop loving you.  That I will never leave you.”  

He sealed his promise with a kiss, trying to pour all of his emotions into it.  Terzo kissed him back fiercely in return, clinging to Omega like he was the only thing anchoring him to this world.  Neither one of them let up and right when Omega was about to stand and drag Terzo back to the small bed they shared on the bus the man pulled away, his eyes still shining with emotion.

“I promise you the same.”  Omega smiled at Terzo’s words, leaning in to press a quick kiss on the tip of his nose before pulling away.  “They’d have to drag me away from you kicking and screaming.”

His choice of words gave Omega an uneasy feeling but he quickly shook it off.  All he wanted to do at this moment was get Terzo in bed and hold him close.  They both needed their rest before they reached their last stop.  One more performance before the tour was finally over and they could go home.  He took Terzo’s hands in his and stood up, gently tugging the man to his feet as well.  His lover still looked scared and Omega made a mental note to ask him in the morning what had brought this conversation on.  For now he settled for pulling him close and leaning in so he could whisper another reassurance into his ear.

“I’d like to see them try.”

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

I tried to leave off anyone on my tag list that I know doesn't like this pairing but if I missed you please let me know!

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[forlorn-crows]

crow. babe. darling. my love.

do you know what i need? i need aeon and dew reluctantly being sweet. all the tension that's hung in the air between them dissolving as one of them sneaks into bed because being alone is too much right now, even if their only option is someone who (they think) hates them.

i know you know what i mean.

oh wow how convenient of an ask. would you look at that. and from my sweet darling mal. however could you have known what i wanted to write today. that is crazy (tee hee)

what is ALSO crazy is APPARENTLY @miasmaghoul and i, onCE AGAIN, have the same braincell and wrote basically the same fucking thing at the same fucking time. no, i literally told her nothing about what i was writing beyond "aeon/dew comfort somethin somethin", and she told me nothing about hers. love you bitch

a little bit of aeon/dew Feelings. breaking down walls and such. @waywardsamaritan inspired me to write them with their fic about dew bein all sweet to aeon.

iimagazh means 'little light' in ghoulish; word so graciously borrowed from mal's big lore brain

Dew flips around for what feels like the hundredth time, smushing his cheek into his pillow with more force than necessary. Sleep continues to slip through his claws like fine sand, leaving a heavy weight of . . . something in its wake. Maybe it’s just insomnia or uncomfortable bus bunks. Maybe it’s the pinprick of emptiness gnawing at the back of his brainstem, a feeling that situated itself there as soon as they left for tour.

He wishes Aether were here. To pull him close with those big, warm arms. Aid his addled mind. Kiss him on his hairline and lull him to sleep with a few well-placed waves of quintessence. 

But he’s not.

Instead, Dew stares across the aisle at Aeon’s sleeping form. His eyes roam over his back, bouncing between his wide shoulders. His chest rises and falls evenly in sleep. Lucky bastard, the fire ghoul thinks. Envious. He can almost feel the tug of Aeon’s magick from here, the tiniest tingling at the edges of his awareness. Dew can recognize it well enough, even if it’s not the same brand, so to speak. It’s more subtle than Aether’s, more demure. For as big as his presence is on stage, his magickal footprint is anything but. Aeon’s is more of a low hum, stuck in a tight aura around his vessel. It doesn’t quite warm a room like Aether’s, big in energy and personality as he is. But Dew’s caught the edge of his quintessence enough times to start to get familiar with its calm, yet electric spirals. 

It’s dangerously tempting now, even with their strained relationship. Dew clutches the pillow in his arms a little tighter, scoots closer to the edge of the bunk. He could crawl in with Mountain, as he’s done already so many nights prior. Tucked himself into his nest of long limbs, drawing close to the steady, grounding beat of his heart in his rumbling chest. Putting him as close as he can to their oldest bond. 

He’s just not Aether. And as much as he hates to admit it, he misses the calming touch of quintessence in general, not just from his mate. 

Dew feels vulnerable. Like his longing has cracked open a chasm in his chest and left him open. Wanting. 

His body is moving before his brain can ruminate any further. He slips down from his bunk, careful to avoid the creak of the built-in’s edge. Dew pads across the small aisle, standing dumbly in front of Aeon’s bunk. Breathing as quietly as his lungs will allow. 

Fuck it.

Deftly, the fire ghoul climbs over Aeon and into his bunk, nearly launching himself into the back wall in effort not to jostle the other ghoul. The quintessence ghoul grumbles a little at the dip in the mattress but doesn't fully wake. Dew situates himself close to his front, moving to curl his limbs into himself so as not to touch. Just enough to be close. 

"Hmm . . . iimagazh. . ." Aeon mumbles, pulling the fire ghoul to his chest and throwing a leg over his hips. The lisp of infernal language makes Dew’s breath hitch, let alone the way Aeon easily slots himself against his suddenly over-warm body and presses his nose against the crown of his head, right between the horns, and sighs heavily. 

This is not how this was supposed to go. He can’t know it’s Dew. There’s no reason to elicit such an intimate reaction from someone he’s barely even touched beyond a civil handshake. The fire ghoul holds his breath and wishes he could whisk himself back to his bunk. 

It only takes a few more moments before Aeon unsurprisingly stirs, brow furrowing as he no doubt inhales the scent of fresh shampoo and burnt spices. The quintessence ghoul lets out a confused chirp, shifting back to blink open his eyes and stare at the ghoul in his arms. 

Dew’s eyes are as wide as saucers, fingers curled weakly into Aeon’s sleep shirt. Aeon flicks his gaze all over, realization blooming across his cheeks in the form of a lilac blush, visible even in the dim of the bunk. 

“Uh.” He clears his throat weakly. “Thought you were ‘Rora,” Aeon mutters, avoiding Dew’s eyes in the dark. He moves to pull away, but Dew interrupts. 

“Is it . . . okay that I’m not?”

Aeon makes a small noise, a cross between surprise and disbelief. He hovers between too far and close enough, breaths as shallow as a rabbit’s. Something unreadable crosses his face, but eventually he relaxes a little. Tentatively rests a hand on Dew’s hip. “S-sure. It’s alright.”

“Okay.”

He’s not sure which of them moves first. But soon after he speaks the word they’re pressed together once more, skinny legs intertwined and Aeon’s arms holding him close. He’s surprisingly dense, if Dew had to choose a word for it. He’s not as big and soft as Aether—he’s closer to Dew’s own physique, with a dash of Rain’s height and limber joints. But there’s still a gentle edge to him, comforting in a different way—smells different too. Like the static in the air before a storm, like cool air and myrrh. Yet underneath the mark of quintessence is something else; sage, a hint of metallic tang, and the smell of sap that bursts from a freshly broken branch. Earthy. 

Dew doesn’t want to unpack how that makes him feel right now.

Silence passes between them, broken only by the shuffle of limbs, Mountain's snores from the bunk above, and the dull rumble of the tires on the road.

"Thought you hated me," Aeon whispers.

Dew sighs. Rubs his face into Aeon's shirt. "Don't hate you. M' sorry." 

A beat. Then: “I’m glad you don’t.” Dew lifts his head up, face now millimeters from Aeon’s, tips of their noses barely brushing. Copper eyes gaze into dark ashy brown ones, searching. The quintessence ghoul reaches up and brushes a stray strand of hair back behind Dew’s horns, touch feather-light. And though Aeon’s gaze dips down to his mouth, almost imperceptibly, he only leans in to place a chaste kiss to his forehead before tucking his head back under his chin with a slow exhale. In a way, Dew’s thankful for that. He slips his arms around Aeon’s middle, shuffling as close as possible before allowing himself to close his eyes and release the last bit of tension still straightening his spine. 

Mountain’s the first one up in the morning, dropping down from his bunk with a soft thud. He’s met with the sight of the two lanky ghouls absolutely tangled up in each other in the same small bunk, Dew notably flung across Aeon’s torso and drooling onto his shoulder. The earth ghoul looks at them with amused shock, fondness tugging at his heart a little. 

“Oh ho ho, look what we have—” Swiss is immediately silenced by a well-deserved pillow smack from across the aisle. Mountain frowns at him, miming for the multi ghoul to shut his mouth. 

“Not a word,” he hisses. Mountain presses into his mind instead. That, the earth ghoul points to them, is the best sleep he has gotten this entire time. 

Swiss holds his hands up in surrender, smirk tugging at his lips. Okay, okay. I’ll let the gremlin and his new friend have their beauty sleep. 

[dazed-and-confused23]

Ladyfingers

Summary: Lucy promises Cooper that she can handle being by herself for a while and proves it to him while he's away.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean

Warnings: violence and death. Blood and canon typical actions. Fluffy things and Cooper being worried but proud of his little killer.

I've seen a lot of Worried!Cooper Howard things on Tumblr lately and I wanted to try my hand at it. Hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

"You are sure you'll be alright without me?" Cooper questions his little vaultie for the third time. They are down on caps, and he had volunteered to go find a bounty to cash out on. Lucy had grimaced and asked him if she could stay here, in the sturdy little house they'd been using for shelter the past couple of days. He had ground his teeth in protest, but Lucy had given him such a pitiful look that he'd broken before he could argue with her.

"Yup. I've been up here long enough to handle myself. I handled you, right?" Lucy pointed out, and Cooper sighs. Not to toot his own horn, but he was one of the more dangerous players in the wasteland, and his smoothskin wasn't wrong. He just didn't like the thought of her leaving his sight.

"Alright, alright," Cooper tosses his hands up in surrender, though a frown still lingers on his lips. Lucy hops forward and threads her fingers with his own, tip toeing to kiss her ghoulish companion. Cooper immediately kisses her back, tugging her close by the hands so that she stumbles into his chest.

"You run for town if anyone tries anythin', you hear me?" Cooper demands when Lucy drops back to her booted feet. He untangles a hand to grasp her by the chin, locking eyes with her own.

Lucy's expression turns soft, and she can't help the teasing tilt to her voice, "Awe, is the big bad, bounty hunter worried about me?"

Cooper rolls his eyes and scoffs, lips pursed to the side, "You make it hard not to, little killer. Trouble finds you worse than a magnet does a fridge."

She can't help but grin, Cooper wasn't technically wrong there. Lucy turns her face and presses a kiss to his wrist, "I promise I'll come running if there's trouble."

The ghoul nods, appeased at the promise. Coop tugs her in for another hug, and then let's go, loping to the front door. Dogmeat waits patiently, ready to go with him. He looks back at Lucy one last time before he and Dogmeat slip out the door, and he locks it behind him.

Lucy slumps when Cooper disappears. It feels weird being completely alone, but she uses the time to clean her weapons and stitch the holes in her vault suit. Her pip-boy radio is turned on, and she listens to Helen Forrest sing about being mad about the boy she loves.

She quirks her lips and turns the song up, thinking it funny how relatable she finds the song. The vault dweller loses herself in the back and forth of sewing up her suit, and as the hours pass, Lucy doesn't realize how late it has grown, nor how loudly her music echos out of the quaint little house.

Three men, one ghoul and two humans, creep up to the side of the house. They had heard the music and followed it to the humble adonde, grinning to one another when they spot Lucy inside. The vault dweller isn't paying attention, too absorbed in the old world magazine she is reading to hear the back windows slide open.

Lucy chokes back a scream when a hand slams across her mouth. She doesn't hesitate to throw her head back, her skull meeting the nose of the man who holds her. He shouts when her head connects and breaks his nose, sending blood splattering down his face and into her hair.

"Fuckin' bitch! Get her!" He shouts, and the ghoul and other man appear out of nowhere. Lucy kicks and fights back, landing a lucky hit to one of the men's balls and sending him to the floor. It gives her enough time to scramble to the far end of the room and search for her side arm.

She grunts when the ghoul tackles her, sending them both to the floor. Her head bounces once, and she sees stars for half a second before her vision rights itself. The ghoul tries to wrap his hands around her neck, but Lucy is stronger than her small frame seems.

The vault dweller swings an elbow up and into his face, knocking his head to the side and sending a tooth flying from his mouth. She bucks her hips and dislodged the ghoul enough that she can wiggle free. Lucy stands up and grabs the first thing her hand finds.

Lucy holds the iron fire poker tightly, brandishing the sharp end at the three men that surround her. The original one lunges, tries to feint to the left, and gets stuck in the ribs for his troubles. Bones crack, and the man wheezes as he spins and clutches his side. The second human, now recovered from the kick to the balls, is faster and gets into Lucy's space quick enough to snatch the poker mid swing.

"Gonna pay for what you did little cunt," He spits nasty, but Lucy wasn't about to let him close again. She rears back and kicks him, and he's too focused on the weapon to see her booted foot come flying in to strike him in the stomach.

He grunts and stumbles backward, taking the fire poker with him as he goes. Lucy turns and runs, putting distance between the men and eyes frantically searching for her bag. She finds it kicked halfway under the couch and makes a dive for it, hands snagging the strap and taking the bag with her as she runs for the front door.

The ghoul grabs her again, shoving her against the door and making her bite her bottom lip. Pain laces up her face and blood pools in her mouth. She rears back, thrashing in his hold and forcing the ghoul to let her go. Lucy unlocks the door and runs outside, digging her hand into her bag to finally grab her sidearm as she runs through the dead forest.

The men follow her, the one with the broken ribs lagging behind but still in hot pursuit. The man with the iron poker rushes forward, tacking Lucy to the ground and sending her 10mm skidding away from her. She shouts, the air in her lungs expelling in a rush from the hit. Rocks and twigs dig into her front, but that doesn't stop her from throwing her weight against the man, fingers scrambling in the dirt to find her gun.

Lucy gets socked in the rib for her troubles, making her grunt and glare at the gravel below her. She does it again, wiggling back and forth and scooting herself forward until the tips of her fingers brush against the metal of her weapon. The vault dweller lunges forward and finally wraps her fingers around the grip.

The young woman rolls, wacking the man in the face with her 10mm and shooting blindly. A cry of pain goes up in the air, and the ghoul falls, shot in the stomach by the lucky shot. She squeezes the trigger again, missing this time, but the gun going off right beside the man who still holds her is enough for him to release her legs.

Lucy scrambles up, and so does the man. He throws himself forward, and the gun goes off, a bullet punching through his gut, and his weight knocks the smoothskin to the ground. Blood soaks her front, and the man weakly pushes himself up, coughing in Lucy's face and sending blood splattering her cheeks.

The vault dweller shoves his body off her, rolling to her feet and snarling in rage at the only man left standing. Before she can fire her weapon, the familiar sound of a dog barking hits her ears and Dogmeat comes flying out of no where, her teeth locking around the man's wrist and bringing him down to the ground before she let's go to snap and bite for his throat, canines sinking into his flesh and ripping his jugular out.

Lucy sucks in sharp intakes of air, eyes casting around until she spots the silhouette of her ghoul come jogging into the clearing. Anger paints his face, underlined by a current of worry that makes her heart beat a little harder in her chest. She spits to the side, grimacing at the taste of iron, and smiles at Cooper.

"Hi."

The ghoul looks her over with his eyes and then closes the distance to yank Lucy in for a kiss. His vaultie is soaked in the blood of the men who attacked her, but she's never looked so beautiful standing there in the setting sun.

He pulls away after a moment and tugs Lucy in for a hug, "Hi to you too, shithead. Thought you said you'd run?"

Lucy shrugged at him, hands clutching at his sides as she rested her brow along his collar bone, "I tried, but it didn't really work out."

Cooper huffed and shook his head. This is what he gets for leaving her by herself, but he is proud that she'd been able to hold her own without him there. He kissed the top of her head again.

"Good job, lil killer. We'll make a wastelander outta you yet."

[mousy-nona]

I didn't send the initial prompt so I hope this is allowed, but could I request a followup to the story where Lucifer gets addicted to Alastor's blood? One where he finally gets that taste he's been so desperately craving, whether through charm or persistence or a trade of some sort?

Part 1 here.

Lucifer tried everything. He tried meditation. He tried stuffing his face with so much cake his waistband grew three sizes (he later transfigured it away, so no one would ask him Concerned Questions). He even went on vacation to the Lust Ring for a while, but there were only so many sex jokes a person could take before they started seeing penises and boobs everywhere.

The whole time he was there, he kept thinking about the forbidden fruit coursing through Alastor’s veins. And when he was done lusting after Alastor’s blood, he would think about Alastor in general. Alastor would hate this, he thought, bored out of his mind while a cow devil was milked dry in front of him. Alastor would hate that, he thought, as Ozzie and his partner treated him to a very graphic display of affection that left his face redder than a tomato. When Ozzie started rolling out the really premium shows, Lucifer decided it was high time for him to go.

By that time, the obsession had grown to the point where he was nearly deafened by it, the constant refrain of AlastorthisAlastorthatAlastorAlastorAlastor –

Then he stepped out of his golden portal, and a tall figure sitting in an armchair by the fire turned around and the voice went silent.

Alastor barely looked up, too busy petting KeeKee and looking like the world’s best Bond villain to give him the time of day. 

“Ah, you’re back.”

When had that radio static started sounding like home? “Did y’all miss me?” He glanced around, deflating a little at the empty sitting room. “Where is everyone?”

“Busy with any number of far more important matters, I’m sure,” Alastor drawled. 

“It’s good to see you too, asshole,” Lucifer grumbled. The brief moment of homecoming faded, replaced by that permanent feeling of annoyance that he always felt around Alastor. He had started stomping upstairs when the shadows by the top of the stairs shifted, crinkled. Then Alastor was there, blocking his way. 

“I see your Majesty has his tiny knickers in a twist,” he commented, as if that wasn’t a totally inappropriate to say to the biblical source of all evil. 

Lucifer’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Excuse me?” 

“I wouldn’t bother trying to deny it if I were you,” Alastor mentioned. “That would be quite an insult to my intelligence. You’ve been in a foul mood for weeks. The whole hotel has noticed it. You’ve been dragging that silly cane all over the place, something you only do when you're upset.” A flash of green lit up Alastor’s wide smile. He looked positively ghoulish, but Lucifer was still stuck on his comment about his cane. I drag it when I’m sad? Since when? And why did he notice? “If it’s bothering you so much, why not share the load?”

“You want me to…tell you my problems? What is this, storytime?” Lucifer scoffed. 

“Perhaps I could lend you my assistance,” he purred. “For a price, of course.” 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Now you’re insulting my intelligence.” With a flick of his hand, another portal appeared on the stairs, blocking Alastor from view. The demon was oddly perceptive. He didn’t want him to see just how close he was to falling to his knees and blubbering yes please just a sip, just one more taste. 

(Lillith had always called him a drama queen. Maybe she’d had a point.)

The portal didn’t block the sound of Alastor’s voice, more’s the pity. “Is this about the little scratch you gave me a few weeks ago?” 

Lucifer stilled. The portal wavered, guttered, and went out, leaving the two of them staring at each other.

“How–?” He stammered. 

Alastor’s grin was triumphant. “How many times must I say it? Never underestimate my intelligence. So am I correct?”

Lucifer didn’t respond, which was answer enough. Alastor sniffed. 

“In that case, I believe I have an answer to your problems.” 

What? Was he offering what Lucifer thought he was offering? “And what could that possibly be?”

“Quid pro quo, my dear. You get some of my blood, and I get some of yours.” 

“Fine,” Lucifer gestured him over impatiently. “Come here and bite me –” 

“Not like that.” 

Alastor raised a small glass vial. His smile would have made a crocodile jealous. “I told you, just a little bit of blood. I never said to drink.” 

Alastor eyes flashed into dials and the darkness was split by a lazer of green, then red – a literal red flag. The biggest STOP HERE, DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200 Lucifer had ever seen. 

But his mouth was so dry. He could barely think past how large his tongue had grown. Besides, he was the king of hell. The original sin. What harm could it do to let Alastor have a little bit of his blood? 

A lot, the rational part of his brain whispered. This is Alastor we’re talking about. But the rational part of his brain had grown rather quiet around the Crusades, and he’d lost a good chunk of it by World War II. 

Charlie said he was reckless. She didn’t know the half of it. 

“Fine,” Lucifer said. “But you only get to take my blood once. And I can drink from you when I want.”

Alastor thought for a moment, then his lips moved. 

Deal.

The word disappeared in the cra-a-ack of green lightning that struck around them like fireworks. He started to roll up his sleeves, but Lucifer was too quick for him. He flew up the steps and smashed into Alastor with such force he sent them spiraling into the wall. Alastor gasped, but before he could protest, Lucifer had torn the fabric of his shirt and slashed a deep groove into the cool skin of his neck. 

Finally, that sweet blood flowed onto his tongue. He moaned, his lids fluttering as he drank greedily. Big mouthfuls at a time. 

Sin. Death. Apples. Smoke and sugar. The taste was indescribable, and in that moment, Lucifer thought he could have promised Alastor his whole kingdom, and it would have been a fair trade. 

Alastor, for his part, stayed dutifully still, even when Lucifer licked off the blood that had splattered onto Alastor’s collarbone and the tip of his chin, unwilling to let even a drop of it go to waste.

It took a while, but Lucifer finally leaned back with a groan, his lips smeared with blood like it was cherry chapstick. 

“Satisfied?” Alastor muttered. Lucifer made an incoherent sound of joy. 

“Good. I am as well.” Alastor raised a completely full vial of golden blood. When had he taken it? “I believe it was a satisfactory deal for both parties.”

Then he smiled in a way that made Lucifer's skin prickle. 

Heavenly Father, what have I done? 

[2uuno]

Skyjacks: Legends

or, three times jonnit kessler met gods

The first time Jonnit Kessler saw a god, he was 10 years old, and his neighbor was very sick.

He didn't know it was a god at first- he certainly didn't look like one. He was thin, lanky, with short whitish hair and a gaunt face and bulging brown eyes. The shadows cast in his face by his white cloak made him look ghoulish, yes, but not particularly holy.

“Hello,” He called, lifting a hand in a wave. “You here to visit Miss Rosa?”

The man paused, blinking at him. “I- I- mmm… Yes.”

“That's good,” Jonnit smiled. “She could use the company.”

The man hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Right.”

“Okay, I'll let you do that, then.”

Two days later, the coroners came to get her body. Jonnit watched them carry her out with wide eyes. She’d been dead for a little over a day and a half, apparently. Since the man showed up.

Come to think of it, he’d never seen the man leave.

The second time Jonnit saw a god, he was at the market with his father, 13 years old, and he had no idea what to do with the eye that had appeared on his forehead a little over a week ago. He was trailing behind his father, headband over his third eye, watching the people run around, hawking wares and shouting and bargaining.

And then he saw a crowd gathered around a low table, and two men playing cards. This was nothing unusual, the market was a common meeting place for card players. However, the closer he got, the stranger he felt. A wave of emotion, an emotion he couldn't name, washed over him, and he paused to gasp.

His father didn't notice as he pressed onwards into the crowd, fighting his way closer to the game.

Two men sat across from each other, a game of Illimat happening between them. One was leaning forward, visibly sweating, teeth clenched, but the other lounged back in his seat, sharp black eyes evenly scanning his cards without a care in the world.

Finally, he smiled, picked a card from his hand, placed it down, and chuckled. “Good game.”

The man across from him froze, before howling in rage. “You can't- you cheated, you must have! I know it!”

The silver haired man held up his hands in a playful surrender, his sleeves sliding back to reveal dozens of watches on his wrists. “I don't know what you mean, this was all fair and legal.”

The loser shrieked, jumping at him, but the men in the crowd lunged forward, hauling him off, nervous whispers among them.

Jonnit watched curiously as the man flashed a grin, raising his hand. “Anyone else care to play?”

The crowd fell silent. Someone murmured something about fae tricks, and the man's impossibly dark eyes shot to them, his grin going almost snarl-like.

“I'll play,” Jonnit called. “I'm not super good, though, you gotta go easy on me.”

“I'm afraid I don't do that, little man,” The man said, his smile returning full force. “Come, sit.”

Jonnit sat.

Illimat was a complicated game, and Jonnit really was not a good player, but as the game went on, whispers began to snake through the crowd. At one point, Jonnit played a card and the man let out a surprised laugh, and someone in the group let out a gasp.

And then, a round or two later, it was over.

“Nice game,” Jonnit beamed, extending a hand to shake with the man. “I thought you weren't gonna go easy on me, though?”

“I didn't,” The man said, calmly wrapping his hand around Jonnit's. “That was something else, kid.”

“Jonnit!” Jonnit's father called. “We need to get home!”

Jonnit sprung to his feet, giving the man a quick bow before darting away, not even noticing the small token tucked in his palm until he had reached the wagon and started homeward.

The third time he met a god, he was fifteen, and the Uhuru was sinking.

Not very quickly- Spit was desperately shoveling coal into the furnace while the fighting raged on around them, but they were going down.

They'd made the mistake of trying to raid the Civility, a ship that was by far out of their reach, and they were paying the price.

Captain Orimar let out a hollar as his shoulder was clipped by a knife, swinging a mighty fist and catching the attacker in the jaw, breaking it in one blow, and Jonnit felt a wave of respect and awe rush through him.

It was dark, and the deck was poorly lit, but Jonnit's eyes were sharp, so when a shadow darted between the sails and ropes and mast, he noticed.

Nodoze noticed too.

“Captain!” He yelled. “They’re here.”

Jonnit knew what that meant.

The Angel of War, a terrible being who rode a griffin into battle and stood twenty feet tall. They were here, and they would kill anyone else who was here.

The crew began stumbling towards the stairs to the lower deck, but Jonnit's foot caught on a rope and he tripped, falling hard, his head slamming into his arm. He screamed as the bone cracked.

A pair of boots appeared before him, and he craned his head back to blearily look at the man before him.

The man raised a hook, and Jonnit let his head fall again.

When he woke up, he was in a soft bed, tucked in up to his chin. Faintly, he heard music and cheering and clapping, and his arm was in a sling.

He felt… well, he felt fine.

In the corner, wrapped in gauzy white fabric, sat a figure. When Jonnit sat up with a groan, a single shining brown eye cracked open.

It was the man from Miss Rosa's house. Jonnit didn't know how he recognized him, after all these years, but he knew it, he knew it had to be.

“Don't - don't - don't move,” The man said, calmly despite the stammer. “You've got- uh- a concussion and a broken arm. You need- mm- time to h-heal.”

Jonnit blinked slowly. “Am I dead?”

The man tilted his head. “Wh-wh-what? No.”

“Oh,” He frowned. “But the Angel of War…?”

The door swung open and a massive person stepped in, a raven on their shoulder. “Dref, we brought you ale- oh, he's awake.”

“Hi,” Jonnit said, feeling silly. “I'm Jonnit.”

“Gable,” They smiled politely, sticking out their hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you. You had a nasty fall on the ship, I saw.”

“Wait,” Jonnit said, pulling his hand back right as it brushed their impossibly cool palm. “You're the Angel, aren't you?”

Gable paused, their face twisting. “Where'd you hear that title?”

“Is that not what you are? An angel that became a god? A god of war?”

“I- oh, I'm not a god. I'm a former angel, yes, but- these two are more god-like than me.”

“Yes, well,” The raven suddenly said. “That's not saying much. Dref and I… well… I’m essentially as holy as you get.”

Gable swatted at it and it fluttered to land on the headboard.

“Your voice… I remember you,” Jonnit realized. “You were the Illimat player in the market who gave me that coin thing!”

“My token, yes,” The bird said, a smile in his voice. “Basically, if you were ever to need me, I would be able to find you with that. You're welcome.”

“Is that how you guys saved me?” Jonnit asked, awed. “You could tell I was in danger and brought me… wherever this is?”

“Port Rådjurshjärta.” Gable said.

“That's dozens of miles off course- how long was I out?”

“A few hours,” The pale man, Dref, said. “Travis helped guide your crew here.”

“I'm a different bird,” The raven, Travis, said, a grin audible in his voice. Some sort of inside joke? “We'll be leaving in the morning since you're up, just wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“You guys… you guys are gods, or something, right? The god of death, the god of war and the god of luck,” Jonnit snapped his fingers. “I've heard of you guys.”

“No, we're not g-” Gable said, but Travis spread his wings, posturing proudly.

“We are, in fact, gods, yes,” He posed for a second, then tilted his head. “You better remember this day, kid. It's probably the only time you'll ever get the privilege to see us again.”

The next day, as the crew packed up, Jonnit searched the crowd for the gods. Everyone there knew the gods had been there- Nodoze especially seemed to be searching- but no one could say where they went.

Jonnit approached the man as they sailed off, tugging his sleeve as he worked. “You met them, didn’t you? You met the gods too?”

“I did,” Nodoze said, solemnly. “I saw the Angel.”

“They’re so cool, aren’t they?”

The man fell silent, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. He swiped it away, leaning on the railing of the ship, watching the land retreat.

“They are.” He murmured, softly, and Jonnit felt like he was missing something very important.

Secretly, as he gazed at the sea far far below, he promised to himself he would see the gods again, and would repay them for all they'd done for him.

[gravehags]

ghoul bicycle series - bonus post pt. 1

a little peek into the life of the pack with reader

After an overheating incident that led to going to the abbey infirmary, you have deemed that only Cumulus and Cirrus are allowed to sleep in your bed during the worst heatwaves as they run cooler than the rest of the ghouls. They are very smug about it.

You start to notice you run out of perfume at a peculiarly rapid rate and soon discover the ghouls have been stealing it to use on themselves. Swiss is the biggest culprit and you'll often catch him smelling more like you than you do

Valentine's Day is a competitive spectacle to see who can bring you the nicest gift - it started out with flowers and chocolates but has since gotten progressively weirder. Last year Aurora brought you a fat, trembling rat with a radiant smile on her face and you demanded she return poor Ciabatta back to Papa immediately. Phantom won most recently for bringing you an enormous and vibrant taxidermy peacock which he stole from Sister Imperator's office that is now proudly displayed in the den living room

Every full moon the ghouls act a little...ghoulish. Usually they take some time to go out to the woods to work it out and be feral little creepy creatures but some choose to stay with you. The first time you woke up and saw Mountain looming over you in the dark with glowing eyes you screamed so loud siblings two floors up could hear you

When you get a small Roman numeral 10 tattooed on the inside of your wrist to commemorate your partners, Rain and Sunshine don't stop crying off and on about it for three days. It becomes a favorite spot to leave a little kiss by all the ghouls

He will never admit to it but Dewdrop writes you some of the loveliest, most thoughtful poetry - clandestinely handed to you on folded pieces of ripped out notebook paper under tables and behind backs. You keep all of them in a locked jewelry box on your dresser

When you're sick, all the ghouls fret terribly but know to give you space and let Aether do his work. He's by your side constantly, whether that's bringing you food and medicine or holding your hair while you throw up. If he's not curled up with you every night, he's sitting in a chair by the bed keeping a vigilant watch over you, proud to be the one you turn to in these moments of vulnerability

[bone-evidence]

Here's the second of my PruCan Minifics, based off sentences (or prompts) given to me by you lovely folks! This one was from @disneyprincessdxminatrix, and it was: "No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around." I took that and ran to perhaps unexpected places lmao! Enjoy!

Quiet murmurs of anticipation all stopped the second the large wooden doors opened. The High Priest, dressed in fine white robes and the visage of a horrific horned Demon, led the sacrifice like a dog on a leash to the circular stone altar. 

Matthew was almost relieved. Almost. 

Though they'd bound his wrists in front of him with rough rope, they hadn't bothered to cover his eyes at all. No, they dragged him out of the animal pen in which they'd kept him for the last two months and paraded him around like a prized beast ripe for the slaughter. He supposed that a blindfold wasn't necessary. The dozens of people around him, all dressed in black robes, wore the same mask their leader did. There was no mercy to be found among the sea of cold eyes on him. 

The room was lit only by candles placed in the alcoves that lined the stone walls. These seemed to be shrines in the Demon's honour. Each one held a candle and a sculpture of the fiend carved out of deep red wood, decorated with the leaves of poisonous plants and various bones. Matthew tried very hard to push the question of where they'd gotten those bones out of his mind. If this was where he would die, he'd rather not think about those he was about to join.

The circular stone altar at the end of the room was his final destination. If he had any strength, he might have tried to wriggle out of the ropes and run. His captors were, unfortunately, smarter than to let that happen. He was only ever given enough food and water to keep him alive. At first, when they came into his pen bearing a knife, it took four of them to hold him down long enough to pierce his flesh and carve in the beginning of their profane symbols. It only took one to hold him down and finish the unholy scripture three days ago. 

Tears he didn't know he had left slipped down his cheek as he was finally forced to kneel on the stone altar. The carvings that were forever scarred in his flesh, up his freckled arms and down his back, were mirrored on the obsidian rim that surrounded him now. There was no need to tie him down to anything. Once he was on the ground, he knew there was no strength in him to get back up. All he could do was sob as the High Priest's hands raised to the sky, silencing the ghoulish crowd before them.  

The profane sermon had begun. 

Much to Matthew's horror, each praise that fell out of the Priest's mouth ignited a symbol on the altar. Each word in an infernal language he didn't understand , each dark promise, each retelling of horrible deeds inflicted upon humanity, all of these in turn ignited more of the circle around Matthew until it was almost completely lit. The sacrifice trembled and wailed for someone, anyone to save him, though he knew it was hopeless. 

If the Gods wanted to rescue him, they would have done it alrea- 

Ker-rack!

Halfway through what was surely the last words Matthew would ever hear, something dark and horrible crashed through the roof and landed in a heap on the stone floor.

The cultists around it backed away, whispering amongst themselves as they did so. This… thing, whatever it was, wasn't what they were expecting. The Demon was taller, right? Had horns? Wasn't it supposed to burst out of the sacrifice's body and be reborn in blood, not punch a hole into their sacred meeting place?

An unnatural wind, cold as the moonlight now cascading through the broken roof, whipped furiously around the thing as it stood. From thin air it conjured a sword made of no metal Matthew had ever seen. After all, what metal shimmered gold under lunar glow?

 At the thing's unspoken command, the wind rushed towards the alcoves on the walls. It stole the fire from each candle and knocked every small shrine down, sending bones and wood clattering to the ground. It carried the small flames, one by one, to the thing's outstretched blade until one couldn't see the metal through flame. 

It leveled the blade at the cultists, and Matthew wasn't sure whether he should be terrified or grateful. 

The men and women around it surely thought, since they were several dozen and it was only one, that they could take it. That mistake proved fatal. 

The being was obviously some kind of divine. No other force could cut through those bearing a Demon's protective amulets as though they were butter. Nothing else could splash stone walls with red and ignite the robes of the very recently deceased in one blow. Nothing else's wrath could be so swift and terrible! Matthew wasn't sure whether his screams joined the many cut off by horrific gurgling. All he knew was that once every last cultist was dead, after every soul in the room had been severed save for his own, it was alarmingly quiet. 

The thing stepped into the pool of moonlight made by it's entrance and paused to catch it's breath. Finally, Matthew got a good look at it. 

At him, rather. His feathered wings were cloth ripped from the fabric of night itself. His eyes, still wild from battle, were swirling red nebulas set into the bloodsplattered face of the moon. His steps were even and measured as he walked towards the sacrifice, blade held at his side. 

Matthew flinched and squeezed his eyes shut on instinct. The angel before him was fallen, after all; beholden to no God and no code, if he decided Matthew's life was forfeit too, his blade would find no resistance from demon-marked flesh.

Matthew expected the next (and last) thing he felt to be the bite of that sword. For his abused body to burn, for the fallen one to complete his task and leave no one alive to tell the tale of what happened here. What he didn't expect was a gentle hand under his chin, lifting it slightly and bidding him to open his eyes. 

He did so slowly, expecting to be greeted with the same battle craze and bloodlust. Instead, the clouds of the divine's eyes had cleared, leaving only dolorous pools of crimson to stare back at him. 

"What is your name?" The angel asked. Though it was clear he was trying to be gentle, there was still a commanding edge to his voice.  

"M-Matthew. Matthew, my name is Matthew, Mr. Angel. A-are you going to, um… I-I mean, am I going… to…?"

A breath resembling a chuckle left the divine's lips at the implication. His deft fingers began to work the knots that bound Matthew's wrists together loose, until the bloodstained rope finally fell to the cold stone altar. "You will not die tonight, Matthew. Can you stand?"

Truth be told, Matthew couldn't even find it in himself to try. His strength was gone. Starvation, dehydration, and countless tortures would have been enough of a reason, but something in his very soul had been drained and fed to the ritual. Perhaps something small in him had died along with everyone else in the room after all. All he could do was shake his head. 

This was, apparently, not going to be a problem for the angel. He scooped Matthew up easily, as if he were merely a child and not a man of twenty-three. A soft half-smile illuminated the fallen one's face as he walked towards the moonlight. 

"I can promise you this, Matthew." He began, as he stretched out his mighty wings. One flap, two flaps, and the room that was supposed to spell death was nothing more than a memory. 

"No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around."