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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 6 months ago

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Ghostbuster. || kidnapper!Simon "Ghost" Riley

[ FIC MASTERLIST ] || [ CHAPTER 2 -> ]

Rating: M + Dark Fic + DDNE Words: 4.2k~ Pairing: Serial Killer!Reader x Serial Kidnapper!Ghost CW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dark fic, serial killing, serial kidnapping, torture, body disposal, death, murder (purposeful), murder (accidental), mentions of rape? (neither Simon nor reader rapes anyone!!!!!), blood, knife/weapons, gross abandoned buildings, police verbage. tags: dark fic, serial killer AU, no smut (for now), OOC Simon, you/your pronouns, afab!reader, reader & simon terrorizing the city of Manchester, Manchester geography/accuracy?. a/n: fully inspired by the post below, by @moongreenlight ; also fully a gift for @superhero-landing

"This marks the 7th body found in the Greater Manchester area in the last 6 months."

It's dark outside. Eerily so. Probably because, although the moon is high in the sky, full and bright, plenty of clouds hide it from view. The weather forecast speaks of heavy rains for the next few weeks, but you got lucky... It's not currently raining. It leaves the night feeling weirdly still and quiet, the roads long empty after people retreated into their homes after work.

But not you. Never you.

You turn your head to peer at the old box TV in the room over your shoulder, your eyes narrowed in on the screen where the news anchor talks about the police investigation at hand.

"The victim, a 24-year-old university student, residing in Wythenshawe, had been reported missing last month, on the 18th, after having not come home after a nightout with friends."

The old shop is dark too, barely illuminated by a camping lantern you've brought inside when you first broke in. The air is stale, almost unbreathable from all the dust; the floor, and counters caked in a layer of dried particles, courtesy of the decades' long abandonment the shop has suffered, as well as the ceiling panels having come loose, knocking down concrete dust all over the shop.

Shaking your head, you carefully click your tongue in displeasure, while you clean the tool in your hand with a rag, keeping your eyes and ears still honed into the broadcast. "Poor thing." You comment to yourself.

Your head slumps forward to reach your arm, and you rub the underside of your nose with the back of your hand and forearm, sniffling a bit to clean some of the snot dribbling down your nostrils due to the overly dusty air.

"The Great Manchester Police HQ has issued a warning on the brutality of the recent string of murders and their commitment to find the people responsible. The Police Chief urges that anyone who might have any information to please come forth."

Sighing, you turn your head away again, as the news anchor drones on about the funeral for the young girl who was just found. You step away toward the array of tools displayed, for your convenience, on one of the old counters, laid neatly across a black tool roll bag and carefully set the knife atop it.

The shop smells. It's not entirely unpleasant, but you've gotten used to it either way. You're pretty sure if you weren't, it'd smell horrendous, like it did in the beginning. Stale, dusty air, old blood caked into the gashes and knife cuts on the wooden countertops, tools that were abandoned and grew colonies of bacteria after enough time went past, old vent systems that haven't been cleaned, meat display cases that didn't get disinfected before the butcher shop went out of business.

Tossing the rag aside, atop the butcher's block countertop, you run a finger over the wristband of your black cooking gloves, the latex feeling sticky and damp due to the fresh blood caked onto it. Turning on your heel, you return to the center of the room and look down at the body slumped on the chair before you.

"That guy is a fucking sicko, isn't he?" You complain and crouch before the man tied to the chair, raising his bruised and bloodied face by gripping him around the chin.

The man before you looks like the rest of them, balding and with a 5-o'clock shadow of a beard. He was greying as well, as most of them tend to be. Old, perverted bastards... He's slowly paling before your eyes, the blood slipping down his abdomen, soaking through his clothes and flowing onto the drain below his rickety chair.

"You know, you've gotta be a particularly... Nasty bastard to kill women that young... To bathe and redress them post-mortem..." You trail off. The man before you doesn't reply. He looks groggy and languid, blinking irregularly, and his chest heaving. Barely aware of anything as his life, much like his blood, drains from him.

It's almost poetic to watch his blood stain the white tile of the backroom of the shop, the walls lined with racks and hooks meant to, in the past, hang carcasses from... Almost like this old cooler room is finally fulfilling its role again, to cool and drain a dead body of its blood, all of it flowing down the incline toward the drain...

"I believe I saw in a few Criminal Minds episodes that those types that... clean them afterward feel 'regret' for what they did." You shake your head and kiss your teeth in annoyance.

"They feel regret after it's done, but not while they do it. 'es it mean they gain a conscience after the fact?" You ask him. "Monsters, the lot of them..." You chide and scoff, letting go of the man's face.

Then, you smirk as you notice his breathing get shallower, his head going a bit more limp, hanging low, his chin pressing over to his chest. Leaning forward, you bring your mouth close to his ear, your lips almost grazing his ear. "Don't worry, I won't clean you up once I'm done."

Sitting in your dark bedroom, you lounge back lazily on your desk chair, chewing some bubblegum and tapping away at your mouse before scrolling down a forum page.

The room, much like the rest of your flat is dark, only illuminated by the bright blue-toned light emanating from your computer screen, even in dark mode.

The best part of the internet age is the fact people share, comment and gossip about everything. It makes your research so much easier. Though, you suppose it's human nature... to be curious and gossipy. Social creatures and such.

Clicking on one of the posts on the subreddit r/ManchesterCrime, you skim through the post, where the OP is mentioning how they live nearby to the location where the new body was dumped: the southside of Manley Park.

Grabbing your pink fuzzy-top pen and a couple of highlighter markers, you get up from your desk chair and lean over your desk to the corkboard hanging behind it.

You take your writing materials to the printed map of the Greater Manchester area which you had pinned to the cork slab, tracing the information you have so far:

Resident of Wythenshawe.

Captured somewhere between The Three Pigeons and home.

Dumped in Manley Park.

You set down your pens and grab some pink wool string and a couple more pins, using them to rig up a new line to connect the dots over the map.

Taking a step back, you look up at the map and sighed, shaking your head, feeling anger flowing through your veins.

You have been trying to figure out the killer's area of operation for months... Trying to triangulate it, find a pattern...

But nothing.

No convergence point for the lines; no silly little connect-the-dots shape being formed; no secret message being shared... Or maybe there is and you just suck at reading it.

So far, all you have is 7 pieces of string of different colors... 7 victims. All over Manchester, with no overlay.

Just... 7 young girls taken for weeks at a time, killed and then dumped like rubbish.

Has he been taking them to different secondary locations all over the city before slaughtering them?

Has he been driving about, passing by schools and homes and banks and shops, on his way to the dump sites... with a body in his car?

Allegedly, they were all bathed and redressed, with no signs of sexual trauma or abuse, other than a stark loss of weight and some rope burn around the wrists and ankles...

But who really knows?

You are no PI or constable, just a sleuth. Whatever information you have, you got from the internet and from the news... You have no way to be sure of anything.

It angers you to imagine what he had been doing to those poor girls while keeping them to himself.

The poor, terrified girls... someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's girlfriend, someone's friend... And he had been plucking them from their mundane, safe lives and murdering them?

Throwing yourself back down onto your chair, you stack your fingers together, elbows on the armrests, and swiveled side to side as you looked at the corkboard map.

You hate men like this.

Predators.

Taking and hurting and killing with no issue or hesitation... Sure, psychologists might allege that he feels regret and expresses it by caring for them after death... But you disagree with that interpretation.

You've never met a man who regrets hurting a woman.

It's almost funny how easy it was to play with a man's emotions.

They see a pretty face marred by running mascara and red, swollen tear-filled eyes, holding a thumb out for a ride on the side of the road, and they always stop.

From then on, you can just spin whatever sob story about needing a ride...

Men love to play the hero... and oh, how idiotic they are.

They always let you in, and within an hour you have a new warm body to tie up and toy with.

In a way, you are actually surprised by how long you've been able to get away with this for.

You're secretly thankful your murders have not been given any attention so far.

You suppose that's one thing you could thank that... killer for.

You hate how the internet had given him a name already:

The Ghost

because someone allegedly witnessed him dumping a body in Heaton Park, and then vanished into the shadows of the night like a spectre.

Don't they know what happens when they give these types killers nicknames?

How that embiggens and emboldens them?

Have they never watched a true crime show? Or even a fictional one?

But... regardless... as long as young women are being slaughtered by a maniacal monster of a man, and, therefore, kept in the eyes of the world... No one is going to notice the missing middle-aged men you'd been consistently murdering for the better part of 3 years.

Yet another way where men have the upper hand over women. Lady killers just don't get taken as seriously.

You think of that as you watch the body disappear under the water, the cinder blocks you had tied to his feet dragging him under.

You wait a few minutes after his bald head vanishes from view, making sure it doesn't re-emerge, your hands tucked into the pockets of your parka, dead leaves crushed under your hiking boots.

Another body; the 8th one.

This one got dumped much quicker.

A 26-year-old till clerk at a Tesco had been reported missing only 36 hours before her body got found.

The news spoke about the incident and the GMPHQ deemed it a separate occurrence. An accident. The girl had been a Type 1 diabetic and seemed to have had a fatal sugar crash.

But you know it has to have been 'The Ghost'.

You don't know why. But you can just tell.

And, for the first time, as you draw up the line over the map, to signal where she got picked up and where she got dumped... there's an overlay.

The pick-up site, somewhere between her job, and her home... and the dumpsite.. Alexandra Park, near Oldham. Both those locations were mere minutes away from where the second victim had been picked up months ago.

Has he gotten sloppy?

Has her sudden death thrown a wrench in his plans and caused him to panic and pick somewhere nearby?

Your eyebrows twitch and a smirk takes over your lips as you finally find something you can exploit.

"Got you, you fuckin' knob'ead." You say and can't help the proud chuckle that escapes your mouth.

Simon's pissed off.

He feels like shit after having gotten that girl killed on his watch.

Not that he hadn't gotten the other ones killed either, but this one had truly been an accident.

Between the stress and the fear, her blood sugar had dropped and Simon hadn't noticed before he left the house to pop to the shops and get them both some food.

And by the time he got back and made her dinner, she was just... gone.

It startled him.

Startled him more than when the other ones died.

While looking in her purse for a justification as to why she passed... like any medication he failed to give her, he found the insulin pen and the sugar monitor.

So now, here he is. Back on the street. Back on the prowl. With 8 accidental kills under his belt and a desperate need to fix his streak.

He drives aimlessly. It's a Saturday night and Simon was sure he was going to find some young, vulnerable girl wandering about and stumbling over her own feet, too drunk or high to even walk in a straight line without stumbling or having to lean on street lamps and walls for support.

He hates seeing girls in that state. Young, vulnerable, alone... Left to be preyed upon by some creep in the shadows... Their support systems having failed them...

What kind of friend leaves a drunk girl to find her way home alone when she can barely stand?

What kind of manager lets an employee walk home after dark?

What kind of parent, or sibling, lets a girl walk home from the bus terminal during a storm?

And then they wonder why girls get raped or murdered senselessly by dirty bastards in back alleys.

That only happens because no one protects these vulnerable girls.

They protect them as children, but not as adults? What kind of world does such a thing?

Probably the same world that misinterprets his actions as senseless killing.

He's not a killer.

He's... just very bad at taking care of the girls he... 'helps'...

He never means to hurt them. He's no monster. He just wants to protect them.

For once it's actually raining. Heavily so. The water has soaked through the slinky mini skirt and spaghetti strap top you're wearing, your heels are open-toed and slippery, and each step you take feels like you're about to fall face-first into the mud.

You've had your arm out-stretched and your thumb up for the better part of an hour, trying to flag down any car driving past, only to get no luck.

You're at your wits' end, and so so close to calling it a night and trying to stop baiting a driver into taking you in. It's that bad tonight. You can't seem to reel anything in.

The cold wind nips at the exposed skin on your arms and legs, and you know well you'll spend the next week in bed with the nastiest cold of your life.

A car zooms past you as you walk and show your thumb, only to groan and protest when it doesn't stop...

But it does slow down to a stop not far ahead of you, having turned on its blinkers after spotting your outstretched arm and thumb up.

Rushing over to it, you stumble a few times and trip and slip with your heels on the wet tar of the road, before you come up to the passenger side door.

Look in the window, you find a young-ish looking bloke behind the wheel, looking at you with concerned eyes and knitted brows. He leans over and pops the door open for you.

"Get in, get in!" He tells you urgently when he notices you shivering like a wet dog in the rain.

Climbing inside the car carefully, you close the door behind you, hearing how the rain and wind turn muffled once you do.

It's surprisingly clean inside, the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror smelling of pine. It's also warm, so warm, the heater running at max temp and making the car so much more cosy.

"Oh my God, thank you so much for stopping!" You whine, forcing yourself to sniffle and hiccup as tears pour down your face. They're fake ones, warranted by you watching a handful of soldier-coming-home videos on youtube and using some menthol-infused stick in your undereye.

"You alright, sweet'eart?" The man asks as he looks at you with worried eyes. "Are you all alone out here?" He asks and glances out of the window.

He's younger than most of the men you usually bait out, but he'll do. He's also... more handsome than most of them too. Long, prominent nose, a long jaw and chin, pouty pink lips, and the biggest brown eyes, not to mention a crew cut worth of blonde hair.

"Yeah..." You sniffle. "My boyfriend he... we were coming back from a birthday party and we... he... we were arguing and he tossed me out of the car and... and...!" You explain. The practiced lie slips through your teeth quickly. It's been used on about 7 of the 20 or so men you've wiped off the map, and you say it as if you truly believe it, which helps sell it.

You also stumble over your words, as if you're starting to choke up, to make sure you sound even more distraught. Men love when you're hyperventilating.

"Alright, it's alright-!" He tries to reassure you and sets a hand on your shoulder. "God, you're freezing. How long have you been out there?" He asks you, concerned.

"I- I don't know! An hour?" You answer with a whine, your lip quivering as more sobs rack your body.

Your eyes are sharp, though. You're noting his every movement. How he quickly pulls away from the backrest of his seat and shrugs off his coat and wraps it around your bare shoulders. "Here. It's alright. You're alright."

You continue softly sniffling, tucking your legs to the side toward the door, while hiding your face in your hand.

"Where can I take you?" The blond man asks gently as he glances at you and slowly leans closer, resting an arm on the steering wheel, the other on the centre console.

"I don't... I don't know..." You whine and sniffle. "I can't... I can't go home... I can't face him right now..." You trail off. "I can't believe he'd toss me out of the car like that...!"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, love, but he sounds like a right knob'ead." He says and carefully pats you on the shoulder. "How about I take you to the bus terminal? Or the station?"

"I don't know...!" You whimper. "He took my things with him... I can't even buy a ticket home to my mum..." You hiccup and try to clean the tears off the corner of your eyes.

He's handsome, he speaks calmly, hasn't tried to touch you longer than simply patting you for reassurance, and even gave you his jacket... You almost feel bad about doing this to him. Almost.

"Tell you wha'." The bloke says as he leans a bit closer, tilting his head to look at you in the eye. "I'll take you to the bus terminal and give you a couple more pounds so you can call your family or a friend to come get you, yeah?"

Sniffling, you shake your head. "No... you're already... doing so much! I can't... I can't even pay you back!" You add.

You really should earn an Oscar for this performance. The damsel in distress who's actually such a good girl that she doesn't want to impose on this man's money or take too much of his help.

"Don't worry about any of that." He tells you and waves his hand to dismiss the point, before leaning over and fixing the direction of the air vents on the dash, making sure they point at you to keep you warm. "You don't have to pay me back, alright?"

Nodding a bit, you try to stop crying and rub your eyes with your hands, causing an even bigger mess within your make-up, your fingers now also stained with mascara.

"Here. It's alright. No need to cry anymore." The driver says affectionately as he offers you a tissue from a pack, before he shifts in his seat and starts driving forward.

Simon watches you out of the corner of his eye as he drives. Poor little thing, all alone, abandoned by her boyfriend, left on the side of the road...

It's like the universe had handed you to him on a silver platter. He couldn't not take you in! And, this time, he's not going to let anything happen to you.

He's not risking it.

And so of course he's going to soothe you, to calm you down, you, the poor little thing, that got left on a side road by your awful boyfriend, like a stray cat no one wants to feed...

That's the thought in his head as he drives down the wet roads, the windshield wipers working overtime to beat the pouring rain that decided to attack the city of Manchester even more aggressively than usual.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye every few minutes, making sure to drive carefully and steadily, and trying to spot the look in your face as he does.

You still seem stressed, frazzled, worried. The tears haven't stopped despite your breathing having settled...

He wonders if you've had anything to drink. You're definitely not drunk, but the amount of tears... maybe tipsy?

Maybe you won't even need to be threatened. You'll just... let him take you into his house, gently guide you into the bathroom and let you wash off the mud and rain...

He'll give you clothes, and food, and let you watch tv with him... And he'll keep you warm and safe, like everyone in your life has failed to, that got you to the moment you were now in...

Alone.

Afraid.

Abandoned.

He wants to tell you not to worry, that he's here now... But he holds his tongue. You'll hear it later.

"You should've kept going forward instead of turning right..." You say aloud, forcing your voice to still sound soft and meek, as you look out of the window.

You've been driving for a while. You've kept your head low, enjoying the warmth coming from the A/C, which helps with the genuine cold wetness of the rain that settled on your skin and bones.

You're not stupid. You know the way to the bus terminal and to all the train stations in the area...

He's not taking you to either. In fact, you're pretty sure you've taken 3 rights in the last 5 minutes, and are, in short, going back the way you came.

"Sorry. It's easy to get turned around with this rain, I'll go back to the main road." He replies. His tone apologetic, and his brow scrunched in concern... But his eyes... his eyes are hard.

It sends a tingle down your spine. For once, you actually baited out a man that has nasty intentions with you.

Had he not tried to do that, you would've considered letting him live... But no, of course, he's actually a creep...

What a shame... He's actually kind of cute. In a blue collar sort of way.

It gives you some weird sense of satisfaction, the realization in the back of your mind that you might have succeeded... that you might have bated him out... The Ghost.

Your hand carefully slips into the left side of the waistband of your slinky skirt, the side closest to the door, so he can't see, your fingers already wrapping around the handle of your pistol.

Your eyes remain on the street, the road, keeping an eye out as he returns to the main road and goes back over the area he has just driven past. A closed down shop, the post office...

And you wait.

You wait patiently for the next time he tries to turn right and put you back on course toward the area you had triangulated for The Ghost to live in or work out of...

And he does. He does just that.

Within a minute, he turns right again...

And you don't hesitate.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol handle and you rip it off the confines of your skirt, your arm hurling itself toward him, steadily pressing the barrel to his temple...

Only for you to notice his arm moving sharply at the same time and, you're suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun as well.

His eyes are wide, his brown irises nearly invisible from how wide his pupils are blown and he stops the car suddenly with a hard brake that jostles you both forward.

Looking each other in the eye, over the top of both your pistols, you can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline through your veins.

The look of surprise, confusion and pure dread painted in his features, the way his brows knit together and furrow in displeasure, his lips already twisted into a scowl...

It's a sickly sweet pleasure, to spot the way that, just like the other ones, he's scared of your pistol... It's likely his first time... But an unfamiliar warmth forms in your tummy as you stare down his pistol too... It's also your first time...

"Well, well, well... Would you look at that?" You quip as a smirk takes over your lips. "Looks like I've busted myself a Ghost."

You don't miss the way his brows go from concerned and fearful to dropping low onto his eyelids, and his jaw clenches in disgust.

Got him.

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ceilidho · 8 months ago

Note

Do you have any recommendations for cod dark fic writers?

hmm i wouldn't say these are all "dark fic" writers, but these are my personal favourite writers in no particular order:

@peachesofteal, @ohbo-ohno, @charliemwrites, @luminousbeings-crudematter, @kneelingshadowsalome, @moondirti, @moongreenlight, @vanderilnde, @pfhwrittes, @391780, @eilidh-eternal, @alwaysshallow, @yeyinde, @soapskneebrace, @ghouljams, @kaadaaan, @auspicioustidings, @imagine-shenanigans, @diejager, @sentientcave, @mortuarywriting, @luvit, @shotmrmiller

im probably missing some people, and some people that i follow haven't written in months so i won't tag them, but i also recommend checking out my ao3 bookmarks!! i'll be honest though, i haven't been able to find new writers in a hot minute because i've been so busy with work/personal life/writing/etc, so im sure there are lots of new writers that i simply just haven't come across yet :((

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moongreenlight · 10 months ago

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THIS IS SO CUTE!!!!! Thanks pookster @katz-chow for the tag

Tags: @ceilidho @luminousbeings-crudematter @sentientcave

Link in case anyone else wants to play!! ❤️

Thank you for the tag @liamthemailman

it's me

It's something similar to me. In any case, I agree, this is not the best price.

I wrapped myself in a scarf because it's -13 degrees outside the window.

And this is Sofia

PICREW

tagging: @cloudofbutterflies92 @chloekistune @alypink @mctvsh @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot @applbottmjeens

#the closest I’ll ever get to a face reveal on this account I fear #moongreenlight #moongreenlightwrites #sephspeaks

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katz-chow · 1 year ago

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deranged!reader & her task force (katz's version)

me & ur mother @moongreenlight are genuinely insane. this is basically us if it even care 😞

a/n: fem!reader all military names fake, processes fake; mostly it'd be classified, not just not done...well we wouldn't know for sure. medical shit also real. i’m in both of those fields irl. no i am not a swifty

clinically insane reader doesn’t rampage kill. art has many mediums; regular people choose acrylics, watercolor, culinary, pottery…reader chooses murder. it’s a meticulous process that depends on the person, it’s slow, drawn out. which makes her a great torturer. thing is, she was part of SEAL team tango-8 but focused more on SARC stuff (search and rescue). she knows her way around a suture kit—and, fortunately, surgical instruments.

laswell knew reader for two reasons: odd separation orders and her confirmed kill count. there was barely anything documented about her medical discharge which was weird because 98% of the military is just paperwork (a fucking pain btw). only thing noted was “medically discharged” and “0% disability”. her confirmed kill count? 43. happy to be back in uniform, she skips around the hallways to price, giving him a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek, whispering threats in his ear. “if you ever discharge me, i’ll dip you in concrete to be my custom statue.” a sickeningly sweet smile follows. as he furrows his brows in confusion and bit of horror.

soap tries really hard to like her and he really does. she's so sweet and always tries to include him in things and bakes him cakes and always somehow includes almonds, joking how it's actually just cyanide. soap laughs until he sees her have actual cyanide in the kitchen, carefully dropping it into the batter with an eyedropper. then a tsp of almond extract. it wasn't enough to hurt or kill anyone, but it scared him

he told ghost and ghost goes and investigates. then he sees reader one night, cleaning her instruments, different mallets, scissors, blades and knife handles etc. and they are pristine...not surgically pristine but definitely floor grade. he continues to watch her at 2100, without fail, and cleans her surgical instruments. until he sees her missing from her barracks from her open curtains. he goes and finds her carefully dressing a man like a buck. she sees him and smiles at him beckoning him closer. after he puts an end to that, with cuts and bruises, he goes and tattles to price. reader crying in the prison about how much she'll "miss her uniform" price and laswell speak about it and they finally know what the fuck us going on. they send her out on the field.

its just gaz, a few recruits, and reader in a safehouse. they've captured one prisoner, a soldier of the pmc against them. he's tied to a chair and after gaz runs over his psychological warfare in him. gaz fails and tiredly beckons for reader to come in. he finds her staring dead straight ahead, looking like she was falling asleep with her eyes wide open. he slowly calls out her name, no response. he calls again, same outcome. he taps her on her shoulder and her eyes fall into a "normal" state and smiles brightly at him, "my turns?!" gaz films it, the blood, the slow agony-per laswell and price's request reader starts to skin the soldier. starting with just a silly little joke about cuticles and then it goes higher and higher, the piece of skin never tearing. it's superficial, it barely draws blood. "does that hurt? don't worry, i'll help!" she blows cold air onto the exposed skin, drying out his flesh slowly while the blood keeps it from fully drying. gaz gulps, the camcorder on a tripod next to him. "it's okay, you're not going to die. and if you do...i'll make use of you, no waste! promise! gaz, can you pass me the kerrison rongeur, please?" gaz scrambles around in her kit, metal and metal clinking together in the heavy duty box. "the fucking hole puncher, gaz." she screams at him, causing him to jump. he finds the long, gun-like instrument, its blade pokes and punches together. he hands it to her, the work end first. she yanks it from him, nails scratching his hand in frustration, but that same smile on her face. she takes small chunks of flesh from the man, blood gushing and pools. she digs dipper until she hits an artery, blood splattering over them all. "the mosquito! give the fucking mosquito." she screams as the man in front of them bleeds out. she launches for it in her box and clamps down. the man half awake. gaz's chest heaves up and down, his face in shock and fearful freeze. reader storms out, face falls flat, no more smile, no brows furrowed, just a dead stare in front of her. "pieces of shit, human bodies are."

laswell pulls out any psych eval documents she can find. she finds exactly one set of documents: your medical discharge. price shows ghost and they stare at the replaying video on his monitor. the image of a wide, blank-eyed reader, hair and face dripping with crimson blood, a small clamp clicked to close an artery. they keep her. soap is the one who finds your bloody kit left in your barracks. chunks of flesh, blood, bone... and other bioburden seemingly never there at all. the shiny chromium finish looking as if they were never used at all. reader who failed out of medical school because of the lack of moral and ethics her professors and physcians saw in her. they banned her from residency.

"can i...have him..? please?" "why would you want an execution order? aren't you an interrogator?" "i want to see the peristalsis!" "the fucking what?" "how his intestines move in his body and squirm around like snakes!!!" she dissects the man in a way only a careful surgeon could. doyen clamps closed off certain sections as she sits and animates the movement on her ipad. the man inhales and exhales evenly, a bandage over his throat, eyes wide and dry from the lack of tears.

soap, as empathetic as he is, sees reader in chow, sitting by herself as she stares dead ahead, mind clouded in thoughts. her arms moves a bit, twiddling her thumbs under the table. he sits down across from her, her gaze staring pass him, face unreadable and almost bored looking. "you alright bonnie?" reader's face smiles, her eyes still dead and still as they lag behind the smile she puts on. her eyes squint. "yeah! why?" "twiddling your thumbs there, anxious about your second mission?" she puts her cupped together hands onto the tabletop. her hands unclasp. she twirls the severed thumbs around. "just a lot on my mind, yeah..."

"can i have it?" reader asks when she sees gaz's shiny teeth.

reader takes interrogations very seriously, taking souvenirs for herself. a finger carefully dried out, teeth, an ear, hair, vital organs in formaldehyde, eyes into earrings, tendons as rings and bracelets.

she gave price a birthday present which included a human heart, dried and shrunk in a glass displayed case. "made it myself", she says. "...on your own time, my love?" "yes, never company time!" his birthday is not public imformation.

ghost was missing a pow. he asks reader. "where is he?" "who?" "the prisoner..." "i let him go." "why the fuck would you do that?" "i'm going hunting, do you want to join? we can dress him in the field!"

"i got you flowers, ghost, for your mother's grave." "how the fuck do you know about that?" "you told me!" "i fucking didn't! now tell me who the fuck told you that shit?!" "you did, don't be silly. you told me over a glass of scotch...or many glasses actually!" she giggles as he slams her against the wall.

price wakes up one night, the spine-chilling feeling of a pair of eyes stalking him. he picks up the gun from his nightstand, clicking off the safety. he blinks a bit, vision clearing and seeing a figure in the shadowy corner. "go back to sle-" her body is slammed against the wall, gun to her head. "go to bed, price." "what...are you doing here?" price breathes out, trying to steady his racing heart, popping the gun back to safety. "wanted a piece of your hair."

gaz finds reader in his room after work one day, reader sweeping his house. he changed the locks within a week, locking all external doors and windows. reader leaves him breakfast every morning still. he trashes it after the cyanide incident. he wakes up to reader with a plate of eggs and toast over his bed. "please eat it and don't waste food :("

the task force lives their day to day lives with the feeling of impending doom, paranoia, and a feeling of dread washing over them all at once whenever they catch a glimpse of you. they beg price to remove you, but price would rather not be covered in cement while still alive.

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meyousing · 7 months ago

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𝐑𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥, 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤; 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞

FOR MY POOKIEWOOKIE @moongreenlight !! who i adore sososo much I HOPE U ENJOY !! 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after realizing what raphael could do for you before; ridding your mind of the emperor for the briefest moment, you wanted to know how that could feel for a second time, no matter the cost. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: -> sneaky HUMAN raphael, non-con, deception and lies its raphael what else did you expect. probably a little ooc since this is for pookie so fk canon :D. as always all sexual nsfw will be under the cut!

I'm walking, you've been hiding,

And you look half-dead half the time.

Monitoring you, like machines do,

You've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye

You told yourself that you’d do anything for answers, that the cost didn’t matter–you wanted a solution, a cure to your tadpole infliction, and despite knowing better than to trust a devil, you were growing hopeless and running low on any other options. Yes, you knew the magic that Halsin told you about, the same words later spoken by the Emperor; their proclamation of impossibility regarding the worm’s extraction no matter which method you attempted, from whomever. But there was one time, and only one, when you remembered what mental quietude could sound like amidst such circumstances.

So, veiled by the darkness of the night sky en route, you navigated through Sharess’ Caress to the upper floors, intent on finding Raphael–even though he was hardly the paragon of trust–and experiencing solace in silence once again, something that, unfortunately, only he could provide. Gale was always going on about the benefits of respite, and this one you craved like a drug, now that you could remember how solitude felt after so long without it. What a crime to wish for independence within one’s own mind these days.

You didn’t bother knocking, he likely sensed you at some point or another on your way here, what with his attentiveness to you and all that implied your involvement. You didn’t care about being the intrusive one for once, careening the door open and briskly sending it shut behind you.

“Surely you didn’t think that little disguise would work?”

“It wasn’t meant for you.” You tugged your hood down easily and shrugged the rest of your cloak off, balling it up and tossing it aside carelessly. You spotted Raphael standing a few feet away, in the first doorway of the den, his back to you. Yet he knew what you were wearing.

He turned and lifted a brow at you, but the rest of his expression showed obvious disinterest in speaking about this any further than the short exchange.

“Have you come to make the right choice?”

“Bold assumption,” you said quickly, not yet ready to fully admit why you sought him out in your situation; in the dark, on your own. “Shouldn’t you ask why I’m here first?”

“All I needed was a look at you to know.”

You didn’t respond, and he grinned, his lids low as he watched you.

“But I’ll let you tell me anyway, I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun. What troubles you, little mouse? What is it that’s brought you right into the cat’s paw?” he approached slowly, hands interlocked behind him as he subtly looked you up and down–knowingly–like you were the subject of an experiment. That wasn’t entirely wrong.

“I want you to do… whatever you did for me before, again.” You kept your eyes on him, speaking somewhat hesitant but remaining strong in your stance, your gaze unwavering. You noted the way he subtly mouthed along when you spoke the word ‘again’, tauntingly, like he already had you figured out. Perhaps he did.

“You don’t mean this?” He murmured, and with a snap of his fingers, your mind was yours again; that insistent, idle static now fizzled out.

Your eyes widened, brows uplifting alongside your lips as you nodded; it was just like the last time, pure silence aside from your own little conscience as it came to the same giddy realization that it was alone once more. Raphael only chuckled, and after a too-short moment, your mind was back to its newly but usually muddled state. The Emperor had nothing to say yet, which you were grateful for, as it saved you the need to seek an excuse for his inability to communicate with you in a second instance that shouldn’t have been possible the first time around.

“Are you expecting me to do you a favour like that for nothing?” he laughed dryly, mockingly; it made you feel like the vermin that was about to be squashed beneath a dirty boot sole. “You may be the brightest, most shimmering jewel in my crown, but something so deliciously close to free will in a time like this cannot come without charge. What’s more, it is most costly when one chooses selfishness over the common good.”

You should have expected this. You must’ve known deep down that it wouldn’t be so easy, that Raphael wouldn’t be a one-time good samaritan–a saint–and do you this favour, even in spite of all the honeyed names that’d roll off of his tongue when he sought you out, making it seem as though you were a little more special than his usual clientele. Stepping forward with a frown, you scoffed:

“How am I being selfish?” Was he just toying with you for his entertainment now? You hadn’t been here for long, but the trip would be cut off even sooner if this continued. You craved relief, but not enough to get tangled up in the deep end with a devil, to a point of no return.

“Why do you deserve the fix before anyone else? Do you think I’m a good-willed cleric made to provide relief to all those with your affliction?” Despite how incredulously he spoke, you could tell now that he was merely testing you. Testing you for what exactly, you couldn’t tell; your will, your determination?

“Who are you to be the dictator of right and wrong?” you countered him with a question of your own, stepping up closer once he stopped in his tracks. He hardly raised his brows in his fullest reaction to your bravery, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“I’m not. But I’m the only one who can provide a moment of respite to you, and I don’t work for free. Is that not fair? You are asking for quite a privilege.” He smirked like he knew what you would say next.

“You’ve already done it for me once before, what makes it different now? It’s temporary anyway, is it not? Am I wrong?”

“It is. But last time was just a… sample if you will. For a second taste, a true dealing between us, you’ll need to do something for me too.”

You grimaced, and he looked too pleased with himself. You’d managed to avoid getting involved with him this far along, rejecting most ultimatums he offered, and you’d been fine without his assistance–or obstacles, rather. Yet now, something initiated completely of your own accord was creating a conflict that you could’ve avoided if not for your greed and its insistence; you weren’t done yet.

“Fine” you conceded, rather quickly too. His smirk widened, he looked so smug.

“Good, good” he purred. You blinked a few times, your body having an unexpected reaction to the bassy sound as you averted your gaze, refusing to recognize it.

“What do you want from me, then?” you mumbled.

“What do you think I would like from you–my dearest–” he drew out, “in exchange for my services?” He tilted his head, and he seemed a lot closer than you last remembered. He was much more visible in your periphery even as you forced your eyes aside. Were you supposed to answer that question and know what to say, what he wanted?

“I-I don’t know. Do you want me to take the deal with you and promise you the cro–actually, no, that is way too much in exchange for a few minutes of sile–”

“No” he cut you off sharply, his expression falling flat. “That, I can wait for. Your choice will be even sweeter to hear the longer you hold out on me. But considering our current circumstances…” he trailed off, and when you didn’t look at him during that pause, you felt hands slide up your waist.

You blinked at the same time that your body jolted–a millisecond–and your surroundings changed. You still stood in Raphael’s grasp, just before the dining hall’s grand table within the House of Hope. Your eyes darted around warily, but you still felt an odd sense of… calm. Raphael, so tenderly that your heart thrummed a little off-beat, slid his fingers up your body and down your arms, grasping your wrists as he led you to one of the seats; facing the flames that so ironically burned in the fireplace. He walked slowly, dare you say methodically, striding to take a spot across from you.

"Indulge yourself” he muttered, looking utterly observant. He placed his chin atop his hands, fingers interlocked into a fist. He didn’t touch the food, but you expected as much.

“I’d rather not” you garbled, your gaze careful while you studied him and tried not to overreact, still settling into the new environment. You didn’t have an appetite per se, not for the deceptive refreshments that were too perfectly laid out before you anyway. Raphael may have been worming his way into your routine so often, just like the godsdamned tadpole itself, but his presence lingering for so long didn’t equate to trust yet.

“Then indulge me.”

You watched him reach for and open a bottle of wine, one you didn’t recognize as common among those you’d scraped together from wooden boxes and crates on your way to the gate. It looked more prestigious, the bottle was embellished with what you could only assume to be real gold melted within the glass, and it caught the light so intriguingly each time he tilted it to pour some out; a drink for him, a drink for you. You looked away when he stood and took the chalices in his hands, placing one before you and promptly returning to his seat. When you looked to him again he had elevated the goblet in his hand, his chin lifting.

“To a new era.”

Your fingers approached the table, tips dancing towards the stoup’s base, the entirety of which could have been crafted by Gond and polished by Moradin. You wondered, despite how aged everything throughout the House was by the natural processes of time; cracked tile, buffered but helplessly dull stone… the stemware looked so new; untouched. He didn’t save it just for you, surely? Flitting your eyes back to Raphael as you thought about it, you noted how he finished taking a slow sip, lowering his cup back to the tablecloth. You couldn’t stop yourself from watching his tongue dart out to get some more of the taste, from what lingered on his lips. He noted your longer-than-usual silence, and those same lips turned up.

“Your insistence, or stubbornness, rather, is very endearing in more… suitable circumstances. For once, you should try to act less like the illithid you’re bound to become and let go of those inhibitions. Look where you are” His head swayed slightly to his left, to the room, fingers drumming mutely on the tabletop.

The wine was tempting, and his taking a first sip did comfort you in some way. You spared him a final glance before zeroing in on your goblet, staring down the dark liquid inside, watching the warm candlelight rippling reflectively on its surface. Perhaps it couldn’t hurt to indulge just this once, you thought, as you took the cup into your hand.

Raphael nodded along, encouragingly. Uncharacteristically.

You figured there was no harm in it, especially if he was as fond of you as he claimed, then he wouldn’t want you to meet a preemptive demise. Not yet.

You bit the bullet, raising the chilled gold to your lips. You did feel rather parched, and the substance slid down your throat so smoothly, so soothingly.

“You know, I poisoned one of our goblets.”

Exhaustion was sent over you like a wave, and not because of the poison immediately having an effect–had it been your substance that was tampered with–but because of course he did. You sighed, your eyes falling closed to console that Raphael-induced fatigue.

“Gods, I hope it’s mine,” you muttered beneath your breath.

He let out what you may have heard as, amidst all of your quarrels, his first genuine laugh. His face was delighted as he shook his head.

“Are you so displeased at the prospect of dining with me?” he leaned back in his seat, grinning and crossing a leg over the other. Getting comfortable. Settling in. You were tense in opposition, knees tight together as you kept yourself at the edge of your chair.

“This clearly isn’t all that you want from me, Raphael. Either get on with it, or let the toxins do their job and let me off easy” You put the goblet down, pushing it forward and away as you inhaled sharply, now on higher alert considering the circumstances.

“It’s only a bit of fun. The dose isn’t lethal, I couldn’t rid Faerûn of such a treasure in that crude of a way.”

At least you were right about that.

Raphael said nothing else as he took in your silence, and his expression didn’t say much either. He stood slowly, his eyes remaining on you as he dragged his fingers along the tabletop until he landed at your side.

“If you’d like to experience mental solitude again, then I’ll only ask for one, small thing from you.”

You certainly felt a touch drowsier than before, your limbs a little more numb and tingly, like they had fallen asleep on you in a too-short duration. You turned your head to look up at him, and even at a neutral pace, the motion made you nauseous. You let out a soft groan of displeasure, closing your eyes and moving to drop your head down. Raphael caught your chin and forced your eyes to remain on him, his voice barely above a whisper as he proposed:

“Solitude, for a kiss.”

“The least isolating ask,” you muttered bitterly, eyelids heavy as the sight of him became a degree blurrier than what you knew as typical. Yet you could still make out his smirk, and he leaned closer.

“But not a very weighted one. Don’t you miss being able to think without the added badgering of the Emperor’s two cents?”

Truthfully, you did, if this last-resort decision wasn’t enough of an indicator. A kiss also wasn’t a huge deal, but Raphael was the cambion equivalent to the poison coursing through your veins. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you also weren’t in much of a position to deny him. Would you even be able to enjoy the seclusion if this didn’t wear off after he did this favour?

“That’s really all you want?”

“It is. Perhaps if you wished for something more permanent it would be a different story, but alas. It doesn’t need to be written contractually either, nothing so serious.”

“Fine, then.”

You chose to take the initiative, the leap of faith, pressing your weight into the armrests of the chair so you could stand up and lean in. Your resistance was, helplessly, nonexistent when Raphael pushed you back down; the side effect of his poison making it too easy.

He grabbed your jaw, fingers firm but the motion gentle as he turned your face towards his. Your eyes were already half-closed, but you didn’t miss the intensity on his features. He hovered over you, his mere presence so imposing as he kept you right where he wanted; under his thumb. He moved closer until his cupid’s bow brushed over yours, ever-so-tender, so close yet so far. Your heart nearly skipped a beat once he tilted his head a little further, his lips parting in the slightest as they touched yours, but it wasn’t yet a kiss. Yes, you had expected him to draw this out considering the circumstances of the required affection pertaining to a deal, but what you hadn’t expected was your subsequent anticipation and eventual impatience.

“Just do it–” you managed to murmur out against his mouth, some natural venom lacing the words without the help of the poison. You were surprised that he closed the gap properly right after by pulling your head up to him, his fingertips pressing deeper into your cheeks as he did, fingernails scraping the thin skin.

He kissed you hard but without much aggression. You were taken aback by his normalcy, but it appeared that he was just getting started, as he soon used the leverage of his hand on your face to bring you to your feet. You winced, the motion pulled at your neck, but you weren’t given time to dwell on it when he jerked you to the table and tore his lips from yours.

“Not going to put up a fight? How unlike you” he smirked. You could only glare at him because if he wasn’t sharp enough to nullify any resistance efforts, you both knew who would be pinned down right now. He chuckled once, appraisingly, before pushing his body into you again, his lips finding your neck instead.

He started with nipping at the skin, then tasting it with a languid lick that made you squirm, and moving to hold your hands down against the table–as if you’d be able to move them on your own anyway.

“More than a kiss–” you managed to state, your voice containing a hint of matter-of-factness, but was a little raspier as his closeness certainly affected your fortitude.

“You knew better” was all he had to respond with, the words muffled as they were kissed into the horripilation on your skin. He remained content here for a while, bringing a finger up to your jaw to turn your head in the opposite direction of where he had already ridden your skin with his lips and hot saliva; making you shiver when the wetness caught the air and consequently cooled, regardless of how hot it was in the hells and logically shouldn’t have been possible.

You were equivalent to a ragdoll by now, simply letting it happen when he grabbed your arms and flipped you around, your loose-limbed body immediately tipping over so your front was flat against the table; your hips perfectly positioned for your ass to press into his hips. He laughed and didn’t even try to create space, pressing himself into you so you could feel how hard he was, and it made you grimace at the realization of just how far this was going to go.

“You’re the only person worth this,” he breathed, his fingers snaking up to wrap around the column of your neck and force your head up. “The only one who deserves to experience this privilege.”

Unable to suppress your snicker when he said that, you almost whined aloud when his fingers tightened in response, and began rutting his hips into you steadily but with enough force to shift your body against the tabletop each time, your shirt getting caught up in the tablecloth and pushing it up so the cool surface touching your heated flesh made you tremble. The strong scents of all the lavish foods surrounding your immediate proximity almost drowned out Raphael’s scent, but it wasn’t enough, especially not as he leaned down so his front was against you completely, his face next to yours.

“So amusing, is it?” he rumbled, subtly bringing his free hand up the side of your limp thigh, finding your hip, and reaching to tug at your panties. You couldn’t even feel shock anymore, simply letting out a strained exhale the material shifted when he slid it down your skin; off. “We’ll see for how much longer you feel that way.”

How much had you missed within those few seconds, to be surprised when he was already playing with his cock against your entrance? You felt a lot hotter then, your skin crawling with pleasure-induced chills as he moved his tip slowly, heavily up and down, prodding so slightly into your warmth and making your muscles tense each time he slid it away and down to your clit. He never lingered against one spot or the other long enough for any long-term sensations to last, and you couldn’t stop yourself from releasing a disgruntled groan. His chuckle reverberated through you, making your breaths shake as they became increasingly rapid.

“I wonder if any of your devotees across the realms know that you can be reduced to this–if they think about it,” he pressed the tip of his cock into you now, making your hastened breaths hitch, your lungs burn, “if they imagine you beneath them, or maybe even above them–but you only deserve to be here,” he pushed his hips forward and slid in deeper, with ease, the motion so precise it made your thighs twitch, “beneath me.”

He set a slower rhythm to start, but the way that his movements bumped you further into the table each time made it so that you could feel all of him so perfectly. You felt so open, so exposed–

“Y-You seriously want to do this right here?” you whispered, only because your voice was so strained under his palm, and his cheek went taut in a grin next to you.

“My bed is still busy being warmed, this will do for now. You deserve better than mediocre; the real thing, not my copy. Feel fortunate” he sighed, pressing deeply into you for a moment and staying there, enjoying you, nearly pushing into your cervix–distracting you from the tongue-in-cheek response you wished to give to his words. You instinctively squirmed away, the intensity of it being too much too quickly with how teasingly he had been going thus far. But he wasn’t having any of your resistance despite how it was impulsive and not of your volition; pushing his body down heavier upon yours until you were trapped entirely, forced to take what he gave. Then he resumed movement, and he was moving faster now.

You fisted the tablecloth before you with the weakest grip; the strongest you could muster, physically fighting every part of yourself so as to not give into him too quickly by carelessly moaning out and letting him know that he was actually making you feel something good. It didn’t matter though. Hoarse, uncontrollable whines vibrated in your throat, locked behind your canines as they sunk into your bottom lip in a further attempt at deceiving him. You were shocked that somehow, throughout the numbness in the rest of your body, each stroke and deep tingle of pleasure could be felt in its most intense form. You continued to amuse him, making him laugh as if this were something wholesome and wholly reciprocated.

“What do you hear?” he whispered to you, the closeness and low volume of his voice making you writhe, igniting prickles of delight inside of you, making your pussy squeeze around him and pull him in deeper; even shocking yourself as your jaw dropped open from the sensation. All that you could audibly make out were your breaths and his, accompanied by the slick sound of his cock pistoning in and out of you with ease by how wet he made you in such a short time.

“Just you–” you lied, “–mumbling in my fucking ear,” you tried to chuckle, but when the hand that wasn’t on your neck squeezed your hip tightly enough for you to actually feel it amidst all of the numbness, you gasped quietly, the dry laugh devolving into a whimper.

“You shouldn’t hear anything,” he said slowly, but in a tone that was maybe one pitch higher than normal, like he was concluding another one of his awful riddles. You’d have taken time to cringe if he hadn’t grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you up at the same time that he moved, pulling you flush against him and continuing to fuck you like you were nothing more than a toy fulfilling its purpose.

He favoured intensity over speed, ensuring that you couldn’t escape him as his cock never fully left your sex; only sliding back to quickly grind deeply inside once more, making you see stars each time–you didn’t care about whatever else he had to mumble to you now, all you cared about was engrossing yourself in the feeling of him. It made your stomach churn deliciously too, and that familiar warmth of finality was beginning to stir within as he bit down on your neck, sliding his fingers out of the way so he could hold you still by a shoulder. If your body wasn’t essentially dead you’d have regretfully reached back to hold onto him for support, grasping at the material of his intricately designed garments which would probably irritate him; perhaps your situational debilitation was for the better.

“You’re not about to come for me, are you? Tut tut” he purred, and you couldn’t discern whether the way your eyes rolled was from annoyance or pleasure. Despite the degradation he didn’t relent, encouraging you above all else. His body encapsulated yours as he held you how he liked, keeping your back arched just slightly enough for your hips to perch nicely off of him as he pounded into you; had you seeing stars. “Don’t keep me waiting, then~”

When a sneaky hand left your shoulder and made its way to your front, pinching your clit, you came undone with a sharp whine; you could barely feel the way your thighs clenched, tightening alongside your pussy as you ground back into him to experience the sensation in its fullest, whimpering his name so weakly as your head lulled back to rest against his chest. You hardly caught the sight of him smirking down at you, so self-satisfied as his hand in your hair tightened, and only a smidge of embarrassment crept into your overall feelings of elation because you knew that he had every reason to feel that way.

Soon enough the waves of bliss calmed, to your dismay, and Raphael pulled out of you with a soft groan, releasing your body carelessly and stepping back out of your sight, making you rush to reach out and have your palms land against the table rather than your face.

As you turned around slowly and panted to catch your breath, you watched while he adjusted what minimal undressing he’d partaken in, and only then did you notice the feeling of something wet and thick sliding down the inside of your thigh. You looked down, your eyes widening a bit as you rushed to pull your panties back up to be rid of the sight of it; when did he cum?? You also wondered about how much control he must’ve had over the poison as you could feel the toxins wearing off now that it was all over; the ability to perceive and to touch returning to your body again, albeit weakly.

“Good, don’t let my gift go to waste. So intuitive.”

You shuddered in disgust and swallowed the lump in your throat, ignoring his stupid, contented face and even happier statement. Now that you were approaching a state where you held a semblance of control again, you cleared your throat and redressed fully, smoothing over your clothes and standing taller after giving a quick shake of your head.

“Okay–you got what you wanted, give me my end of the deal now.”

Raphael grinned, his brows lifting in feigned surprise.

“Oh, darling, that was it. Couldn’t you tell? Surely you didn’t want your dearest Emperor to know about our fornication?”

You stood there, stunned, slowly but surely feeling hot rage seep into your bones. No fucking way was he being serious.

“Bullshit.”

He laughed at you in a falsely taken-aback way, even raising a ridiculous hand to his chest.

“That’s no way for a lady such as yourself to speak–you chose to jest when I asked what you could hear, that was your chance to tune in and tell. Regardless, we both fulfilled our ends of the bargain.”

“Oh that’s rich,” you started, not knowing what to do with your hands as they fidgeted at your sides, itching to reach up to him and–

“If you wish to experience this again, you know where to find me. Hopefully next time you’ll have come to a decision about the crown, too.” he chuckled in a muted way, to himself, like he was considering some inside joke that only he was part of, not you. Perhaps you were the joke to him, after doing something like this; surrendering to him. The thought made your face twist in anger and you began to approach him, your arms raising.

You only caught the split-second motion of his hand reaching out, and then… nothing. Moments of black, of unconsciousness… and then you were standing outside the den again. You lurched for the doorknob, tugging at it to no avail for the first time ever. After cursing aloud you hit the wood with your fists, letting out a long, deep sigh, shutting your eyes as you realized what a mistake this was to begin with.

You turned shamefully after a few more seconds of basking in exhaustion, your feet heavy and still feeling abnormal to use after so much time spent being dead weight. You trudged along to the exit of the brothel, cloakless, having left it in Raphael’s room and now being forced to endure the rain that had started. At least it was still dark outside, and you could return to camp innocently beneath the moonlight; be unheard beyond the pattering of the condensation while everyone else rested, acting as though nothing had happened at all, that you’d been there all night.

You kept your head down, blinking away the raindrops that slid from your hair and into your eyes. Only once you were alone, past the business outside of the Caress, that familiar bustling moved from the ambiance of the bordello to the innards of your brain, and a question was posed by the voice that’d been with you since the beginning of this life you had grown accustomed to:

“Where were you just now?”

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