#noir fic

[aparticularbandit]

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(I'm being aggressive and I'm only a little sorry)

for every “🌹” received in my inbox i’ll post one random sentence of a random WIP i’m currently writing

oh, fuck you. (affectionate)

READ MORE BECAUSE YOU GET NINETEEN OF THESE. JOKE'S ON YOU. HAH!

...but also a table of contents for anyone else who might want to creep in on these:

Dark!Eve

Agatha Birthday fic

Take A Sad Song and Make It Better Ch. 3

Post-Finding Family Agatha - Stephen Encounter

The Haunting of Westview Manor

What Dreams May Come Ch. ???

Mexican Stud (Epic Superhero Crossover Book 1)

Collateral Damage (Epic Superhero Crossover Book ???)

The House on Ridge Road (Epic Superhero Crossover Book ???)

Dottie as Sin Rostro

Love is Not a Victory March (Roisa Soulmate Timer Book 4)

Clara Ruvelle and the Heir of Slytherin (Roisa HP AU Book 2)

A Christmas Hideaway (Roisa Hallmark Holiday Special Reversal)

Roisa Grinchmas Special (this one’s in rhyme!)

On Myths and Hideouts Ch. ???

On Myths and Hideouts Jess Prequel

Paradise Lost post-canon

Timeless/Noir fusion

The Story of a Girl (Noir fic; Title pending) Ch. 3 - “Shielded by Black Robes”

Dark!Eve:

It’s boring when they don’t struggle.

Dottie’s let her practice on her some, let her bind her hands together, made sure she’s tying her victims down properly, grinned around the gag pressed into her lips, and just stared without making any noise as Eve’s explored. She’s learned – you can’t just rip someone’s fingernail off.  That hurts, sure, but you want to extend the pain.  Start with something small and then build.  You shove splinters and nails under their fingernails first, then you rip them off, if you want, provided there are other nails that you can do the same thing with.

Dismembering usually isn’t necessary.  The people they send her after break long before then, which is good, because she’s never actually gotten to try the dismembering thing. She can’t just cut one of Dottie’s toes off.  Besides breaking a bone is better than cutting it off because then you can still peel the skin back with a knife later.  If you remove stuff, it should be teeth, pried out with pliers.  Sure, they can’t grow back, but there’s not really much more you can do with teeth.

The thing about playing with Dottie is that she doesn’t break, which is fine, really, although she’s pretended to break so that Eve gets the idea of what that’s like, but Dottie is intentionally unbreakable so that Eve can deal with her own frustration when torture just doesn’t seem to go the way it’s supposed to go.  But also playing with Dottie usually ends up in—

She can’t think about that right now.  She needs to focus.

Eve picks at her teeth with the tip of her knife, fitting it carefully beside her canine with a little creak.

Maybe it’s the gag.

Agatha Birthday fic:

It literally goes wrong from the moment Eve wakes up.

Agatha refuses – absolutely refuses – to answer her phone.  Which, you know, on a normal day, that’s just fine.  Agatha has a life.  She has a job.  She’s juggling a lot of things all at once, and sometimes it takes a bit before she can call Eve back if she missed her call.  Usually, when she knows it’s going to be a while before she can call back, she shoots Eve a text to let her know, to check and see if the conversation is something that can happen over text (most of the time, yes, but not always).

But on her birthday?  None of that. No returned phone calls.  No texts.  No texts back, either, when Eve texts her. Just very clear and complete avoidance.

Now.

Eve likes to consider herself a good girlfriend.  She isn’t particularly worried that something has happened to Agatha; she’s too aware of the date for that and figures that Agatha is just hiding. (On a normal day, yes, she would be worried.  This is not a normal day.)  It isn’t like she didn’t do the same on her worst day ever, when Jane wasn’t available as a distraction (for very good reason), but even she had reached out to Agatha.  Eventually. When she’d desperately needed someone there and hadn’t—

Look, Eve understands needing to hole up and mourn, but it is Agatha’s birthday, and Agatha needs her, and Agatha would never admit that she needs her, so she’s going to go pound on Agatha’s door and barge in and make her feel better.  As soon as she gets off of work.  With the hope that Agatha is actually home.

Take A Sad Song and Make It Better Ch. 3:

The thing about hospitals is that—

Well.  There’s a lot of things about hospitals, and we really don’t have quite the time to get into all of that.  Andi’s still out, which does give us a fair amount of time, but I highly suspect that you would prefer to get back to the action, back to the fam, back to the search for the envelope to determine whether or not that they might find it.

Give me a moment.

The thing about hospitals is this: If you have an emergency contact listed with them, then when something happens to you, they call your emergency contact. Regardless of whether or not someone else is there with you, your emergency contact is the person who has the right to make decisions about your life when you are unconscious, the way that Andi currently is.  It’s just simple protocol.

And here’s the thing about that – up until just recently, Claire was Andi’s emergency contact.  Claire knew that.  Claire knows that.  It hasn’t crossed her mind, however, that when Andi reached the hospital they did not call her.  Duke did, but the hospital didn’t.

Because once Claire lied on the stand, Andi took some time to herself. Reconsidered a few things.

And changed her emergency contact.

Post-Finding Family Agatha - Stephen Encounter (because it got prompted):

She told herself she would never actually go in the New York Sanctum again, after that last time, but the problem with telling herself that is knowing that, well.  As long as she literally had an apartment right next door.  Inevitably.

But honestly, she had a rent controlled apartment in New York City.  Sure, sure, she could use magic to override her landlord’s mind and make it completely free (and, sure, she might have already done that once or twice over the past few decades, when whoever inherited the building tried to fuck around with her (How can you be the same resident from over a century ago?  That’s not possible! – Dear, you live on a planet of superheroes that gets visited by aliens, and you think you have some normal human being just hanging out in this apartment?  That you can boss around?  This is why New York gets attacked by every new wannabe villain; it’s not the Worf Effect or a symbol or anything – it’s entitled landlords not remembering that people with powers exist and can punch the ever-loving shit out of them when they get pissed off.  Almost as bad as working in customer service.  Yeesh)) – but what would be the fun in that?  She’s not Wanda, after all.  She doesn’t need everything to go her way all of the time.

Admittedly, Wanda is the reason she’s here in the first place.  Something about America and Wendy being part of this new Baby Vengeance team or something like that (she knows the real name, but she enjoys seeing the frustration in Wanda’s expression when she refuses to use the right term, loves seeing her pinch the bridge of her nose, delights when, eventually, Wanda says, “I’m not even going to correct you anymore, Agatha; I know you’re doing this on purpose” and still sighing with exasperation anyway); something about how they’ve been gone for far too long this time. That thin tremor under her voice that suggests just how worried she’s trying not to be.

For a witch able to control the very fabric of reality in this universe, Wanda has gotten surprisingly good at not sticking her nose into everybody else’s business.

Why would she need to do that when she has Agatha to do it for her?

(In most cases, Agnes would be better, but they can’t get Agnes without having America open a portal to that universe she and Ash are shacking up in, so she’s the next best thing. Besides.  She has centuries of being the New York Sanctum’s nosy neighbor.  It’s just a shame that Cian is no longer here to see it.)

The Haunting of Westview Manor (aka THOHH/THOBM and WandaVision infusion):

She’d always had a hard time sleeping in Westview Manor.

Or.

Well.

She’d always had a hard time sleeping starting with Westview Manor.

She remembers, in flickering fragmented memories, moments before her family had moved into the not-yet-decrepit manor, but they’re few and far between.  Her time living there had so shaped and shifted everything else that it is hard to reach back to earlier, simpler, happier times.  Times when she could sleep and dream of something good – like flying into a sky full of stars and reaching out to each one in turn, hoping to make friends with them. Times that she hadn’t had since—

Well, since Westview Manor.

She’d always had a hard time sleeping in Westview Manor, even before things went bad, and she’d always had a hard time sleeping after Westview Manor, even now when things could almost be called good.

It’s the closest to good she’d had in a long…in a really long time, actually.

But we’re not there yet.  We’re still looking at Westview Manor, we’re still looking at her, slumbering, trying to slumber, and shifting beneath her blankets, unable to stay still, turning this way and that, tangling herself in them, hands gripping her throat until she sits up, gasping for air, blankets falling to her waist.  Back then, she was only a child, brown hair nearly down to her waist if it was ever let free, although she cut it off a few days later, not liking the way it could so easily catch on anything – everything – around the manor.  She always felt like something was reaching out for her, grabbing and tugging on her hair with thin spindly fingers, and it didn’t matter that she would turn and see a statue with a bow or something like that, she still felt like it was someone and not something.

What Dreams May Come Ch. ???:

You are you and you are aware of yourself and you are aware of nothing at all.

Your name is Viola Lloyd, nee Willoughby, or something like it.

Your name is Viola Lloyd.  The year is 1680.  You are at Bly Manor.  Your daughter, Isabel, is five years old.  Your husband is gone on one of his business trips.  The money is running out.

And your sister wants you dead.

You have lived in this room – in your room, you know this room, you know it well, you know it from the way you have paced it so often, so often since you have taken up space within your host’s body – and yet you do not have a host.  You are you and you are yourself and you are nothing at all.

For the past five years, you have been stuck in this room, barely leaving it and being forced back into it when you do by family who are afraid that you will infect them or even more afraid that you will somehow ruin the image your daughter has of you.  This angers you – a rage that has been building over the past five years, not just from this alone – a rage that, it appears, has not left you, even in death. Your daughter remembers you as nothing else but this.  Why should seeing you at your worst make her hate you?  She has only ever seen you like this.

And this?

You know now.

This is not your worst.

Mexican Stud (Epic Superhero Crossover Book 1):

Joan clasps one hand over the hollow where her left eye once was – or she tries to, but it isn’t as hollow as movies and books would lead her to assume.  The bulb that was once her eye is splattered, blood covering her face, the sheets, probably the face of the woman who had been lying above her – but none of this matters.  The only thing that matters is the nerve she now holds in her hand and the popped vessel at its very tip and the incomparable pain pulsing behind where her eye once was.

She doesn’t scream.

Her throat is torn raw, but she doesn’t scream.  She shivers as the pulsing slows down, sparks flying about her fingertips. The rings she’d been wearing – the rings the other woman made to ground her – are smashed, shattered much in the same vein as her eye is, and their metal edges feel shoved into the flesh of her thumbs, her middle fingers.  There’s probably blood there, too.  She can’t tell.

Joan takes a deep breath and sits up in the bed, still cradling what was once her eye in one hand, trying to clasp it to the hollow where it once lay, and it’s only then that she notices how far the electric jolt has carried Rose.  No longer is the redhead on the bed with her; instead, she has been thrown across the room by the force of the blast, and she sits crumpled on the floor beneath a wall that looks cracked by the weight of her. One of her hands cradles her head.

“Was it worth it?” Joan asks, her voice raw, rasping.  She can’t keep the venom, the bitterness out of her voice, even as Rose looks up with a blood-spattered face.  “Was this what you wanted?”

Rose doesn’t say anything at first, and Joan is certain that’s because there is nothing left to say.  With her free hand, Joan tries to prop herself up so that she can move from Rose’s bed, but the hollow where her eye once was throbs.  She takes a deep breath, her free hand gripping the edge of the mattress so tight that her knuckles turn a bright white.  A tile from the ceiling drops with a loud clang between them, but neither of them jump.

“I can fix this.”

Joan starts to whirl to face Rose, but the movement makes her stomach clench.  Her teeth grit together.  “What?”

Rose struggles to her feet.  “I can fix this.”

Joan stares over the other woman’s naked body with her one remaining good eye, and she chokes back a sound that could either be a laugh or a sob. She intends for it to be the former, but she’s in so much pain that the latter wouldn’t be unimaginable at this point. “You can fix this?” she snarls.  “I’m missing an eye!”

Collateral Damage (Epic Superhero Crossover Book ???) (Luisa/Wendy backstory/interlude/etc.):

“Rose?”

It has been three months since the accident.  She didn’t like to think about it in public if she didn’t have to, and for those first few days, she had holed herself up in what was their apartment, because no matter where she went it felt like everything playing on every television in every restaurant or train station or anywhere that had a television on playing in the background was that recurring footage and the big white letters on the blue background: SUPERVILLAIN THE GHOST KILLED IN EXPLOSIVE FIGHT WITH—

The rest didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter who had killed Rose (it was an accident, the reporters said; there were no witnesses), only that she was destroyed so completely that all that was left of her were her teeth and an imprint of her on a wall otherwise covered with shadow and ash.  There hadn’t been any body for her to identify, hadn’t been any call for her to come to the morgue, hadn’t been any funerary arrangements or urns or anything – just POOF! and then the love of her life was gone.

Luisa stared at the redheaded woman standing just in front of her, and her breath catches in her throat because Rose was dead.  But, then, maybe that was why Whitney had directed her to this hair salon to get her hair done instead of her normal one. Maybe Whitney knew something she didn’t.

But, no, before the girl could even say anything, Luisa was convinced that this couldn’t be Rose. She was too young.  Far too young.  (Okay, maybe not that young – she looked the same way, perhaps, that Rose should have when they first met, if Rose hadn’t been changing her appearance to fit how she thought she should look.)  Her blue eyes were brighter, calmer than the tempests that had often been in the midst of Rose’s, and the freckles on her face stood out more starkly beneath her make-up.  Rose had always tried to change her face enough to cover them up, to not have them at all unless Luisa specifically requested them, but this girl didn’t seem to mind hers at all.

And she was—

“No, I’m Wendy,” the girl said, and her voice made Luisa’s heart ache.  “But if you’d like to see someone else, I can arrange for that. You had an appointment, didn’t you? You’re Miss—”

“Alver, yes, I had an appointment, a friend of mine set it up for me, and no, don’t get someone else, I….”  Luisa took a deep breath to steady herself and looked up to meet the younger girl’s eyes. “You just look so much like someone I used to know.”

The House on Ridge Road (Epic Superhero Crossover Book ???) (Dottie Backstory):

You run a hand through her hair.

Present tense – run – when it happens, you’re present; when you remember, you’re present – you understand the past and the future as detached concepts, but you are present in them and within them; you remember and you relive.

You run a hand through her hair.

It’s soft, softer than her hair has any right to be after hours, days, years of being pinned up, sprayed into place, not one strand moving unless you – you, yourself, or someone like you, but there is no one like you, only weak men who fail beneath your own prowess – force them to move.  Her hair is soft and smells of roses.  That’s the bathwater.  You scented it, before—

You scent it and run your fingers through the warm water as you sit on the edge of the tub, rippling, rippling, rippling.

There are no candles.  She doesn’t like candles.  She caught you once playing with the flame – baby lightning in a bottle – sometimes you burn your fingers – Peggy doesn’t like candles or maybe she just doesn’t like it when the skin of your fingers feels raw from playing with them, doesn’t like the way your skin grows back and heals all too easily and the rawness is gone in only moments, doesn’t like the abilities your people stole from vials they were never meant to have.

You’re weaker, in that regard, than the boy she lost years ago.  You know his name, but not because she wants you to know it. She tore it at you, screamed—

She tears it at you, screams it, louder than anything – “He’s a better man than you will ever grow to be” – and you let her say it because she means it and because she needs to say it and you brush the dust of broken plaster walls from your dress and wipe a track of blood from just above your right eye and pop your right shoulder back into place and you stare at her, chest heaving, face all rage and hate, and you know it’s just redirected at the nearest person and that person just happens to be you—

You can take it.  She needs to get the venom out.  All out.

When you look again, her hands are no longer clenched into defensive, aggressive fists; her fingers brush those loose strands of hair back into place; she’ll be sore tomorrow, but she’s not bloodied the way you are.  If you were a normal person, you would have a black eye, but you aren’t a normal person, no matter how much they force you to act like one until they need you.

You rotate your shoulder and it hurts but not too terribly.  You like the pain.

“Are you done now, Peg?  Get it all out?”

Dottie as Sin Rostro:

Time off.

The words are a nuisance for Dottie Underwood, who would far prefer to be sitting in a lair waiting for instructions or set up on location, gathering intelligence or preparing for a hit under yet another alias.  Even the name she used now wasn’t the one she was born with, not that it much mattered.  Crime lords and their best associates rarely used their real names – Elena di Nola was Mutter and her second-in-command was Sin Rostro, whoever happened to be wearing the name on any given day.  Sometimes it was Elena; sometimes it was her son, Derek; sometimes it was her daughter, a woman Dottie had never met; and sometimes, on the rare occurrence that the other two were not available and Elena wanted a proxy, Dottie herself would wear the name.

Names on names on names.

She wasn’t even Dottie anymore now.  When the word slowly grew more and more associated with insanity, she’d needed something a little more sane, a little more…consistent.

Not that it mattered during time off.

She’d painted her hair a bright red to match the blood of her nails and her lips, heightening and contrasting her pale skin, her ice blue eyes.  Some might use smaller terms to describe her – attractive, pretty, hot – and she hated that last one in comparison with the others she’d grown accustomed to in the earlier years – alluring, magnetic, mesmerizing.  Hypnotic.  But she wasn’t looking for words when she walked into the bar, as amusing as the murmurs and the collective hush were.

It was the eyes suddenly trained to her that made her blood rise, the heads tilted in her direction and following her every move that started the bubbling giggle clasped in the back of her throat, the turning of bodies open to her every whim that assured her control.

But it’s to the mostly empty bar that she made her way, the crowd parting for her like hot butter for a knife, and it was at the sole occupant that she paused, brightly painted nails tapping on the counter.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice soft and full of the innocence and wonder she’d been trained to exude.  “I wouldn’t want to intrude if you’re waiting for someone.”

Love is Not a Victory March (Roisa Soulmate Timer AU Book 4):

Michael Cordero, Jr. had never had a strong fascination with hotels like the Marbella.  He knew they existed, but to him, they had always seemed like tourist traps, destinations for people who didn’t live in Florida, meant for an elite sort of people that he and his family had never and would never be part of.  That made it sound as though he had a strong distaste for them, and maybe, to some extent, that was true, but for the most part, he just didn’t think about them.

That was until his timer went off for one of the waitresses who worked there.

At the time, Michael couldn’t have guessed that’s what she was, and in the years since, years he’d spent watching her from afar while he tracked down a crime lord who had grown mysteriously silent until, finally, he’d been connected to the very same hotel where his soulmate worked, he’d found that distaste slowly growing.  His soulmate deserved better, and he couldn’t wait to see her grow into whatever that better would be.

Mostly he couldn’t wait to spend his time watching something other than this stupid tourist trap hotel and its absolutely unattractive current manager with his rippling muscles that looked like they could burst out of his shirt at any moment or his leggy blonde wife who seemed to have no sense of propriety and wore bootie shorts everywhere like she wanted to be seen as a piece of meat. Not that he was one of those misogynistic assholes who thought that women couldn’t wear whatever they wanted, because he was not that.

He was just growing very, very tired of watching all of it.

Until Roman Zazo fell from a window on the twelfth floor and landed with the sharp point of an ice Marlin piercing through his chest.

Then everything seemed to suddenly grow a lot more interesting.

Clara Ruvelle and the Heir of Slytherin (Roisa HP AU Book 2):

“Hey!”  Clara pushed back against Hermione, shoving her over.  “I told you I didn’t want you to sit with me!”

But Hermione stayed where she was, refusing to get up, refusing to move even after Clara shoved her.  She just turned and gave her a flat stare.  “You’re not supposed to be fighting on the train.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re not supposed to set professors on fire either but—”

“Wait, wait, wait.”  Ginny held up her hands, palms out, and stared at Clara.  “Hermione set a professor on fire?” Her eyes widened, and she looked at Hermione.  “You really did that?”

Hermione gave Clara a blank stare and then turned to Ginny.  “No.  Of course not.  Good students don’t set their professors on fire.”

“Yeah, well, you must not be a very good student, then.”  Clara crossed her arms and leaned back against the plush back of the train bench.  “Since you definitely did that.”

“Clara.”  Hermione elbowed her harshly as she whispered through gritted teeth at her.  “Stop.”

Ginny just turned to Luisa with wide eyes.  “You’re the Hufflepuff!” she exclaimed and grinned.  “You’ll tell me the truth, right!”

Luisa just looked from Clara to Hermione and then winced.  “I, uh, I—”

“Quit making house assumptions,” Janet interrupted, voice flat.  Cat the cat had made his way out of her arms and woven around her neck, his head resting on his paws on the shoulder closest to the window so that he could stare outside with his one remaining eye, his tail on the other end, occasionally flicking against Clara as it moved.  “Just because Luisa is in Hufflepuff doesn’t mean that she’s a pushover—”

“Hey!” Luisa interrupted.

“—just because Hermione’s in Gryffindor doesn’t mean she’s brave—”

“Hey!” Hermione echoed Luisa.

“—and just because Clara and I are in Slytherin doesn’t mean we’re going to kill you or try to take over the world.”  Janet’s wand tapped against her arm a couple of times.  “Although, now that I mention it, taking over the world does sound like fun.  We may try and do that anyway.”

“Janet,” Clara hissed, elbowing her. “We’re not going to take over the world. That is way more work than either of us wants to do.  And you would have to pretend to get along with people – all that hand shaking and playing nice and everything – and I don’t think you’d like that very much.”

Janet sighed and nodded once.  “You’re right.  I wouldn’t. Maybe we postpone the taking over the world thing.”

A Christmas Hideaway (Roisa Hallmark Holiday Special Reversal):

“No, Daddy, I won’t be home for Christmas.”

Luisa has perfected the art of lying to her father about mundane things, particularly over the phone.  It started years ago when she was in high school, lying about stealing liquor from his cabinet whenever he asked with eyes that had initially shifted to look towards the ground and then eventually grew to facing him directly with a strong jaw, and continued through college, lying about how much time she was spending studying for her classes when really she was spending most of her time out with her friends doing almost anything except studying.  At some point, he stopped calling (or she stopped answering).  His time was – and still is – much better spent working on his company than inquiring into his children’s life.  Not because he doesn’t care.  He does. Luisa is certain he does.  That just isn’t how he shows it.  Mostly he shows it by staying out of her life or by giving her whatever she needs, money-wise, whenever she asks for it.

The not being home for Christmas part isn’t the lie.  The next part is.

Roisa Grinchmas Special:

Down at the hotel, far from their harsh glances, lived the other woman, whose drunken dances on tabletops naked with far too much glee were probably not meant for you or for me, especially since she had gone off the drink, tore it from her bar, and poured it down her sink. Yet still in her form she held both style and grace and often used these to make others’ hearts race. Her smile lit the room far better than fire and her heart burned like it would on a pyre for people and family who she held most dear, for whom she would shed far much more than a tear.

On Myths and Hideouts Ch. ???

City Hall feels like a bad marriage between Greco-Roman architecture and modern, streamlined, minimalistic design.  The former is a bad habit of all American political buildings; the latter is likely Storybrooke – or Regina – specific.  There are columns and a lot of black and white, which Rose hopes is not indicative of Regina’s way of thinking or her morals (she doubts this), and some wallpaper of trees, which should be rustic, but because it’s in black and white, it isn’t.  It works a little better than most people would think, but Rose – who spent way too long as Emilio’s interior design decorator for his hotels – doesn’t think it works at all.  She likes the black and white better than the Miami beach vibes that the Marbella put out, but only because she’s gotten plain sick of the Marbella after the last several years.

Regina stops at the secretary’s desk before heading into her office, leaning over just enough to give Rose a good view of her ass.  This is intentional.  At least, if Rose had done it, it would have been intentional, and she suspects that Storybrooke’s mayor runs on the same general wavelength that she does.  She can’t say just why she suspects it, but she gets that general vibe.

“Jessica, dear, clear out my meetings for the rest of the day.” Regina glances over her shoulder at Rose as though she hopes to catch her staring.  Her expression falters and quickly fixes itself when she realizes that she isn’t.  “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Regina’s secretary – Jessica, apparently – lifts her head and glances over to Rose.  The two of them look quite similar, although Jessica is, for the most part, thinner and more angular than Rose is, with the exception of her chest, which almost seems impossibly big for how small the rest of her is.  Her Crayola red hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she pushes thin black frames up her nose, brilliantly cerulean eyes peering out at Rose with a lack of interest as she takes her in.  “Of course, Ms. Mills,” she murmurs, and her voice is at once both demure and alluring.

Regina Mills might try her hardest to seduce Rose Alver, but she will not get anywhere near as close as this Jessica does within the first five seconds.

Rose swallows once, and her gaze flicks back to Regina.  Maybe that ass view wasn’t for her at all.  Luisa had thought Regina had something going on with the sheriff, but at this moment, she’s pretty sure that she actually has something much more interesting going on with her secretary.

On Myths and Hideouts Jess Prequel:

Jessica Krupnick sees a lot that she does not mention.

Well.  This would mean more if she had someone to mention it to.  She has no friends in this little town, although she is certain that she could if she tried.  She has never felt that impulse to try.  People seem to think of her first as Mayor Mills’s secretary, the woman the mayor chose not as her right hand woman – the closest person in Storybrooke who came to that was Sheriff Humbert, who insisted that everyone refer to him as Graham (or at least, he insisted that to Jessica every time they spoke, and she consistently pretended as though he didn’t) – but as the protector of….

Well, her, if you wanted to think of it that way.

Sheriff Humbert protected the people.  He was a physical failsafe.  Jessica protected her office.  She was a mental failsafe.

And sometimes, Jessica considers as she sees Henry speeding into the office, skidding across the marble floors on his shoes with the biggest grin on his face she has ever seen, she protects her heart.

Paradise Lost post-canon:

Francis tapped the steering wheel of the U-Haul with the pad of her thumb. The air conditioner rattled a little too loudly as she drove, overwhelming the soft tunes crooning through the radio.  Davis sat in the middle seat, belt tight across his waist, and Reynolds sat in the passenger seat, elbow resting on the door and staring out the window at the passing landscape.

“It’ll be cooler once the car warms up,” Francis remarks, reaching over and tousling her youngest son’s hair.  He’s sticky with sweat; U-Hauls were nothing more than metal boxes, and in the Southern humid heat, it had cooked itself until even touching the seats felt like it would burn through their skin.  It was only made worse by the shorts they were all wearing, pushing exposed skin against burning fabric.  At least she had convinced the boys to wear t-shirts instead of tank-tops.

Davis was easy enough to convince, but Reynolds….

Reynolds wasn’t wearing a t-shirt the way Francis wanted.  Instead, his shirt was stretched so that it hung about him more like a wife-beater than a shirt, and the sleeves were stretched so that they might as well have not been there at all.  She was certain if he was wearing a normal shirt, the sleeves would be rolled up to feign a tank within seconds.

This was all just the influence of the football team and his father’s friendship with Dickie.  That may have fallen lax in the past few months as the divorce dragged on, but Reynolds had maintained his friendship with Dickie’s son – and no amount of Francis telling him it was a bad idea did anything.  In fact, she’d refrained from saying much at all, outside of suggesting that he should choose his friends wisely and hoping that Yates suggested the same.

Considering the fight he’d allowed between the two of them, Francis sincerely doubted he had.

Timeless/Noir fusion:

It happened at the end of her last class of the day.  Lucy felt the vibration of her phone – a longer buzz indicative of an email instead of the shorter one for a text – where it rested in the left pocket of her slacks.  She stepped outside of the lecture hall, shuffled her students’ papers and folders (it was essay day, and some of them still used folders although she’d said multiple times that she preferred they didn’t), and pulled out her phone.

Emma Whitmore.

Lucy didn’t recognize the name, but it could be from a student wanting into one of her classes or a professor asking for her expertise on one of their projects.  This wasn’t too unusual.  Probably a student – she knew most of the professors on campus by name; even if she’d never met them, she’d likely heard about them from one of the other students in passing.  She’d never heard of a Professor Whitmore, though.

Her eyes scanned the email.

Standard fare for a professor help request – doing a bit of research, wanted to speak with someone more knowledgeable about the subject (mostly time period, maybe some political history), etc.  There were a few lines that felt a little off, but Lucy chalked that up to what she expected was likely a new hire who was unnecessarily intimidated by her own pedigree.  And while it was odd that Emma hadn’t used her school email, given the more professional setting, it might be that she wanted to keep everything involving her research organized separately from her student emails.  Lucy couldn’t fault her for that, either.

She sent a quick reply – yes, along with perhaps meeting for coffee or drinks Friday afternoon – and then promptly forgot about the entire thing as her phone rang, another incessant and immediate buzzing.

“Amy?”  Lucy braced the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she moved her pile of essays and folders once more.  “Slow down!  What happened this time?”

The Story of a Girl (Noir Fic; Title Pending) Ch. 3 - “Shielded by Black Robes”:

The attackers dodged.  That was the first thing she noticed, the first of many problems with this scenario. They dodged.

The second problem was when one of them somehow caught the knife she threw at his forehead.  He smirked at her and threw it back so fast she barely dodged it herself.  These mooks were good.

But Chloe was better.

Whereas before she stood her ground next to the pillar with only the occasional dodge, now she began to race forward, a knife in each hand. The men pulled out their guns, finally finished reloading them, but she was upon them before the first trigger could be pressed.

Below.  Sweep the leg.  Beneath, behind.  Knife to the side, the neck.  Catch and hold while shot at – meat shields are the best kind because the shots go both ways.

Throw him away.  Dodge.  Roll. Bite.

The blonde stepped out from behind the pillar, aiming and shooting and moving, all one fluid motion, she a panther, lithe and strong, and Chloe a cheetah, swift and deadly, spotless.  She saw the shot from the gun, aimed toward the blonde, fast, too fast – the blue eyes once so icy now so warm and wide—

No.

Her teeth dripped blood that day.

[nimuetheseawitch]

📓 Share an out-of-context sentence or fragment from your fic notes for noir please!

From my notes:

What's the matter officer? Have I done something wrong? Cops are Ancients 

Helia is the police captain, and this noir fic is as anti-cop, as befits the genre.

[neon-in-the-night-time]

haven't kept up with miraculous ladybug in years but a fic idea that's lived rent free in my brain is a transfem!adrien lesbian!marinette reverse love square where when adrien gets the black cat miraculous her hero form is a girl and she's like "wow this is so smart, so secret identity, nobody will ever suspect i’m chat noire because chat noire is a girl and adrien agreste is a boy" and plagg, knowing that this is Not the case at all for miraculous holders and it is, in fact, a reflection of the subconscious, says nothing because Don't Crack the Egg. adrien has a crush on marinette but she feels bad about it because marinette is openly a lesbian and adrien's like "if only i could be chat noire forever so i can be with marinette", marinette has a crush on chat noire, it's great.

[dollerinna]

WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

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Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

[thesilmarillionblog]

STRANGER

Summary: Although you were always aware that Black Noir was silent, it didn't stop you from quickly developing a bond. However, as soon as he touches you when he gets home, something about him feels off. You ignore his attitude since it still feels so nice, despite the fact that it feels like he is someone else entirely, a stranger.

Pairing: Black Noir / Reader

Warnings: Dark Fiction!, +18!Only, Smut, Suspense

Word Count: 2423

A/N: English is not my first language.

You asked Homelander and Ashley if Noir had been assigned to another mission because you were getting frustrated that he had not texted you back for days and had suddenly vanished. You were relieved when they informed you he had a lot on his plate, but you were also annoyed because it wasn't like him to ignore you or return your texts. One of his great virtues was that he would always text you back, even when you believed he was going to rip a head off during those missions.

Though you knew he couldn't talk which was a big obstacle for a healthy conversation, you moved his house months after you started dating without a second thought. You weren't in the slightest disturbed by that. Since actions speak louder than words, it was actually preferable if men said nothing at all. And Noir certainly knew how to express his affection for you.

You giggled uncontrollably at the memory of his adorable actions toward you. Even though he appeared tough and ruthless when wearing that black suit, he was always warm and affectionate with you. He was regarded by the world as one of the most formidable, vicious, and dangerous supe alive, yet you were aware of his extreme thoughtfulness and sensitivity, particularly with regard to his relationship with you.

No matter how much you wanted to see him, you didn't push him, even if he didn't take off his mask or suit at all while you were around. You knew he was extremely sensitive about how he looked and everything. When he finally trusted you enough to show himself to you, you knew he would eventually open himself up. 

You made the decision to dress elegantly and boldly for his gaze when he eventually texted you back to say he would be home tonight. You knew he liked you in short, lace-covered satin gowns. It had been nearly two weeks since he returned home, and you were aware that he missed you just as much as you did. 

It was when he eventually came home, after you had been waiting for him for hours with your dress on and messaging him nonstop, that you understood how much you liked him. You couldn't help but think about him and grin to yourself at all of your adorable times together when he acted a little goofy and awkward.

As he slowly made his way inside the home, you said, “Hey,” and gave him a quick hug. "Welcome home."

Noir offered you a strong hug in return and nodded as if he wanted to say the same thing. You then landed a firm kiss through his mask and said, “I've missed you too.”

As Homelander and Vought cautioned him not to talk, especially when you were around, Black Noir tried his hardest to remain silent. It was told to him that you were Noir's partner, and since Vought already had too much on its plate these days, it would be best if you didn't realize he wasn't the real Noir. He didn't mind you acting like your adorable, naive lover since he had seen your pictures and the way you texted him as though you were in heat, making it obvious that you wanted to be fucked till you were unable to walk.

As a result, he would enjoy the ride as well, providing for your needs in the manner that was expected of him. When they showed your picture, he didn't really care about Vought and all that, but now he thought it would be fun because you seemed so eager to please him with that slutty, lovely fucking dress. 

You said, “How went?” as if he could respond, but it didn't feel strange for you to remain silent. If one of you stayed quiet the entire time, it would be odd.

Noir kept himself from talking and instead studied your body and outfit with fascination, which made you chuckle. As though you could see him, he turned out the lamp, and you didn't object, supposing it was just one of his insecure times. 

You sat on his lap and softly touched his covered face before responding with a whispered “Why the hell you didn't text me back for days?” in an attempt to sound like a mad woman. “You didn't behave like that before, you know.” 

Under his mask, Noir gave you a mischievous smile as his hands boldly stroked your body, growing harder every second as he saw your nipples peek from your thin dress, giving the impression that you wanted a quick and brutal fuck. 'Who would have thought that mission would be so hot and delightful?' he thought as his gloved hand squeezed your hips until you nearly moaned with pain. He was touching your pussy firmly and passionately, making it wet. 

You removed the stupid plastic item covering his cock with your hands and began slowly grinding against his clothed shaft while moaning, “You're such a turn-on today? Did you really miss fucking me that much?”

Noir gulped down, and as you kept continuing to moan and gasp loudly, one of his hands tightly pinched your tits. “Did you miss filling me with your hot seed into my pussy? When you finally texted me back today, I fingered myself while thinking about your huge cock.”

The filth flowing from your lips made him extremely hard, and once he filled up your dress, he gave your ass a hard spank. 

You groaned in protest when he abruptly lifted you off his lap. He forced you to your knees before you could say anything, gripping your hair firmly as he struggled to get his cock out of his suit. He stretched his legs and drew your head toward himself while you were kneeling in front of him on the edge of the bed. You were taken aback by his sudden harshness and passion because you had never sucked him off before. Maybe the fact that you hadn't fucked in weeks was the reason he was feeling so kinky this evening.

Excitement filled your body as you waited for him to finally reveal his cock. Before you could even say anything, he pushed your head against his cock, forcing you to suck him. 

Noir made a determined attempt to stop himself from giving you orders to properly suck him off and wet his dick as your tongue quickly lapped the tip of his shaft. As you gave him a head, he grabbed one of your hands and put it on his cock, urging you to use your hands. 

“You're so thick, you know, it's hard to take it all,” you remarked as you placed your hands on his balls and sucked the sensitive head of his thick cock. “You taste so good.”

Noir let out a soft and low chuckle as you did your best to satisfy him and make him cum. You were such a good cocksucker it was disappointing he couldn't give you any compliments. He smiled thinking about how would your boyfriend respond seeing you sucking a stranger’s cock so eagerly.

When you swallowed his head, he moaned angrily, as you were only able to take half of his cock. He took hold of your hair and began giving you hard pushes until your nose touched his pubic hair. 

When he began to fuck your face, you attempted to pull away as his hands applied heavy pressure to your head until the tip of his cock touched your throat and tears streamed down your cheeks. He was always extremely particular about being clean and well-groomed, so when you saw he didn't shave, you were somewhat taken aback. He made you take up every inch of his hardness, pushed your head into his balls, and waited till you tapped his legs in an attempt to regain your breath. 

After he finally released your head a bit, you muttered, “You're extremely rough tonight.”

Even though he was harsh, you were so attracted to his behavior that you began to suck him the way he preferred, taking his entire shaft and rubbing his balls, wetting them with your saliva.

You pushed yourself to get him to cum in your mouth as soon as you sensed him getting closer.

You teased him, “Where do you want to cum?” as you continued to stroke his throbbing erection.

Noir slowly withdrew his cock from your lips, stilled your head, and began to fuck into your mouth, pressing the tip of his cock on your tongue so you could taste its salty essence. He was savoring the facial expressions you made and your sensual groans, and he growled with pleasure as he thought he was fucking real Black Noir's girlfriend's mouth and he was about to fuck his girlfriend's pussy. 

He removed his cock from your mouth and stroked your lips and cheeks with his cock while holding it as if he were fucking your face. After some time, he stopped wanting to cum in your mouth or on your face. 

When you attempted to put him in your mouth again, he growled in disapproval and threw you into the bed while trying to help you get up. With a swift and forceful motion that left you gasping in dismay, he forced your face against the mattress and tore off your underwear quickly. 

Although you weren't prepared for him to behave in this manner, you waited for him to lead you in the direction he wanted since you were eager to please him and you were already turned on by him. 

Noir stretched your legs apart and checked the intensity of the wetness by sticking two fingers inside your pussy. He groaned in satisfaction as he saw that you had already gotten wet, and he removed his meaty fingers with ease. 

You let out a loud cry and pushed him to move more quickly as he roughed you with his fingers. You let out a cry of pleasure as soon as you began to clench around his fingers. Once your climax subsided, he pulled you more into the sheets, thinking that this would be the time when he would finally turn you back and act a little more romantically. You let him have his fun, figuring he wanted to play hard this evening. 

Noir played with your clit from behind, taking his throbbing manhood into his fingers and giving himself short, rapid strokes. Upon realizing that you were anticipating his fuck with your legs apart, he gasped with delight. 

Breathless, you gasped as he began to press his shaft into your wetness. His gloved hands gripped your hips firmly as he began a quick and violent fuck. His big balls were slamming into your clit, producing obscene noises that filled the room. 

You were gasping out and raising your hips to meet his strong thrusts as Noir's hardness throbbed into your pussy. He pounded into you with powerful strokes, gripping your hair and pulling it while you clutched the sheets beneath your fingers under his instense fuck. 

You whined, “Fuck, you are so good,” your eyes welling up with tears due to the intensity of the moment. “Fuck me harder.” 

Under the mask, Noir grinned at your filthy actions and the way you urged a total stranger to give you more fucking, like a whore. He began fucking you from behind even more forcefully after pulling off your hair. You were screaming like a bitch in heat, and you had no idea that you were fucking a stranger. He thought you were a free chick for him to enjoy himself to the fullest. He would count himself fortunate.

Sensing his approaching closeness, he moved slightly and reached your sweet spot, giving you multiple orgasms before spilling inside of you. Your legs trembled wildly as you clamped around his cock after he found your sensitive spot and gave you an aggressive fuck there. Your pussy felt so sensitive that you tapped his legs to get him to slow down, but instead he fucked you even harder and struck the same area repeatedly, leaving you speechless. 

“Fuck, Noir,” was the only thing you could say. “It feels sensitive.” 

But instead of slowing down, he continued to fuck you through your climax until he made you cum on his cock once more. Your legs were shaking, and you were screaming his name in between endless orgasms. He was forcing himself not to laugh out loud while you kept orgasming under a stranger.

He pushed all of his length into your pussy and began spilling himself into you as he continued to fuck you after he decided you had come on his cock enough. You again clenched around his cock as his thick white ropes filled your insides. When he felt your pussy continued to clench around his shaft with eagerness, and he moaned with satisfaction. It seemed to him that you were a needy one, and he would be thrilled to give what you needed.

Your legs continued to shake as you felt his thick seed leaking out of your pussy, and you grinned and bit your lip, satisfied. You felt a deep sense of satisfaction, and you had no idea that you could get so many orgasms so quickly. Noir did give you a hard fuck during certain times, but that was the first time he used such force on you and ignored your boundaries, of which you were glad. You felt that he ought to have revealed more of his personality sooner. 

Noir met your tongue, palmed your pussy from behind, and put his weight on your back. He pulled his mask halfway to give you a firm kiss, you realized.

You gasped in horror as his lips found your ear, and he whispered into the darkness, “Not bad, darling.”

[hanasnx]

Just found your Noir content. Glad someone is writing for him. Noir and breeding kink? Been thinking about Noir fucking me in a mating press ever since he attacked Starlight in season 2. He can hold me down and choke me out like that any day.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: babe that fuckin mating press goes hard doesn’t it? goddamnnnnn. noir putting you in a mating press <333that whole thing with starlight was fuckin crazy i was clawing the walls

Rough grunts expel from BLACK NOIR’s nose with each sharp thrust, plowing into you from the angle the position provides. Folded up over yourself with no regard to your comfort, he’s got you bunched up in a way that pleases him. Heavy body leans over you, harsh hands on the backs of your thighs keeping you good and spread from him. You’ve certainly gotten more flexible since you’ve started fucking him. The edges of his armor dig into you, but you can’t even register it over the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Fat cock drives into you at a reckless pace, forcing air from your lungs as if its piston defines your diaphragm’s every move. You can barely breathe from being crushed.

There’s something different about his angle, not only is it mind-bending, tremors wracking through your body as your eyes roll so far back in your head they ache, but it’s the way he handles it. Grabbing you like he owns you, redirecting your body in any way he desires, muscling you into submitting underneath him so he can fuck your hole in peace when you squirm too much. Your cervix gets kissed by his tip occasionally, but he wants you to be still and take it. For his dick? You’ll do anything.

You let him mate with you. The way he’s fucking you reminds you of an animal. Pinning you down as if you’ll escape at your first chance, growls escaping him, possessively filling up your cunt with the wet sounds of a cock finding its home. Usually, you’re the dirty talker in the bedroom, but he’s effectively silenced you, yanking you into his bucks with his firm hold on your thighs.

It used to be difficult to tell what he’s thinking, but he can’t be more clear now. The stutter in his hips is a dead giveaway to his impending load, and usually this would be the point in which he’d pull out and fist his cock to cum on you. Stomach, face, ass, he loved to paint you. Instead, he’s keeping it in, not only that but he’s still moving. Like he wants to fuck a baby in you.

“Noir— Noir!” you scold, but he continues. Swollen cock bullying your insides as it twitches with need to cum. “Don’t you— don’t you dare—“ you’re able to get the words out, concentrating hard on forming a sentence when your brain is so empty. The idea of him cumming in you is appealing, but you don’t know how Supes work. You’ve never had that conversation with him. What if he’s not sterile?

Lips slot against your ear, and if you weren’t mistaken, you could’ve sworn they form and mouth the word “baby.”

[artistmarchalius]

Cockney Rhyming Slang Phrases Part 2

In a previous post I went into Cockney rhyming slang history and gave some tips on how to use it.

This is the second post in a series where I’ll give you some commonly used Cockney rhyming slang phrases, phrases that I find funny, as well as some phrases that I think would be useful for Spider-Verse fic writers specifically. Part 1 of this series can be found here.

So let’s get started on Part 2!

C-D

China Plate - Mate

E.g. “How are you, me old China?” Or “I’m meeting me old China at the pub later.”

Cobblers Awls - Balls

E.g. “Ooh! Got him right in the cobblers!”

It can also be used to mean “Nonsense”. E.g. “What a load of cobblers!” is another way of saying “What a load of nonsense!”

Cream Crackered - Knackered

E.g. “Sorry mate, I’m creamed!” Or “I’m cream crackered!”

Custard and Jelly - Telly (Television)

E.g. “Shh! I’m watching the custard.”

Daisy Roots - Boots

E.g. “Hang on, I need to put my daisies on!”

Dicky Bird - Word

E.g. “Not a dicky bird, mate.”

Another example of where you usually use the whole phrase. Also, “word” can also mean “a brief chat”. E.g. “Can I have a dicky bird?”

Dog and Bone - Phone

E.g. “You know what, give me a call on the old dog and bone and we’ll sort it out then.”

Duck and Dive - Skive

E.g. “Let’s duck!” Or “I gotta duck.”

Skive means to avoid work, usually by leaving early, similar to what Americans might call “playing hooky”.

Dustbin Lid - Kid

E.g. “How’s the dustbin lid?”

As mentioned in Part 1, it’s good to keep in mind that there can be multiple Cockney rhyming slang phrases for the same word, as well as multiple Cockney rhyming slang phrases that start with the same word. For more information, see Part 1.

As always, I’m not an expert; a true Cockney would know far more than I do. I just want to share the knowledge that I have. I hope someone will find this helpful, informative, or entertaining at the very least.

I’ve got more Cockney rhyming slang phrases coming, but if there’s any other areas of British slang you’d like me to go into, let me know and I’ll see what I can do!

Happy writing and happy speaking!

My other British slang posts: Cockney Rhyming Slang, Cockney Rhyming Slang Phrases Part 1, British Police Slang, Terms of Endearment, Innit VS In’t - a PSA

[buggachat]

ART BY @mari-cherri (@mari-monsta) THANK U SO MUCH MARI MUAH

I posted a new fic!

I (Wish I) Knew You

49k words, 10 chapters, COMPLETE

LadyNoir, aged-up, hurt/comfort, (please check the tags for possible triggers, etc)

University has been hard on Marinette. Making new friends and maintaining her grades is a lot easier said than done when she has to disappear at odd times to fight akumas. She's struggling, and with Alya away with family and Adrien painfully out of reach, she's never felt lonelier. If only she could talk to someone who really understood her struggles... but it's not like Chat Noir would know anything about loneliness. Right?

[wormzandgutz]

Interview with Chat Noire!

[igotthis-egg]

I decided to draw how Felix and Bridgette from my au look as civilians, heroes, as well as how they imagine one another outside of their costumes. I was inspired by @sillysiluriforme ‘s drawing of how chat imagined civilian ladybug and I thought it was an AMAZING idea. I’ll probably do some full-body versions of this too if I have time, but here’s some bust drawings for now! Left to right, their actual appearances, their hero appearances, and how they imagine one another!

[aparticularbandit]

I GAVE CHLOE BACK SCARS?!

THIS PREDATES JESS.

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

[masilvi]

Commission for @frostedpuffs based on a scene in Perfectly Platonic (Unless...)

"When their lips pressed together, it wasn’t the same hesitant kiss they’d shared before, which had been slow and tinged with curiosity. It was charged with something more desperate—something Chat Noir couldn’t explain but didn’t care enough to. All that mattered at the moment was the feeling of her lips on his, soft as they glided along his in a fervent motion, and the warmth of her wine-scented breath as it blew into his mouth, like kindling to the ever-growing fire that blazed in his heart. Even as their noses bumped and teeth lightly clashed, he wanted more."

(Chapter 20)

Plus some sketches I did before settling for this one! I like how they look like sequence when they're together like this 👀👇

[sweetfictionalworld]

Relief - Black Noir x Female Reader

Summary: Noir returns home after killing the humans on Vaught.

Warnings: Smut, Rough Sex.

"Are you alright?" you asked as Noir stormed into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him. Noir didn't answer, only growled in frustration as he slammed down his daggers on the kitchen counter.

Frowning, you got up from the couch and walked up to your boyfriend.

"What's wrong, baby?" you asked and placed your hand on his chest plate. "Didn't the mission go as planned?"

"Shut up," Noir growled between gritted teeth and grabbed you, his hands tight around your biceps. His voice was gritty with a wildness that would have scared you, if it didn’t send a bolt of electricity straight between your thighs.

Without a word, Noir flipped you around and roughly pinned you to the counter, making you gasp for air as he pressed his powerful torso against your back. That's when you felt the hard bulge of his clothed cock press against your ass. You released a needy whimper as you felt its thick girth pressing against you, and Noir responded with a growl in your ear, his hands still gripping your arms like iron bands.

Then he released one of your arms, sliding his rough, gloved digits up underneath your dress and down your side and across your back. You shivered harshly, your skin electric wherever he touched. You glanced over your shoulder, but was only met by the darkness of his mask. Silently, Noir stuck his foot between yours, forcing your legs apart as he continued to pin you against the counter. The air caught in your throat as you felt the tip of his cock nudge between your legs. You hadn't even noticed him taking his cock out.

He didn’t give you much time to prepare – Noir pushed your panty aside and lined himself up with your entrance, and then thrust deep into your core. You cried out loudly, and the noise was immediately muffled as Noir placed his rough hand over your mouth. Your moans and cries were muffled against his palm, and somehow that made it so much more hotter.

His other hand gripped your hip tightly as he thrust into you. Your walls were already beginning to tighten – there was something about him taking you from this angle that made his member feel even longer and fuller, and you were stretched almost to the point of pain.

The pace of his thrusts became rougher and faster, and you angled your hips to meet his more completely. You released another muffled, wild cry as the tip of his cock began to hit you in just the right spot, sending ripples of ecstasy through your body. You had never been taken quite like this before, and it left you feeling weak and overwhelmed with pleasure.

Noir’s movements began to slip into an uneven pace as his cock began to throb. He jerked his hips forward against your ass and it sent you hurdling over the edge. You keened loudly against the palm of his hand as your walls throbbed violently around his pulsing member.

The world whited out for a brief moment, your body covered with a heavy thundercloud sending bolts of pleasure throughout your nerves. As it began to fade and you came back into yourself, you realized Noir had released his grip on your mouth.

"Are you alright?" Noir asked softly and you could hear the concern in his voice.

You nodded and smiled as he took of his mask, his brown eyes looking at you for any trace of pain or discomfort.

"What was that about?" you asked as you turned around and pressed your cheek against his chest, and wrapped your arms around his torso.

"I had a rough day, needed to blow of some steam," Noir mumbled and wrapped his arms around your smaller frame, his nose nussling your hair. He didn't dare to tell you the truth, that all the killing he'd done today had turned him on so much he had returned home with a painfully hard cock.

"I love you, y/n," Noir whispered against your neck.

You smiled against Noir's chest. "I love you too, Noir."

[destielnoirbang]

When he drew level, he chanced a glance over at the other man, who turned when he sensed that he’d become a subject of scrutiny. Dean’s breath stopped in his throat. The man’s jaw was sharp as a word spoken in anger, his skin pale and clean-shaven. Long, graceful fingers played idly with one of the free Funtime Liquors matchbooks as he waited. His eyes promised mischief and mysteries. Dean wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the man had just stepped out of a movie screen.Too late, he realized he was staring, and then only because the man’s plump lips had twitched slightly on one side. Dean cleared his throat. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you too, officer,” the man returned. Dean flinched, feeling caught out. Whoever the man was, he was clearly smart if plainclothes didn’t fool him. “That obvious?” he asked. When Dean chanced another glance at the man, he was still looking back, humor glinting in his eyes. “It’s practically stamped on your forehead.” Maybe Dean ought to have taken that for the dismissal it likely was, but the bit of humor in the man’s gaze felt almost akin to a smile. Most men wouldn’t smile at someone they wanted gone. “Haven’t I seen you in a movie?” Dean tried. The man dropped his head with a low, rough chuckle. Dean fought down a surge of embarrassment. A handsome man in a well-cut suit, five blocks from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where all the most glamorous Hollywood premieres took place? It wasn’t too outrageous a guess. Dean was about to tell the man “never mind” when he caught Dean’s eyes again and said, “It’s unlikely. Unless you happened to pay very close attention to Youth Number 3 in the opening scene of It Came From Saturn's Rings.” “You were in that?” Dean asked eagerly. This time, there was no fighting the heat on his face. He had a great weakness for science fiction movies, and he remembered seeing a screening of It Came From Saturn's Rings on opening night some three years back. Even working in Hollywood for as long as he had, he’d never stopped being a little starry-eyed about anybody who’d graced the silver screen. His question got him an interesting reaction: the man’s head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowing, the better to study Dean. For the first time, he seemed to put some actual stock in their conversation. “You’ve seen it?” “Yeah,” Dean confirmed, embarrassingly pleased to have found this patch of common ground between them. “It was good.” It hadn’t been anything special, in truth, but the man was smiling in earnest now, one side of those plush lips curving up, and Dean thought he’d do just about anything to keep that smile going.

- Code of Silence

by @friendofcarlotta, art by @rezal-art

Available Now On Ao3!

[whaliiwatching]

gay people judging you

[jube-art]

an art gift for @cordelia-noir ! becuase they wrote me a lovely fic !

Looking at his mark in the bright sunlight, he noticed for the first time that it wasn’t really black in the dull, non-glowing places. In direct sunlight, Charles could see that it was actually a deep, bottomless blue dotted with little flecks of white, like the night sky. Had it always been that way? Had he just never really looked at it in the light of day? Or was this new as well? Was his soulmate healing? Was that healing taking place in their soul reflected on Charles’ skin?

He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He was stupidly, selfishly happy that he was still here. That he lingered on and got to see this, the beauty of his soulmate’s soul cupped in Charles’ palm.

Carefully, he cradled his left palm close to his chest.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered as the first few tears broke free and slid down his cheeks. “I hope you know how much you’re loved.”