#purge me from my sins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redvexillum · 2 months ago

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@inuhalfdemon I knew I could count on you to spice things up a bit! Listen, you made @safination a very happy lil gal with this ask, I'll have you know. I'll even change it up from my usual style, and write this purely in Alastor's POV. Not sure if you like human Alastor, but I hope you do after this ☆ ～('▽^人)

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, blood play, ♡ral sex, unhinged!alastor, briefly imply cannibalism, infidelity, alastor has scars, unhinged!alastor, branding with knife, obsessive!alastor, period typical racism, maybe bordering yandare!alastor (?)

Alastor was going to kill you.

He had no doubt about it. You, with your pristine life – riches, status, and a marriage that looked flawless from the outside. Everything about you seemed perfect, a picture of untouchable elegance.

But Alastor knew the truth lurking beneath that polished exterior. He knew your husband was nothing more than a filthy, corrupt official – extortion, blackmail, murder of the helpless, especially those of colour. By association, you must have shared in his sins, whether by action or silence.

For Alastor, his prey was always chosen with care. He wouldn’t dirty his hands with the innocent. His mother had raised him better than that. The streets were crawling with vile creatures, and there was no shortage of filth to cleanse. Killing wasn’t just a necessity – it was a thrill, a ritual he savoured.

The sweet satisfaction of purging evil from the world, leaving it a little cleaner, a little darker, but always better. It was his art, his craft, and each kill were a masterpiece. You were supposed to be another one.

He watched you, lurking in the shadows, memorizing every detail. The way your arm draped over your husband’s like a serpent coiling around its prey. That perfect smile – too perfect, like a mask you wore every day, hiding the darkness he knew must linger beneath. Alastor studied you relentlessly, plotting the exact moment to strike, the precise time to drag you into the depths of his bayou and erase that false, disgusting smile forever.

But something shifted, something he hadn’t foreseen.

One afternoon, as Alastor sat on a park bench, his lips curling into a grin behind his newspaper, amused at the latest article about the “Bayou Butcher,” he felt the sunlight dim. A shadow fell across the print. He looked up, ready to snarl at the interruption, but his breath caught.

It was you, standing before him. Your fingers fidgeted nervously, a soft smile playing on your lips, and at that moment, you weren’t the victim he had imagined.

“May I help you?” Alastor asked, his tone honeyed, concealing the whirlwind of confusion brewing inside. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Why was his prey coming to him?

You gasped lightly, and then, as if the heavens themselves were laughing in his face, a giggle bubbled up from your throat – sweet, melodic...

...Intoxicating.

“Are you the radio broadcaster for station 66.6?” Your eyes sparkled with innocent excitement, that same radiant smile now directed at him.

His lips twitched, the faintest flicker of amusement and wariness passing through him. How had you recognize him? His voice was the only part of him ever to broadcast.

Sensing his unspoken question, you raised a hand to your lips in apology, looking shyly to the side before meeting his gaze again. “I’m actually a good friend with Mimzy. When I told her I was a fan of your show, she pointed you out when you were at her speakeasy the other night.” You smiled nervously, twisting your hands together. “I wanted to approach you then, but...I suppose my nerves got the best of me.”

At that moment, something in Alastor changed. He convinced himself that this was fate. You, his prey, presenting yourself to him so willingly – it had to be a sign. And so, he entertained you, the perfect gentleman. He played his role as he always did, charming, polite, hiding his true intentions behind his ever-present grin. He would lead you into his bayou soon enough. Flesh and blood would be his reward.

But somehow...the plan never quite happened. The weeks stretched on, one excuse after another.

Next week, he told himself.

Then...

Next month.

And the next.

And now? Now, you were in his home – in his bed. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the room. Your wedding ring winked at him from the dim light as your fingers reached out to him, your smile – damn that smile – still as enchanting as the first time you’d greeted him in the park. His pulse quickened, a thrum of something dark and dangerous lurking beneath his skin.

Desire.

Forbidden and all-consuming. It clung to both of you like second skin, wrapping around his and your hearts and pulled them deeper into its murky depths. The line between predator and prey blurred.

Sinful.

Wicked.

Irresistible.

You.

Your soul was stained the same as his at that moment, soaked in the same shade of black, though Alastor’s - oh, his – was far darker. After all, how could yours compare to a man who had murder etched into his very bones?

His bare skin pressed against yours, both of you entangled in the warmth of each other, every inch of him revelling in the feel of your soft, smooth curves. He inhaled sharply, his breaths unsteady, savouring the heat where your bodies met. His fingers traced along your hips, your thighs, as if memorizing each delicate slope. He could get lost in the feel of you, spend hours worshipping the perfection beneath his touch.

His lips found yours, a slow, burning kiss that lingered before he dragged his mouth down the tender column of your neck, across your collarbone. Each kiss light, each kiss reverent. He explored the valley between your breasts with deliberate, maddening slowness. Each kiss sent shivers through you as he travelled lower, his breath brushing your skin.

When he reached your hips, he paused, eyes wild with hunger, before hooking your legs over his shoulders. His breath ghosted over your sensitive folds, teasing, tempting.

How did he get here?

His fingers tightened around your hips, holding you firmly as he leaned in, his lips pressing a feather-light kiss against the swollen tip of your clit. This wasn’t what he had imagined when he’d thought of indulging in your flesh, not like this. But now, he couldn’t stop.

He was needy.

Ravenous.

Consumed by a hunger that went far beyond flesh.

“Al...” you breathed, your voice soft and sweet, like the wind whispering through the trees of his bayou. The sound of your voice sent a jolt through him, tugging at something deep inside, something primal. He wanted to drown in that sound, let it wrap around him like the humid air of home.

His mouth pressed against your slick folds, his tongue sweeping between them with aching slowness. The hitch in your breath, the soft moans that escaped you – they drove him mad.

More.

He wanted more.

He needed it.

Every reaction, every sound, it wasn’t enough. He craved everything you had to offer.

But his eyes caught the flash of gold – the wedding band still clinging to your finger like a sick reminder. The sight of it made his chest tighten with rage, his hands twitching with the urge to rip it off and toss it into the swamp. But instead, he closed his eyes, shutting out the thought, focusing on you. He focused on the heat of your body, the taste of you, as his tongue lapped at you, deeper, stroking every part of your trembling core.

A low moan escaped him as his tongue dipped further, swirling around the most sensitive part of you, eliciting another desperate, breathless sound from your lips. His cock was aching, painfully hard, but all he wanted, all that mattered, was your pleasure. Your moans, your writhing body beneath him, the way your fingers curled into the sheets.

Your everything.

More.

It was the only word echoing in his mind as his mouth worked tirelessly, his tongue gliding, tasting, drinking in every drop of your desire.

More. More. More.

Perhaps it was because he knew – deep down – that no matter how much he craved you, you could never truly be his. You would return to your world, leave his bed empty, cold, and desolate once again. And each time, that dark, consuming desire to trap you here, to make you his forever, only grew stronger. Feverish.

More.

“Alastor,” your voice came out as a soft, pleading whimper, cutting through the maelstrom of dark thoughts swirling in his mind. That sound, delicate and needy, was never enough to make him stop wanting more of you. His lips parted from your core, a thin, glistening strand of saliva and your slick connecting the two of you before it broke, hanging in the air like the tension between the both of you.

“I want to please you too,” you murmured, your voice tender, your eyes warm and filled with a quiet devotion. You smiled softly, your hair – usually neat and perfect – now loose and wild, framing your flushed face with strands that had escaped in the heat of the moment. You shifted, the bed creaking beneath you as you leaned forward, pressing your body against him, your warmth melting into his bare chest.

Alastor’s breath hitched, feeling the press of your soft curves against him. Slowly, deliberately, he guided you down with him until you lay on top of him, bodies entwined in shared heat. His cock throbbed insistently against your belly, but he ignored it for a moment, letting his fingers weave through your messy hair. He gently stroked the strands, savouring the intimacy of the moment, before planting a tender kiss on your forehead. The sound of your giggle – light and sweet – filled the room, sending a rush of satisfaction through him.

More.

The thought lingered, twisting like a knife in his chest. He could kill your husband, make him disappear. The idea came easily, a whisper of violence mixed with longing, the dark fantasy taking root in his mind. He chuckled then. Perhaps, it had already taken root and has now blossomed into a beautiful thought of a world where he was drenched in your husband’s blood.

You shifted, lifting yourself just enough to brush your fingers over one of the many scars that marked his skin. Your eyes sparkled with curiosity and mischief as you traced the rough line with delicate fingers.

“How did you get this?” you asked, your voice soft and gentle before pressing a kiss to the scar, your lips warm against his skin as you followed the path leading dangerously close to his aching cock.

Alastor chuckled darkly, his grin sharp as he watched you, mesmerized by your touch. “Got into a little scuffle when I was younger,” he replied, his voice low, filled with amusement. Your lips formed a pout, then softened into a kind smile as you kissed the scar again.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore?” you asked, running your fingers back and forth across the jagged edge.

“No,” he whispered, guiding your head with a teasing hand, urging you toward his throbbing length. “Haven’t thought about it in years.” In truth, the only thing burning in his mind was the revenge he had taken, the satisfaction of ending the lives of those who had hurt him once his mother was no longer there to hold him back.

You hummed softly, and then your warm, soft lips kissed the head of his cock. His breath hitched as your fingers wrapped around him, stroking gently while your tongue flicked out, teasing, tasting him. The sensation was electric, making him shudder as you dragged your wet tongue along the head of his cock, your touch slow and deliberate, designed to drive him mad.

Could he kill your husband? Would that mean you would finally be his, completely? The thought grew within him, louder and louder, until it was all he could think about – obsess about. His eyes flicked to the golden band still shackled around your finger, a symbol of everything that stood between him and what he truly wanted.

You closed your eyes, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you took him deeper, your lips forming a tight, wet seal as you began to suck, your mouth hot and exquisite around him. A sharp breath escaped his lips, his hand trembling as he stroked your hair, his other hand gripping the sheets beneath him.

“Cher...” he groaned, the word a strained whisper as he fought to contain the chaotic storm of emotions swirling within him. His feelings for you were growing, spiralling out of control with each passing moment. He was falling into something dark and dangerous, something that felt too close to obsession – hah! – no, it was already an obsession.

The wet heat of your mouth, the way you moaned around him, it was driving him wild. He wanted you in every possible way – mind, body, soul. Every inch of you, every whisper, every smile. More. Always more.

But even then, he knew it would never be enough.

His eyes roamed over the scars that marred his body, a patchwork of memories etched into his skin. Each one told a story, some of the prey fighting back, others from the cruelty inflicted on him for being born into a world that saw him as lesser. They were his reminders – marks of his survival, of the battles won, and the punishments endured.

But now, his gaze drifted to you. Your fingers, soft and pristine, wrapped around his cock, your clean cuticles and neatly trimmed nails standing in stark contrast to his scarred body. A thought flickered in his mind – wouldn't it be beautiful if he had something that reminded him of you, something permanent, something he could see on days when you weren’t with him?

“Cher,” he called out softly, his voice a desperate whisper. “Cher,” he repeated, his tone filled with need, and his breath jumped sharply as your mouth took him deeper, the feel of your throat tightening around him sending a shock of pleasure up his spine.

You looked up at him, his cock buried deep in your mouth, glistening under the dim flicker of candlelight, and he felt the image burn into his mind. The sight of you like this – lips swollen; eyes glazed with lust – it was a sight he never wanted to forget.

But then, with a slow and gentle motion, he pulled himself from your mouth, watching as your lips parted, slick and bruised from your ministrations. He leaned over, his hand searching the drawer of his bedside table until he found it – a small wooden handle sheathed in leather. Unsheathing the blade, he held it out to you.

Your brow furrowed, confused, your head tilting slightly as questions danced in your eyes, though none found their way to your lips.

“Evidence,” Alastor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, placing the knife in your hand with reverence. “Proof,” he continued, inching closer, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tender and tainted with the thrill of something darker. “Anywhere, love,” he whispered, his voice lilting with an almost jovial tone that belied the devilish intent behind his words. “Anywhere you want, to show me how much you love me.”

Your lips trembled; your hand unsteady as you seemed to process the weight of his request. “It’ll hurt,” you murmured, your voice barely audible as you traced the dull side of the blade along his inner thigh, testing the sharpness of the blade.

But then, Alastor saw it – the flicker of something dark behind your eyes, the same gleam that had sparked the first time you’d broken your marital vows for him. You were his – his little devil, his wicked temptation, his.

A slow, wicked grin spread across your lips as you pushed him back onto the bed. “Anywhere?” you cooed, your voice a sultry tease as you bowed your head, your tongue flicking out to lick the base of his cock. The contrast of your warm tongue and the cool blade was intoxicating.

His heart pounded, each throb sending a pulse of arousal through him, as you pressed the flat edge of the blade against the head of his cock, teasing him with the threat of pain. His cock twitched in response, a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip, and you seemed to sense his desire. You continued your slow, torturous licks, kitten-soft, while pressing the sharp edge of the blade against his inner thigh.

Alastor hissed as the first slice cut into his skin, sharp pain blooming in his flesh, but it was drowned out by the pleasure of your mouth on him. Your lips enveloped his balls, sucking gently, your tongue tracing delicate patterns that made him groan. The mix of pain and pleasure twisted inside him, creating a heady blend that left him breathless.

Each stroke of the blade was purposeful, each cut sending a rush of heat through him. His hips rolled instinctively, thrusting into your mouth, seeking more of the pleasure you so expertly provided, even as the blade pierced and dragged across his skin. Blood trickled from the fresh wounds, warm and wet, but your tongue, your lips – they were his salvation amidst the pain.

Twelve strokes. Twelve precise cuts. With each slice, the pleasure intensified, his groans turning into a melody of pleasure and pain. His body trembled beneath you, surrendering to the exquisite torment you dealt him, his desire swelling.

More. Always more. And even then, it still wouldn’t be enough.

The moment the bloody blade fell from your hand onto the bed, your fingers slick with his blood, you gripped his throbbing shaft, working it with slow, teasing strokes. Your lips were wrapped around him, tasting his arousal, his blood, as you bobbed your head up and down, your mouth a wet, heated heaven that he lost himself in.

The pain from the cuts on his inner thigh faded into a distant, forgotten ache, drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his body. His head fell back, lips parting as his breath came in ragged gasps, hips pushing forward involuntarily to chase the sensation of your soft, warm mouth. The slick, wet sound of your spit, the sticky remnants of blood on his thighs, the obscene wetness trailing down his cock – it all blurred together in a haze of ecstasy.

With every thrust, every gurgle and moan, Alastor’s grip on control slipped further. His eyes squeezed shut, lost in the raw, primal swirl of base desires. And the thought – the beautiful, intoxicating thought – that now he had a scar from you, a mark that would outlast everything, including the tarnished band on your finger, that thought was his undoing.

A deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat as he came hard, releasing in thick, hot spurts into your waiting mouth. You, always so good for him, took him in, swallowing every last drop, your lips and tongue devouring him with a devotion that made him weak. You were perfect for him, always.

But he needed more – always more of you. He could never have enough.

And tonight, he made a silent vow. He would kill your husband. No more waiting. No more pretending.

As you pulled away from him, your lips slow to part from his cock, you licked them clean, flashing him a cheeky grin. “I think we should clean you up,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless, as you glanced at the mess of blood and cum staining the sheets, his thigh soaked in crimson.

Alastor’s gaze drifted lazily down to the fresh wound on his inner thigh, a scar that would be his forever. He had to fight the urge to pull you under him and take you right then and there, to lose himself in you until morning came. His breath was shallow, his chest heaving, and a high-pitched laugh escaped him, tremors of delight rolling through his body.

“Oh, cher,” he murmured, fingers tracing the new cut, still warm and raw. His tone was laced with affection, but beneath it, there was the dark swirl of possessiveness. His bloodied fingers caught your face, smearing crimson across your skin as he pushed you down onto the bed. The mattress groaned beneath your combined weight, sinking into the heat of the moment. “Cher, cher, cher,” he repeated, his voice dripping with laughter and madness, each repetition steeped in dark affection.

His hands, now slick with his own blood, gripped your face with a possessiveness that bordered on feral, marking you with his blood as his lips descended on your skin. His mouth traced you hungrily, tasting, claiming every inch of you. Blood and lust mingled, and his touch, his kisses – they were everywhere, devouring, overwhelming.

MINE.

That was what your scar said to him. It screamed it – MINE.

And at that moment, Alastor knew – this was your permission, your sign. He would kill your husband. He would make sure you were his.

Forever.

Mine.

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

FUN FACT: Several months ago, I made a poll about what story I should write next. Human!Alastor and ABO was super close, but ABO won in the end. This one shot was actually a snippet of my story. Read this post here, if anyone is interested!

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months ago

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Doublethink sump linkdump

On OCTOBER 23 at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

Trigger warning for #eikositriophobia: this is my 23d linkdump (Hail Discordia!), an erratic Saturday purge of the open tabs I haven't managed to blog this week; here's the previous 22:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

When I was a kid, I idolized Harlan Ellison. I loved his prose styling, his stage presence, the way he blended activism and fiction, and the way he mixed critical nonfiction with fiction. As a 17 year old, I attended a writing workshop that Ann Crispin was giving at a local science fiction convention and she told me that I had the makings of a great writer, just as soon as I stopped trying to be Harlan Ellison.

But Harlan was a complicated figure. I attended the Clarion Workshop in 1992 specifically because he was our instructor, and came away bitterly disillusioned after he targeted one of my fellow students for relentless, cruel bullying, a performance that was so ugly that the board fired the director and permanently barred him from teaching the workshop.

Later on, Harlan became the kind of copyright maximalist who called for arbitrary internet surveillance and censorship in the name of shutting down ebook piracy. During a panel about this at a sf convention, he called one of the other panelists a "motherfucker" and threatened to punch him in the face. He took to badmouthing me in interviews, painting my position – whose nuances he certainly understood – in crude caricature.

But Harlan and I had many friends in common, people I really liked, and they were adamant that Harlan's flaws were not the whole story: if Harlan liked you, he would do anything to stand up for you, no matter the cost to himself. Famously, when Harlan taught Octavia Butler's Clarion, he demanded to know why she wasn't writing full time, and she replied that there was the inconvenient matter of making rent and groceries. He replied, "If that's all that's stopping you, come live in my guest house for as long as it takes, eat my groceries, and write." Which she did.

Which is great, but also: one of my own Clarion students told me about when his then-teenaged mother met Harlan at a sf convention and told him that she dreamed of becoming a writer, and he propositioned her. She was so turned off that she stopped writing forever (her son, my student, is now an accomplished writer).

So Harlan was a mixed bag. He did very, very good things. He did very, very bad things. When Harlan died, in 2018, I wrote an obit where I grappled with these two facts:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/06/28/rip-harlan-ellison/

In it, I proposed a way of thinking about people that tried to make sense of both Harlans – and of all the people in our lives. There's an unfortunate tendency to think of the people that matter to us as having their deeds recorded in a ledger, with good deeds in one column and wicked deeds down the other.

In this formulation, we add up the good deeds and the bad deeds and subtract the bad from the good. If the result is a positive number, we say the good outweighs the bad, and therefore the person is, on balance, good. On the other hand, if the bad outweighs the good, then the person is bad, and the good deeds are irrelevant.

This gets us into no end of trouble. It means that when someone we admire slips up, we give them a pass, because "they've earned it." And when someone who's hurt us does something selfless and kind and brave, we treat that as though it doesn't matter, because they're an asshole.

But the truth is, no amount of good deeds can wipe away the bad. If you hurt someone, the fact that you've helped someone else doesn't make that hurt any easier to bear. And the kindnesses you do for other people make their lives better, no matter what bad things you've done to others.

Rather than calculating the balance of our goodness or badness, I think we should just, you know, sit with our sins and virtues. Let all the harm and joy exist in a state of superposition. Don't cancel out the harm. Don't wave away the good. They both exist, neither cancels the other, and we should strive to help more, and to do less harm. We should do everything we can to help those we harm. No one owes us a pass because of the good we've done.

That's the lesson Harlan taught me, and he taught it to me by absolutely failing to live his life this way – a fact that exists alongside all of the good he did, including the great art he made, which I love, and which inspired me.

Not long after Harlan's death, I got a phone call from J Michael Straczynski, Harlan's literary executor. As part of his care for Harlan's literary legacy, Joe was editing a new anthology of short stories, The Last Dangerous Visions, and did I want to contribute a story?

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/harlan-ellison-last-dangerous-vision-1235117069/

Of course I did. Harlan edited Dangerous Visions in 1967: a groundbreaking anthology of uncomfortable science fiction that featured everyone from Philip K Dick to Samuel Delany. The followup, 1972's Again, Dangerous Visions, was, if anything, even more influential, including Le Guin's The Word For World IS Forest, as well as work by Joanna Russ, Kurt Vonnegut, David Gerrold, and James Tiptree, Jr.

Though some of the stories in these books haven't aged well, together, they completely changed my view of what science fiction was and what it could be. But The Last Dangerous Visions was a different (ahem) story. For complicated reasons (which all cashed out to "Harlan being very difficult to work with, sometimes for damned good reasons, other times for completely petty ones), TLDV was, at the time of Harlan's death, fifty years behind schedule. It was "science fiction's most famous unpublished book." Harlan had bought early work from writers who had gone on to have major careers – like Bruce Sterling – and had sat on them for half a century.

Then Joe called me to tell me that he was starting over with TLDV and did I want to contribute a story – and of course I did. I wrote a story for him with the title "Jeffty Is Five," part of my series of stories with the same titles as famous works of sf:

https://locusmag.com/2012/05/cory-doctorow-a-prose-by-any-other-name/

Joe liked the story, but not the title. He thought Harlan wouldn't have approved of this kind of appropriation, and he wanted to do right by the memory of his old friend. My first reaction was very Harlan-like: this is supposed to make you mad, it's my art, and if it offends you, that's your problem.

But I remembered the most important lesson I learned from Harlan, about good deeds and bad ones, and I thought about Joe, a writer I admired and liked, who was grappling with his grief and his commitment to Harlan's legacy, and I changed my mind and told him of course I'd change the title. I changed the title because Harlan would never have done so, and that's rather the point of the story.The story is (now)) called "The Weight of a Heart, the Weight of a Feather" (a very Harlanish title), and it's about the legacy of complicated people, whose lives are full of noble selflessness *and careless or deliberate cruelty. It's about throwing away the ledger and just letting all those facts sit together, about lives that are neither washed of sin by virtue, nor washed of virtue by sin.

It's a good story, I think, and I'm proud of it, and I'm interested in what the rest of you think now that the book is out:

https://www.blackstonepublishing.com/products/book-fyhm

Harlan was the writer who made me want to get good at reading my stories aloud. I was a charter member of the Harlan Ellison Record Club, as you can see for yourself from the time Harlan (accidentally) doxed me:

http://harlanellison.com/text/paladin.txt

After nearly 20 years of podcasting, I'm actually pretty good at this stuff. I'm going to be podcasting a reading of this story – eventually. I am nearly done "de-googling" my podcast feed, ripping it out of Feedburner, a service that I started using nearly two decades ago to convert a WordPress RSS feed to a podcast feed. In the intervening years, WordPress has come to support this natively and Feedburner has become a division of Google, so I've been methodically removing Feedburner's hooks from my feed, which is now proudly available here, without any surveillance or analytics:

https://craphound.com/feeds/doctorow_podcast

I'll be writing up the process eventually. In the meantime, I'm about to embark on another podcast fiction project, serializing my novella Spill, a "Little Brother" story that Tor's Reactor just published:

https://reactormag.com/spill-cory-doctorow/

The first part of "Spill" will go out tomorrow or Monday. Reactor also just published another "Little Brother" story, "Vigilant," which I read in last week's podcast:

https://craphound.com/littlebrother/2024/09/29/vigilant-a-little-brother-story/

One of my long-running beefs with Harlan was his insistence that the answer of copyright infringement online was to create an obligation on intermediaries – like ISPs – to censor their users' communications on demand from anyone claiming to have been wronged by a post or upload.

This would be bad for free expression under any circumstances, but it's an especially dangerous vision for ISPs, who are among the worst-run, most venal businesses in modern society ("We don't care, we don't have to, we're the phone company" -L Tomlin).

It's hard to overstate just how terrible ISPs are, but even in a field that includes Charter and Comcast, there's one company that rises above the pack when it comes to being grotesquely, imaginatively awful: Cox Communications.

Here's the latest from Cox: they sell "unlimited" gigabit data plans that cost $100 for the base plan and $50 to add the "unlimited" data. But – as Jon Brodkin writes for Ars Technica – Cox uniquely defines "unlimited" as severely limited:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2020/06/cox-slows-internet-speeds-in-entire-neighborhoods-to-punish-any-heavy-users/

Now, you're probably thinking, ho-hum, another company that offered unlimited service and then acted like dicks when a customer treated it as unlimited, ::laughs in American Airlines::

https://www.forbes.com/sites/jamesasquith/2019/11/13/unlimited-first-class-flights-for-lifehow-american-airlines-made-the-most-expensive-mistake-in-aviation-history/

But that's not the Cox story! Cox doesn't just throttle "unlimited" customers' internet to 2006-vintage DSL speeds – they slow down the entire neighborhood around the unlimited customer to those speeds.

As Brodkin writes, every Cox customer in the same neighborhood as an "unlimited" customer named "Mike" had their upload speeds reduced by more than two thirds, from 35mbps to 10mbps, to punish Mike. And they're not the only ones!

https://www.reddit.com/r/GNV/comments/gkicjg/comment/fr670cx/

Cox confirmed they were doing this, saying "performance can be improved for all customers in the neighborhood by temporarily increasing or maintaining download speeds and changing upload speeds for some of our service tiers."

Cox has been on a roll lately, really going for the shitty-telecoms-company gold. Back in August, 404 Media published a leaked pitch deck in which Cox promised advertisers that they were secretly listening to their customers' smart devices, transcribing their private conversations, and using them to target ads:

https://www.404media.co/heres-the-pitch-deck-for-active-listening-ad-targeting/

This isn't just appalling, it's also almost certainly fraudulent. As terrible as "smart" devices are (and oh God are they terrible), the vast majority of them don't do this. That's something a lot of security researchers have investigated, doing things like hooking up a protocol analyzer to a LAN with a smart device on it and looking for data transmissions that correspond to ambient speech in earshot of the gadget's mic.

My guess is that Cox has done a deal with a couple of the bottom-feedingest "smart TV" companies (as a cable operator, Cox will have relationships with a lot of these companies) to engage in this conduct. Smart TVs have emerged as one of the worst categories of consumer technology, on every axis: performance, privacy, repairability. The field has raced to the bottom, hit it, and then started digging to find new lows to sink to. This is just my hunch here, but I think it's highly likely that if there's a class of devices that are bugging your living room and selling the data to Cox, it's gonna be a smart TV (top tip: buy a computer monitor instead, and use your phone or laptop to stream to it).

Ask a certain kind of very smooth-brained, Samuelson-pilled economist about the enshittification of smart TVs and they'll tell you that this is a "revealed preference":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Revealed_preference

As in, sure, you may say that you don't want your TV to secretly record your private conversations and sell them to Cox, but actually you quite like it, because you have a TV.

While this is a facially very stupid argument, it's routinely made by people who think they're very smart, a point famously made by Matt Bors's "Mr Gotcha":

https://thenib.com/mister-gotcha/

Comics turn out to be a very good medium for stringing up the revealed preferences crowd on their own petards. This week, Juan Santapau's "The Secret Knots" added to the Mr Gotcha canon with an equally brilliant webcomic, albeit one with a very different vibe, entitled "Remind Me Later":

https://thesecretknots.com/comic/remind-me-later/

Santapau really catches the zeitgeist with this one, which is more of a slow burn than a zinger, and which shows how online "revealed preferences" nonsense grooms us for the same bullshit in every corner of our lives, even our psychotherapist's office. Highly recommended – an instant classic.

"Revealed preferences" comes from the Chicago School of Economics, a field that decided that a) economics should be a discipline grounded in mathematical models; and b) it was impossible to factor power relationships into these models; so c) power doesn't matter.

Once you understand this fact, everything else snaps into focus – like, why the Chicago School loves monopolies. If you model an economy dominated by monopolists without factoring the power that monopolists wield, then you can very easily assume that any monopoly you discover is the result of a lot of people voluntarily choosing to spend all their money with the company they love best.

The fact that we all hate the monopolists we have to deal with is dismissed by these economists as a mirage: "sure, you say you hate them, but you do business with them, therefore, your 'revealed preference' shows that you actually love them."

Which is how we end up with absolutely outrageous rackets like the scholarly publishing cartel. Scholarly journals acquire academics' work for free; get other academics to edit the work for free; acquire lifetime copyright to those finished works; and charge the institutions that paid those "volunteer" academics salaries millions of dollars to access their publications:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/16/the-public-sphere/#not-the-elsevier

These companies don't just lock up knowledge and tie an anchor around the scientists' and scholars' ankles, dragging them down. Their market power means that they can hurt their customers and users in every way, including through rampant privacy violations.

A new study from SPARC investigates the privacy practices of Springerlink, and finds them to be a cesspit of invasive, abusive conduct that would make even a Cox executive blush:

https://zenodo.org/records/13886473

Yes, on the one hand, this isn't surprising. If a company can screw you on pricing, why wouldn't they scruple to give you the shaft on privacy as well? But The fact that a company as terrible as Springer can be the dominant firm in the sector is still shocking, somehow.

But that's terminal-stage capitalism for you. It's not just that bad companies companies thrive – it's that being a bad company is a predictor of sky-high valuations and fawning coverage from the finance press.

Take Openai, a company that the press treats as a heptillion-dollar money-printer whose valuation will eventually exceed the rest of the known universe. Openai has a lot of problems – a mass exodus of key personnel, a product that doesn't work for nearly all the things it's claimed as a solution to – but the biggest one is that it's a bad business.

That's the theme of a fantastic, characteristically scathing-but-deep Ed Zitron article called (what else?) "Openai is a bad business":

https://www.wheresyoured.at/oai-business/

Zitron does something that no one else in the business press does: takes Openai's claims about its business fundamentals – its costs, its prices, its competitors, and even its capabilities – at face value, and then asks, "Even if this is all true, will Openai ever turn a profit?"

The answer is a pretty convincing "no." Zitron calls it a "subprime AI crisis" in a nod to Tim Hwang's must-read 2020 book about the ad-tech bezzle, Subprime Attention Crisis:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/06/surveillance-tulip-bulbs/#adtech-bubble

The fascinating thing about both Zitron and Hwang's analysis isn't that there are big companies that suck – it's that they are able to suck up so much money and credulous excitement, despite how badly they suck.

That's where power – the thing that neoliberal economists say doesn't matter – comes in. Monopoly power is a self-accelerating flywheel, as Amazon's famous investor pitch explains:

https://vimeo.com/739486256/00a0a7379a

Once a monopolist or a cartel wields market power, they can continue to dominate a sector, even though they're very bad – and even if they use their power to rip off both their customers and very powerful suppliers.

That's the lesson of Michael Jordan's lawsuit against NASCAR, as Matt Stoller explains in his latest BIG newsletter:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/michael-jordan-anti-monopolist

Jordan is one of the most famous basketball players, but after retiring from the game, he became a NASCAR owner, and as such, has been embroiled in a monopoly whose abuses are both eerily familiar to anyone who pays attention to, say the pharmacy benefit manager racket:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

But on the other hand, the fact this is all happening to race-cars and not pharmacies makes it very weird indeed. As with, say, PBMs, NASCAR's monopoly isn't just victimizing the individuals who watch racing, but also the racecar teams. These teams are owned by rich, powerful people (like Jordan), but are "almost always on the verge of bankruptcy."

Why is that? NASCAR rips them off. For example, teams have to buy all their parts from NASCAR, at huge markups, and the purchase contract prohibits them from racing at any rival event. There are a million petty schemes like this, and NASCAR carefully titrates its bleed-off to leave its victims almost at death's door, but still (barely) solvent enough to keep racing.

NASCAR also bought out all the rival leagues, and most of the tracks, and then locked the remaining tracks to exclusivity deals. Then the teams all had to sign noncompetes as a condition of competing in NASCAR, the only game in town – forever.

Hence Michael Jordan, a person who steadfastly refused to involve himself in politics during his basketball career, becoming a firebreathing trustbuster. Stoller cites Jordan's transformation as reason to believe that the anti-monopoly agenda will survive even in the event that Harris wins but bows to corporate donors who insist on purging the Biden administration's trustbusters.

That's a hopeful note, and I'd add my own to it: the fact that the NASCAR scam is so similar to the pharma swindles, academic publishing swindles, and all the other monopoly rip-offs means that there is a potential class alliance between university professors, NASCAR owners, and people with chronic health conditions and big pharmaceutical bills.

That high note brings me to the end of this week's linkdump! And here's a little dessert in case you've got room for one more little link: Kitowares "Medieval Mules", a forthcoming clog styled as trompe l'oeil plate armor:

https://www.kitowares.la/

Pair with old favorites like lycra armor leggings:

https://loricaclothing.com/collections/leggings-1/products/the-augsburg-legging

And a DIY crotcheted knight's helmet:

https://www.etsy.com/listing/590854477/knights-helmet-w-detachable-visor

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER s tories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; a nd SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/05/farrago/#jeffty-is-five

174 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 3 months ago

Text

WASHED UP [1/2]

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame.

Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

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slowd1ving · 4 months ago

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Hello !! Do I ask for a Jinyoung Park x husband reader ? please fluff and one shot

NOSTOS . ⁺ JINYOUNG PARK

nostos: defined by homecoming, as after a long journey Gone are the days of an empty stomach and the taste of blood on your tongue. Tonight, your biggest worry consists only of explaining the ball of fur (wedged damply under your raincoat) to your oh-so-beloved husband. anon this is my first married fic ever so I hope this is decent enough fr pairings: jinyoung park + husband reader warnings: none! (literally my only one with zero warnings) wc: 1.1k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Forgive me. Two words repeated themselves like pious mantras while you trudged up the stairs. The rubber of your soles colliding rhythmically against the linoleum of each step sounded comforting, unlike the frivolous allegro of your heartbeat. Residue rainwater left miserly puddles in your wake, and you felt guilty for the soft-spoken janitor who’d tend to the mud tracked into the flooring.

Forgive me. For what? There were a million mellifluous syllables to describe the long wrongdoings of your life, but to list them all would blur them into flowery wine rather than the sour plums that they were. Lying to good people? Purging the murky cesspits of Gapryong’s Fist? Muddying up the downtown apartment complex your penthouse had been reduced to?

Gone was the gilt that came with the blood. Your biggest sin this week was making a babe cry with your brief glance, and perhaps the parcel wedged beneath your warm body and raincoat.

With one hand, you fumbled a rusty key into your lock—third floor, no lurkers, no telltale signs of intruders—and with the other, you clutched the bundle to your chest with the fervour of a starved man. It’s open—!

“Oh.” There he is.

“‘Oh’ is right. You are late,” he seethed, eyes roaming from the very crown of your soaked head to the tips of your muddy boots. “And you’re getting mud everywhere.”

“Forgive me.” You sounded perfectly contrite, and somewhat abashed—and the sincerity in your tone caused Jinyoung Park to somewhat deflate. You— he— he could never stay mad at the face of his downcast husband after all, even if he knew full well the trembling furrow in your brows had been practised and machinated until Gapryong damn Kim himself twitched in irritation at your performances.

Well. You weren’t the Infiltrator behind the Fist for no reason.

“If you’re sorry, take a hot bath before you catch a cold. I’ll heat up the jjigae so you don’t get sick,” he grumbled, but anyone and everyone who knew him could see the soft-worn affection behind his grousing. He wasn’t your husband for no reason.

There was no move from you. You remained holding your coat to your chest, ring glinting on your finger as you shifted. The back of his neck prickled.

“Err, might be a bit of a problem, doc,” you said. Sheepishly. Like you always did before that mouth of yours caused your target to become tetchy as they threw something at you.

His hand instinctively reached for your pink fluffy slipper on the shoe rack to whack your arm with.

“You got injured? What did you do?” But rather than land on his target, he grasped your arm. There might’ve been a meow. Did it come from you? Maybe. He could never be too sure with you.

With a loud, obnoxiously obvious gulp, you slid the material of your windbreaker aside. It rustled as though it was making excuses for you, since you wouldn’t argue your case. In fact, you would probably cheerfully agree with whatever he flung at you.

“A… cat. A cat,” he stared dumbly. A soggy feline juvenile stared dumbly back.

Huh?

“A… cat?” he repeated, still processing the mental shock. Its matted, damp grey fur and huge splotch on your shirt suggested you’d carried this wretched creature for many miles. And, knowing you, you probably had. Despair wrought his face pallid.

“Sur… prise?” you echoed in a mimicry of his cadence, and he buried his forehead in his clammy palm. No, he prepared himself to say, already expecting the imminent question. No, his mouth formed. No. “And it’s a kitten, not a cat. Be nice.”

“Can we keep him?” you asked as though this wasn’t the cheap apartment you’d purchased in this district. No, he wanted to reproach, since you did somewhat acquiesce to his request on your whims. You stared, just as dumbly as him and that cat—an unfortunate trio if he ever saw one. “We can call him Jake.”

“We are not calling him the name of my nephew,” he shot back instantly, then immediately cursed at both himself and you for your masterful deceitfulness. Damn you. Damn his silly, obnoxious, beautiful husband drenched and pitiful from the rain, pleading with those eyes of his and causing him to unintentionally fold. You played him like a damn fiddle.

And judging by the bright beam you wore, it seemed you knew that a bit too well.

“Well, I’ll be off cleaning our dear nephew,” you zipped past him, still clutching that little furball with all the tenderness of a new father. He was so lost in the happy glow of your smile that it took him quite a few seconds to recall exactly just what you had said.

“We are not naming it Jake!” he gritted out.

“You can finally be the favourite uncle!” you sang, partially drowned out by the flow of hot water.

Staggering, he propped his elbow up against the thin door leading to the bathroom—sharp glare poised right at it.

When will I learn to refuse him?

. ⁺ 　

“Who are you and what the hell did you do to my husband?” Shellshocked, you gaped at the scene before you; Jinyoung Park, the man you had sworn to cherish forevermore, had been replaced by someone who’d actually tolerated the kitten’s presence. Nay, the man had the very furball—that he glared at—sequestered away on his very lap while he looked over research files from his lab. And he was stroking behind its ears and under its chin nonetheless!

What a conundrum.

“Being the favourite uncle,” he replied with a half-smirk that couldn’t be hidden from your prying eyes. For once in your long life—riddled with more lies and deceits than you could count—you were stumped.

You cooed to the kitten, attempted bribing it with treats, and even brandished the foxtail you’d found on your way back home. All for naught—the feline remained firmly wedged on his lap, and you couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Well, your prophecy did work out. We’re both favourite uncles now,” he bragged, and a tear might’ve slipped from your eye as you watched the heartwarming scene.

“Save a space for me on the couch after I shower,” you demanded, though it was not with any malice nor aggression—just a raw affection for this little bubble.

“I’ll see.” However hard he denied it, he was still that wily man you’d fallen for; in the hazy evening lamplight, though, he was much softer round the edges.

And perhaps you were too.

For despite your lack of piety, you sincerely prayed this would be the domain of the future.

a/n: yes the cat is still called jake

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the-ineffable-dance · 10 months ago

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Holy Palmers Kiss

Throughout their history together, the romance between Aziraphale and Crowley has mostly been expressed through incredibly subtle ways. It's been centuries (if not millennia) of nothing more obvious than a surreptitious brushing of hands or yearning looks when they think no one is watching. And of course, when they have plenty of deniability.

Good work, Aziraphale... hand on the chest of the Thin Dark Duke, and if anyone asked, you were just making sure that young lady didn't get bumped.

And this is for a very good reason. It quite literally isn't safe for them to be openly romantic with one another, even now. Demons like Hastur and Shax are constantly popping up... Michael and Uriel are always watching... eyes are everywhere.

They have certainly gotten closer to being open in the years that separate the two seasons. Crawley sprawls all over that bookshop like he has a personal vendetta against chairs - removes his glasses as soon as he steps foot inside (which is an incredibly coded action that I would love to take a more in depth look at in the future) - gives up the keys to the Bently... And Aziraphale himself has those longing looks - calls him up to talk enough that Crowley knows his "tones of voice" - and then, we get The Ball.

Technically, The Ball is for Nina and Maggie... or at least that's what Aziraphale says. We get the lovely little moment in the pub where he and Crowley try to come up with the best ways to get humans to fall in love with each other. But the moment Aziraphale mentions Jane Austen having characters dancing with each other and realizing how in love they were, I think at least for him the focus changes to this... THE BALL IS FOR CROWLEY. And once he starts giving away books to make sure the ball will be perfect, there can be no question. The entire idea is a way for him to be able to dance with Crowley.

That's why, for me, the most romantic moment in all of Good Omens, at least from Aziraphale's point of view, is this moment right here.

Vavoom! Sorted! Look at the way Crowley even curls his fingers around Aziraphale's hand! This is peak Aziraphale romance as a fan of Jane Austen.

But he's also a fan of Shakespeare. Even the gloomy ones. And every time I watch this scene, I'm reminded of a different ball from one of the gloomy plays that Crowley would hate and Aziraphale would swoon over. Romeo and Juliet. A fitting parallel to an angel and a demon being in love.

In Romeo and Juliet, at the end of the first act, is another ball. Romeo tries to get Juliet to kiss him, and she turns him down with this...

"For saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch/ And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss"

There's quite the back and forth here between Juliet and her Romeo about hands and lips and such, (and eventually Romeo gets his way) but the parallel for Aziraphale in this exchange is unmistakable. He, as the angel, is the saint (and stand in for Juliet), Crowley his pilgrim. Snogging in public would be absolutely out of the question for our dear prim and proper Aziraphale... but this is a chaste kiss, and one that he is showing the world. A public declaration of his love for Crowley. A Holy Palmer's Kiss.

It's certainly debatable if Crowley would have picked up on it. Like a lot of their coded language there are times when one of them misses what the other is trying to say. But in my opinion, this was not only a public declaration, but his confession to Crowley. This is his "I love you" as much as "I forgive you" is.

Just for fun, here's how Romeo finally gets his kisses (but let's have Crowley stand in for Romeo and Aziraphale for Juliet, shall we?)

Cro. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. (They kiss)

Azi. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Cro. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged. Give me my sin again. (They kiss again)

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens meta #aziraphale loves crowley #crowley loves aziraphale #good omens 2 #the ball was for crowley #aziracrow #shakespeare references in Good Omens

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darling-bunny-boy · 1 year ago

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I love the idea of being fucked by a priest over an altar after confession…

I’m just a poor, lost sheep. I’ve come to confess my sins to you, Father. I’ve been corrupted by demons, turned against your divine authority. Every night I lie awake thinking about you, and I touch myself in the most sinful ways, defiling God’s creation.

How can I atone for this grave sin? I’m willing to do anything, Father.

Anything.

I’m ordered to strip out of my clothes, but I have to hesitate. For the moment my pants come off, my deepest secret is shown to the world. My little pussy is so wet, for I couldn’t handle being in your presence, Father. You easily take notice; how could you not? I’m standing there trying to keep my hands away from my needy cunt.

You tell me to fall to my knees, and I do. While you pull out your cock, I can’t help but lean forward and open my mouth, drooling all over your divine body as you gently thrust yourself inside of my mouth. It’s magnificent, it tastes divine.

Although you haven’t cum yet, you want to do more to me. You pick my frail body up with a single hand, dragging me over to the altar. I’m bent over it, back arching as you shove your fingers inside to get me loosened up. I moan in your presence, as you promise to rid the demons from the inside. Your fingers fuck me slowly, and my cunt can barely handle it. I’m on the edge, about to release myself, when you remove your fingers from me.

But you quickly replace them with something larger: your throbbing cock.

And I can’t help but scream. I press back against you, matching each of your thrusts evenly. You sing praises to me, proudly announcing how well my body is taking your dick. I can only whimper in response, as you finally release your seed inside me.

“To purge the demons, I must claim your body as mine.” You tell me, as your seed leaks from my cunt. “Come visit me again, little lamb. It seems the demons haven’t been truly purged from you yet.”

By your divine will, Father… anything for you.

Antishippers, TERFs, under 18, and WLW-only blogs this space is not for you!

#divinity kink #religious kink #religion kink #ftm nsft #nblm nsft #mlm nsft #proship safe #mlm and nblm only #bunny.txt

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talonabraxas · 3 months ago

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"Then flew one of the seraphim unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar: And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged." —Isaiah 6

Seraphim Talon Abraxas

(Hebrew שרפים, plural of שרף) A word that comes from the Hebrew root Saraph meaning “to burn.” Seraphim literally means “the burning ones.” This word is used differently by various traditions. Manly P. Hall suggests the name is related to the Egyptian Serapis.

1. According to the Kabbalah, Seraphim is a very awakened, pure being related to the sephirah Geburah.

2. According to Christianity, a Seraphim is the highest type of angel, related to the sephirah Kether.

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writingroom21 · 2 months ago

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For Give Me Father

Pairing: priest!rafe x nun!reader

Summary: During a confessional things take a turn. What was supposed to be you purging yourself for sin becomes a window to a new experience.

Warnings: 18+, implied smut, wet dreams, masturbation (m), mention of the use of a paddle, corruption kink?, the use of Father as his title in the church, (let me know if I missed any)

You pace the halls as you soothe the black fabric of your tunic and fix your veil. This is the fourth week in a row where you have woken up to impure thoughts. All of the other nuns walked around as if nothing was wrong. Leading you to believe that you are cursed. Or worse the devil has sunk his teeth into you and now you can not escape. Everynight you are plagued with the same dreams.

It starts off with a sermon from Father Cameron. He leads the church through their prayers, never taking his eyes off of you. In your dreams he always talks about temptation, reminding everyone that they have to avoid it at all costs. Which is ironic due to him pulling you into his office after the service. He forces you to recall his whole sermon and every wrong answer means a piece of clothing needs to be taken off. With your nerves, you always make mistakes leading to him stripping you down.

As your punishment he forces you to read passages of the bible as he uses a paddle to swat your ass. When he realizes that the punishment fails and only makes you aroused he switches tactics. He’ll grab your tunic pushing the fabric until it rests on your waist. Gathering the moisture that collected between your thighs he has you suck his fingers as he pulls out his cock. Slowly he pulls your underwear to the side before sliding himself in. He’d make you keep reading, thrusting harder into you with every stutter you had.

“Good morning Sister.” You’re snapped out of your daydream when Sister Mary greets you as she leaves her confession. “Good morning sister Mary.” She walks down the hall, her footsteps echo on the stone flooring as she leaves. Looking at the confessional you take a deep breath before entering. You smooth the fabric once again as you sit down, your hands resting on your lap. The rosary beads entangle your fingers as you try to calm your nerves. Just as you were about to get up and leave, the divider opens.

From the corner of your eye you can see Father Cameron facing forward waiting for you to speak. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I’ve been plagued by impure thoughts and find myself yearning for temptation. I can’t seem to keep the thoughts at bay no matter how much I pray. I’m afraid that there is nothing that I can do to stop them.” From the otherside of the wooden wall you can hear him take a deep breath. Facing forward you stare at the stained wood trying to ignore the gnawing feeling building in your chest.

“It is easy for temptation to find us afterall it is a part of life. I’ve seen how devoted you are to your faith. God will guide you through as he always does, do not fret.” You glance to the left taking a peek of his features. “Father, it seems to find me at every moment. My dreams are infiltrated and when I’m awake it is all I can see or think about.” The rosary in your hand digs into your skin as you tighten them. Hoping that you will awake from this nightmare. “Sister if I may ask. What is plaguing you?”

There it is, the question you were hoping he would not ask.

“I find myself having impure thoughts about someone I should not. My dreams are littered with the acts of intercourse. I wake up from the dreams yearning to experience what I witnessed.” Father Cameron clears his throat and moves around in his space. “Sister when you describe intercourse, is it safe to assume it is with you and another member in this church?” Looking down at your hands, you respond with a yes. Your skin feels like it is burning, the cold metal of your beads turns scolding. They fall to the ground as you drop them, feeling as if you are not worthy of their protection.

“We have all experienced this form of temptation. We are human and it is natural to have these thoughts. It is just good to remember your vows and that our faith is stronger than the urge to do it.” Taking a deep breath you muster the courage to speak. “What if I want it to happen? As everyday goes I find myself unopposed to the idea.” There’s silence after your words. The both of you sitting there waiting for the other to say anything else. “Tell me sister, are your thoughts about me?”

Ashamed of your answer you stay silent which tells him his thought process was correct. From the bench you sit on you can hear a ruffle of fabric. You glance back over to him but he looks composed. His blue eyes find you through the divider, a small smile threatening to peek through. “Describe them to me.” Your gasp in shock, turning your body towards where he is. “I’m sorry Father, what?” He clears his throat again with his eyes falling shut for a brief moment. “I believe that if you confess your desires you will be free from this torment.”

With a shaky breath you begin to tell him. “It starts with your sermons. I watch you as you lead everyone to be a better them. Then you warn them of temptation and how to not stray from their path.” You pause for a moment but he encourages you on with baited breath. “You stare at me as if you are ready to show them what it truly looks like. As if you would take me right there if you could.”

“If I did?” He questions. A small noise comes from his mouth. You move closer to the little window and try to see what he is doing. You can hear something but you don’t know what it is. “Father may I be honest?” He groans, his mouth gaping open. “You may.” Swallowing the saliva that gathered in your mouth you turn back to the door in front of you. “I would let you. But usually you pull me into your office. You always punish me for not remembering your sermon or messing up a bible verse.”

Father Cameron lets out a loud moan. You look back at the window with a curious gaze. “Father are you alright?” His eyes gaze into yours with a hazy look in them. “I’m perfectly fine, sister. Please continue.” You lift yourself a bit to peer over to his side to be greeted with the sight of him pleasuring himself. Quickly you sit back down, crossing your legs as you picture his veiny hands wrapped around his cock. “You use the paddle on me sometimes, making me count them as you go. Other times you just take your time playing with me. It always ends with you taking me over your desk.”

There’s another moan as you finish. “Jesus CHrist.” He mutters under his breath. “How do you feel when you think about it?” Your thighs squeeze at his question. “Like I want to strip you of everything and let you have your way.” There’s a loud thud as Father Cameron’s nondominant hand slaps the wooden walls. “Oh god.” His eyes clam shut as his face contorts with pleasure. You watch him as his shoulders shake with each breath and how his mouth drops open. Against your better judgment you look down at his lap watching as ropes of his cum coat his hand.

When your eyes move back to his face he’s already staring at you. A smile graces his face as he grabs a cloth from his pocket to clean himself up. “Sister, I think you have made great progress. Please do comes to me if you have any more of these dreams. Best we get ahead of them.” You nod standing to exit. “Sister.” You look back at him wondering what could possibly be the issue. “It is okay to fall into temptation. You should never be afraid to face it, I know you can take it.”

His words don’t seem fitting to the man you are used to. But neither is the way he is looking at you at the moment. The only time you’ve seen this look was well in your dreams.

“Thank you Father.”

@rafedaddy01

#rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe x you #obx #rafe cameron smut #rafe smut #outer banks smut #priest!rafe #priest!rafe x nun!reader

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minafeu · 4 months ago

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I'm not the greatest at writing when tired and it's 11 pm before I got to school the next day but I thought I'd give a snippet of what I have so far. The chapter will be called "Girl, So Confusing" because the tension I've written is utterly divine and fits the title because the way Red be acting is so confusing to Chloe.( @uhhhh-em-draws-stuff this is for you pookie 😘)

Theatre class. A place where many don't have academic rivals but Chloe was unlucky enough to have her academic rival in her Theater class. Today they were doing line readings just to make sure the teacher picked the right people for the roles. Chloe reading for Juliet and Red reading for Romeo. An irony Chloe could care less for but still funny none the less. Red takes her hand as per the directions of staging "If I profane with my unworthiest hand. This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." Red had an annoying sly smile on her face, knowing she was slightly getting under Chloe's skin.

She take a deep breath and begins her line. "Good Pilgrim, you do wrong your hands to much, which mannerly devotion shows this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch. and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." They make eye contact whilst Chloe recites her lines lines. It's obvious to Red that Chloe has honed the craft of theatre for many years which is almost impressive if it weren't for the fact she acted slightly cocky about it. It elicits a small chuckle out of Red, it being humorous that Chloe thinks so highly of herself.

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers' too?" Reds voice is soft but firm. Chloe laughs slightly and states "Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." She give an unserious smile, emulating the character of Juliet. It's almost impressive how well Red is doing as Chloe has never seen her so theatre. Red simply brushes off the slight look of disbelief on Chloe's face and responds. "O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair." Her smile growing more cocky, her head tiltes slightly to the side as she watches to see how Chloe react. "Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake" Chloe speak softly, shaking her head lightly during my lines. She lightly looks Red up and down as she recites Red next lines.

Red steps a bit closer to Chloe. "Then move not while my prayer's effect I take." She takes Chloe's chin in her hand, just a few inches from her face. "Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged." Chloe rolls her eyes lightly, breaking character for but a moment. She clears her throat, takes a step back from Red and delivers the line promptly. "Then have my lips the sin that they have took." Chloe's gaze is questioning with a hint of innocence, replicating how a child of Juliet's age would have said it. "Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again." Red looks into Chloe's eyes, a mischievous smile on her lips. "And scene!" Their teacher calls out.

After a few moments, Chloe goes to her seat and grabs her things, intent on getting to her next class to have peace for just a few moments. The only bad thing about next hour being AP history was perhaps the fact that the seating chart just had to have Red sitting right next to her. It was the only class they sat next to each other and every moment felt like hell on earth. As the teacher begins to give Red compliments on her compelling acting Chloe checks her phone and texts back her mom. After about a minute, the teacher begins to compliment Chloe who dutifully takes them. Red simply rolls her eyes. Ah yes, little miss perfect taking compliments like it's nothing. It's almost as if she isn't Satan incarnate in academia clothing and a pretty smile.

(now published as a full chapter on ao3)

#glassheart academic rivals au #glassrose #glassheart #charminghearts #redcharming #chloe x red #red x chloe #red of wonderland #red of hearts #chloe charming

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random-thot-generator · 10 months ago

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Better Not to Know

KYLE GAZ GARRICK x FEM READER

Summary: A chance encounter with a handsome stranger in a night club leaves you longing for more.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, unprotected P in V - fr tho wrap it up ya filthy animals, random hook-up sex, breeding kink?- hmm... yeah, fem breeding kink, a moody touch of angst, some pining, my usual brand of smut, only half-assed proofread- embrace the imperfections, no use of Y/N

(Notes: Just another smut purge with pretty boy Gaz, along with some angst added in for @tiredmetalenthusiast . I didn't forget, I just get easily distracted. Hope you like!)

banners & dividers by: @saradika-graphics

Chaotic, strobing lights and throbbing, hypnotic bass. Dim shadows writhing en masse on the dance floor, a dense forest of waving arms and swaying bodies. There is heat and sweat and sex layered thick in the oppressive air with just a hint of danger to heighten alcohol-dulled senses.

The danger you're seeking lurks at a corner cocktail table on the outskirts of the dance floor. He's somehow managed to sprawl with natural grace over the unwieldy, tall chair, lounging like a king on a throne. One heel is hooked on a rung, the other resting on the floor, his body one long, continuous masculine line that pulls the eye up to a face that's both wicked and angelic. His smile is pure sin, his dark eyes appreciative and knowing.

Oh, yes...

This is what you came here for tonight. To hell with the drinks and dancing and your girls' night out. This is what you really need. This man, this demigod currently eye-fucking you from across the room. A coy smile curls your painted lips as the two of you lock eyes.

Ten minutes later, you're pressed up against the graffitied partition of a bathroom stall, legs wrapped around his surging hips, whimpering as he snaps and grinds them with brutal precision. Your fingers glide over dark skin sheened with sweat, hungry mouth seeking the hot cavern of his as he spears you to the wall with a particularly hard thrust. The rhythmic clink of his belt catches your ear, a lewd accompaniment to your gasping breaths and the constant slap-slap of flesh on flesh. It debaucherous and filthy and you can't get enough.

He stares into your eyes when he tells you to touch yourself, pinning you with a smoldering look that has your cunt clenching in response. Nostrils flare and teeth grit, his strokes growing sharper, deeper, more unhinged with each passing second. He's fucking you with feral abandon, a wild light flashing in his eyes as he nears his release. He's growling, gnashing his teeth, mouth hovering at your neck as he fights the primal urge to bite, to mark, to claim.

"This is mine. My pussy," he snarls at your ear, and holy fuck! That possessive, dark tone in his voice sends your mind reeling, turning you into a desperate, needy, grasping thing. Speaking coherently at this point is out of the question, but you nod your confirmation with dazed enthusiasm. Hell yes, this is his pussy. He can claim it and any bloody thing else he wants, just so long as he doesn't stop fucking you.

"Come for me," he demands in a low, guttural voice, and you do. God help you, you do, like a bitch coming to heel. "Fuck, that's it, pet. Just like that. Bloody fuck—"

The rest of his words catch in his throat, and with one last violent thrust he stills, his entire body tensing, muscles trembling with the strain as his fingers clamp onto your ass and drive you down onto his cock, holding you in place as he empties himself inside you. His cock pulses hard enough to make you moan at the feel of it, your eyes rolling back in your head. You know it's bad form to not use a condom, dead stupid of you both, to be honest, yet you can't deny the truth.

You wanted him this way, raw and real and messy. It's insane, pure unadulterated nonsense, but you relish the feel of his cum inside you. You'll regret this decision come morning when you're slinking into the chemist's shop for a Plan B pill before popping into the clinic to get tested. Right now, though, it's all you can do not to purr in decadent satisfaction.

His kisses are errant, artless things landing haphazardly across your collarbone, your earlobe, your cheek. His lips then cover yours, his tongue unfurling in your mouth to slide over yours in a sensual, intimate coupling, and something inside you blooms warm then spreads out to all your extremities. His nose bumps yours in the sweetest way, and you're enamored with him, just like that.

The bathroom door opens, noise flooding into the quiet space between you. Two drunk girls dawdle at the sink, comparing notes on the blokes they've chatted up, deciding which ones they'll be taking home later. His brown eyes sparkle with barely contained mirth, lips quivering as he holds in his laughter. He's so bloody beautiful. You drop your head to his shoulder, unable to look at him any longer without saying something stupid like, "Come home with me."

You bite your tongue and wait.

The sink runs, the hand dryer blasts, and then the two birds are walking out, leaving the lingering scent of cheap body spray and pink hand soap in the close, heated air. The tap drips, his belt buckle jingles, and the spell is broken. He sighs, placing a chaste peck on your lips, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze.

Time's up.

Legs sliding down his muscled flanks, you lock your shaking knees to support you, inner thighs quivering. His cum is a tangible reminder of his claim on your body, as much as the smell of his cologne and sweat on your skin, as much as that poignant, sharp ache in your battered cervix. He fucked you hard and he fucked you well and he made certain that you'd remember him for days to come. What more could you ask of a man like him?

"Ya alright, pet?" he murmurs, his voice so deep and smooth and warm that it raises the fine hairs all over your body. The man is sex personified, a carnal feast that's left you sated but still craving more. You've never been with anyone like him, and it scares you a bit, the effect that he has on you. You were right about him; he's dangerous.

You hum in the affirmative and smile, suddenly feeling shy and awkward. You lower your lashes to hide your confusion, too flustered to speak. You can only imagine what sort of goofy, cock-dumb expression you're wearing. His sigh of satisfaction gusts over your face, the backs of his long fingers brushing over your cheekbone. "So lovely," he mutters, like an inner thought spoken aloud.

Silly cow that you are, his words make your heart flutter.

"I'm fine. More than fine," you finally answer.

You chance a glimpse up into deep brown eyes with striations of amber and copper that catch the dim light. Your gaze drinks him in, flickering over his long, curling lashes and wing-like raven brows. You're melting at the sight of the most sensuous mouth you've ever seen on a man, not to mention a smile so brilliant, it turns you inside out and dumps your heart on the floor. It's only the scar beneath his left eye that detracts from his ethereal, masculine beauty, that proves that he is, in fact, a mere mortal.

"Perfection," you whisper, skimming your thumb over the scar. Your meaning goes for both the man and the sex, but he can take it however he likes.

He fumbles at the latch and opens the stall door, keeping a hand at your lower back as you toddle out on coltish legs. You drift to the mirror to see what the damage is, oddly proud about the mess he's made of you. You swipe the mascara from beneath your eyes and dab away the smear of lipstick at the corner of your mouth. Your hair's a bit of a tangle, but who's going to notice or care at this late stage of the evening?

A tremulous smile appears on your face when he steps in behind you, large hands curling 'round your hips as he presses his full length against your back. His warmth seeps through the thin material of your dress, his mouth hot and wet as it skates up the column of your throat. "You were bloody amazing, love," he breathes at your ear, chuckling, pleased, when you shiver. He gives your bum a light smack that turns into a protracted, possessive squeeze. "Love your arse," he mumbles to himself, then gives his head a shake, stepping away. "I'll, uh, see ya around, yeah?"

"Sure," you husk out, knowing it's all a lie. These soft words and kind glances are nothing more than routine hook-up etiquette— always try to part ways on friendly terms. You know this role by heart, have played out this scenario so many times that you can recite all the inane pleasantries in your sleep.

Only this time, you wish the words were true.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, his weight shifting between his feet, then he winks and stuns you with another one of those mega-watt smiles. Stepping to the door, he takes hold of the handle but then pauses, his eyes drifting over you one last time. He seems on the verge of saying something, but his beautiful mouth presses into a thin line, the corners turned down. He takes in a long, slow breath then heaves it out with a wistful sigh. "Take care, love."

"You, too."

You offer up a brave smile and hold up a hand in farewell, though a pang of disappointment rings hollow inside your chest as you watch him step through the door and disappear. The racket from the club pours into the room like dirty flood water, and the sudden urge to go after him has you shuffling your feet. Then, with a pneumatic hiss of the closing door, the obnoxious noise is muffled again to a dull and distant roar, and your reason returns.

How pathetic would you have looked, chasing after him like some clingy, lovesick girl. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the sink as you peer into the mirror at your reflection. You're surprised by your forlorn expression and realize you feel a little sad now that he's gone.

Once you return to your seat, you ignore the chatter of your drunk friends, instead panning your eyes over the crowd. You're hoping to spot his familiar silhouette among the anonymous bodies but can't find him, again. He must have left, his mission for the night now complete, you think with a touch of bitterness. No point in sticking around, right?

You fancy that you could pretend he was just a drunken fever dream, nothing more than a figment of your inebriated imagination, if not for the dull ache that still resides deep in your core. Oh, he was real, alright, as real as his cum in your panties and the sore throb of your bruised cunt. You know in your heart of hearts that it will take weeks, maybe even months for his memory to fade. The thought is depressing.

"Think I'm gonna call it a night, ladies," you tell the bleary-eyed trio seated around the table.

Your friends fuss and protest, trying their best to coax you into one more drink or at least another dance, but they're too drunk to really see the state of you. If they were just a little bit sober, it would be more than obvious why you're so set on leaving; you're completely fucked out, decimated, ruined. You hug each of them good night and promise to text the group chat when you arrive home.

Cold air smacks you in the face when you step out of the club. You inhale a sharp, icy breath, fog condensing in front of your eyes as you release it. You can feel the chill wind seeping through the seams of your coat, feel how it settles deep into the marrow of your bones. You suddenly feel achy and tired and near desperate for the warm safety of your own bed.

A glance up and down the sidewalk reveals the lack of waiting taxis, so you pull out your phone and order an Uber, cursing the wait. Huddling deeper inside your coat, your let your thoughts drift back to that brief but memorable encounter in the loo. For once, you regret not getting a bloke's number, and now you can't help but wonder if that's why he paused before leaving. Had he wanted you to ask him for it?

Unfortunately, you'll probably never know.

It's probably for the best, you tell yourself. A handsome bloke like him would undoubtedly complicate your life. He's the type of man that makes a sane, independent woman want to bake cakes and make babies. He is dangerous. You knew it when you first saw him, and now he's proven it to you. Already the 'what-ifs' are rattling about inside your tired brain. It's a good thing he left when he did, otherwise...

Yeah, you're definitely better off not knowing.

Your phone chimes, notifying you that your Uber has arrived, a faded red hatchback pulling up to the curb seconds later. You check the driver's ID then climb into the backseat, sinking back into the cushions as the car pulls back into the light flow of traffic. It irritates you that you still feel that little inkling of sadness. It's such a haunted, lonely feeling.

Damn, you think, staring blindly out of the window. I wish I'd asked for his name.

part 2

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #cod gaz x reader #gaz x reader #gaz smut #cod gaz smut #cod smut #cod mw2 #cod mw3

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giuseppe-yuki · 2 months ago

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👻 anais' halloween blurbos 👻

summary: it's well known that formula 1 is a cutthroat and and merciless sport. that's why, when murder and other shenanigans are legalized by the fia during race weekends to add a little drama in the paddock, all hell breaks loose. fans are going missing, reporters are being found dead, team employees start writhing in pain for no apparent reason. it seems like everyone would do most anything to win the sparkling championship trophy. luckily for a few select drivers, they have a little advantage with supernatural powers on their side.

or: supernatural!reader x driver mini oneshots (kind of purge!au (?))

warnings: mentions of death, gore, murder, hurting people, and curse words

total w.c.: 5k

picture credits from pinterest :)

I - fallen angel - yt22

II - vampire - op81

III - ghost - zg24

IV - bat!shapeshifter - pg10

V - witch - gr63

VI - hellhound!shapeshifter - cs55

a/n: a quick little project i meant to put out before halloween but i got a little sidetracked with my other fics... i'm going to pretend that it's still spooky season and totally NOT november :P

ALSO i feel obligated to say i don't condone doing anything in these blurbs irl- hurting people for any reason is NOT okay.

I - fallen angel - yt22

yuki always called you an angel. with your entrancing looks and ability to light up any room that you were in, it was hard not to compare you to an ethereal being. when you walk outside holding yuki's hand, you don't miss the stares of envious women and salicious men when the way the sun seemed to create a halo around your head, and air seemed to shimmer around you. little did he know, you were an angel. well, you used to be, until some petty arguments and pointed fingers resulted in you losing your wings and falling into the mortal world. now, you spent your life dedicated to tempt others to sin.

this worked perfectly, because while yuki focused on dominating on track and getting maximum points, you could use your full power and focus on other aspects- like making sure your boyfriend didn't get fucked over by unfair officials of the sport.

"do good out there, okay?" you say to your boyfriend, giving him a hug and a kiss on his recognizable japanese maple leaf helmet.

he smiles back at you, only visible through his flipped-up visor.

soon enough, it was lights out, and the drivers were sent on their way, throttling around the night track.

you settle in a padded chair that a starstruck engineer pulled up for you while monitoring the multiple tvs that lined the garage. most of them showed the live feeds of the drivers aggressively battling on track, using dirty racing to cut their way to the lead. you took pleasure in seeing yuki gain several positions as he overtook the battling fernando and liam. his engineers burst in rambunctious applause, but it quiets down rather quickly, notifying you that something was amiss.

you turn around to see the engineers crowded around a singular data computer. storming out of your chair, you snatch a nearby engineer's arm, roughly turning him around.

"can you tell me what just happened?" you ask with mock-sweetness, pointing your chin the whispering group of engineers that hid the computer screen from your eyes.

he gulps, knowing that you had the power to hurt him, especially with the fia's rules, and stammers out an answer, even if he knew you wouldn't like it.

"w-w-well," he stutters, "apparently, the stewards gave yuki a penalty for false start and forcing a driver off track. he'll have to- um- serve it when he comes in for a pitstop."

there's no way, you think, angrily. a false start and forcing a driver off track? what a load of bullshit. were they actually even watching the race? someone had to pay for this.

your heels clacked as you strutted through the linoleum floors of the fia building. the walls shook from the sheer forces of the cars on track barreling by, probably halfway through the race. stalking through the stale white hallways and up a flight of stairs, you finally find the room you were looking for- a dark wooden one that proudly held a silver sign that had the words 'stewards' carved into it neatly. you take a deep breath and turn on your full dazzling skills before knocking gently on the door.

an older gentleman, shirt marked with the telltale fia symbol and orange lanyard, opens the door. the perfect victim. he falters a bit when sees you, practically glowing, even in the hallway's dim lighting.

"c-c-can i help you miss?" he asks, face turning a bit red and hand instinctively reaching up to to loosen his collar. you tended to have that affect on people when you wanted to.

"yes," you drawl, purposely batting your long lashes at him. "i have a something to show you."

he shakes his head nervously, eyes glued to something that was definitely not your face. "no, no, no, i have a job to do-"

"oh, come on," you say, pouting, "it's just down the hall!"

you turn and strut down the hall, purposefully showing off your long legs, knowing that there was no doubt he would follow you out of the room. when you turn back around at the end of the hall, the steward, like you predicted, had naively followed you like a dog to a bone.

you don't even make sure that no one was close by before plunging a dagger straight into his heart. he slumps down on the ground, blood flowing out of the fatal wound. you blow him a kiss, before flouncing away back towards yuki's garage. that will teach the stewards a lesson before giving your boyfriend unfair penalties.

II - vampire - op81

when oscar met you, you seemed like a shy little thing with your timid personality and reserved smiles. he swore that you could do nothing wrong. i mean, how could you, when you were scared of such small things like sunburns or funnily enough, garlic bread? the first time he introduced you to the paddock as his girlfriend, he kept a good watch on you. if he didn't, he was so sure that they were going to eat you alive just to gain an advantage on him.

and that's also why, when he heard the news of yet another important paddock member going missing, he was so sure that it was you.

"fuck!" oscar shouts, raking a hand through his sweaty hair. "i leave to do one five minute interview and she disappears!"

ignoring the stares of the reporters and cameramen who turn in surprise to his outburst, he yanks the clip-on mic off of his fireproofs and chucks it at his interviewer's head. if he found his girlfriend dead on the floor, bleeding out, it would be this stupid interviewer's fault.

he stalks off without a word, listing potential places that his girlfriend could possibly be taken in his head.

behind him, lando skips in the shadow of oscar's steps, grinning around the rubber straw of his water bottle that was clenched between his teeth.

"you better hurry, osc!" he trills, "you know what happened to ocon's little girlfriend when she went missing- she was found-"

oscar snaps back, interrupting lando. "yes i know, she was found at the bottom of a goddamn dumpster. you don't have to remind me."

it was a fresh memory in his head. ever since the fia allowed murder, during race weekends, all hell had broke loose. vip guests dropping dead, officials found with broken necks. whoever had murdered poor ocon's girlfriend had did a great deal of damage mentally on esteban, resulting in multiple poor finishes for him during race weekends. oscar never thought it would happen to himself.

frustrated, he roughly shoves lando away from him, pointing in the direction of the red bull garage.

"why don't you go blow up max's tyre like you did in australia or something!" he shouts, clearly annoyed by lando's constant pestering.

oscar doesn't wait for a response from lando before sprinting down to the mclaren motorhome. he checks each individual door to the bathroom, kitchen, and computer rooms when he finally stumbles upon a door with a blood red liquid seeping out the bottom. a muffled thud sounds from within, and he winces automatically.

he closes his eyes, praying that you died a peaceful death, before slowly turning the silver knob of the storage closet.

to his surprise, the the grey, pale, body of otmar szafnauer thumps out into the hallway, head rolling. the side of his neck is a bloody mess, probably the source of the pool of blood now seeping into the carpet and staining the edge of his racing shoes. there, stood primly behind otmar's repulsive body, is you, without a drop of blood on your pretty pink dress. you send oscar a bashful smile, revealing your fangs covered in the cherry-red liquid.

picking up your skirts, you step over the ex-alpine team manager and carefully close the door to the rather stuffy closet you were just in. he'll probably be found by the janitor in the next 24 hours or so.

you peck a quick kiss on oscar's cheek, unknowingly getting a bit of blood on his skin.

"i got rid of otmar for you, baby," you say quietly, fiddling with your fingers. "i hope you don't mind- i heard he gave you a hard time last year."

III - ghost - zg24

you were dead. no, literally. you passed away 5 years ago- beheaded after you fell off of a high building you suppose, going off of how you could pull your head off your neck if you wanted to, and the fact that you always had phantom back pains. it worked out quite beautifully that you were dead already when the fia announced its new rule.

as opposed to the girlfriends of several other select drivers that tended to play a rather active part in gaining the best advantage for their boyfriends on track, you tended to be a little more laid back. however, one thing you could never excuse was when people talked shit about your boyfriend, zhou.

zhou grips your hand tightly in his as you both walked down through the paddock. you loved how his fashionable clothes glittered brightly under the lit lamp posts that lined the walkway. the sun had set, which meant the night race was starting soon. the crowds of fans in the paddock had somehow gotten thicker, and the hired security that zhou had gotten struggled just the tiniest bit holding the horde back.

like you always do when you get nervous, you flicker in-between your solid and ghost form. your boyfriend clocks this right away, especially since that this meant his hand, which was holding firmly holding yours, passed right through you. he stops, looking at you concerningly.

"hey, you alright?" he asks, brows furrowed. "i can-" before he can finish his sentence, an apple flies out of the crowd of fans and bounces off his shoulder, landing at the place where your translucent foot is supposed to be.

the fan that threw it begins to shout obscene remarks directed at both you and zhou, before being dragged away by security.

an anger flares through you. who did she think she was? throwing an apple at your boyfriend's head? that had to count as a murder attempt.

you flicker more rapidly between your states, to which zhou takes your hand.

"hey, it's fine," your boyfriend says, squeezing your hand comfortingly. "forget it- my security will deal with them. let's go to the garage, okay?"

you nod slowly, letting your boyfriend lead the way, but oh, you don't forget.

you wait, in your ghost form, in the metal supports of the grandstand. drifting aimlessly, you pop up here and there to scare the crap out of some random fan, when you finally spot your target. the fan from earlier tirelessly climbs the lengthy walk to the grandstands. she's decked out in alpine merch, which makes you scoff. why criticize zhou's team when the very team she was rooting for wasn't doing so well either?

you watch as she settles herself at the very top seat of the grandstand, waving her little alpine flag. what a pity. if only she wasn't so rude. when the cars roar around the corner and she stands up to cheer, it isn't hard for you to reach out your hands and push. a look of recognition registers in her face before she falls backwards off of the high-up stands. she screams, but who hears her over the loud engines as they make their way around the turn? except you, of course. she lands on the ground with a sick splat, likely breaking her back and neck the way you did when you died. you float for a moment over the carnage before floating away to your rightful spot in zhou's garage. serves her right, you suppose.

IV - bat!shapeshifter - pg10

the second pierre found out about your special "ability," he didn't hesitate to take advantage of it. sending you to spy on the other team's cars? check. going to pester the invasive reporters who only cared about spreading yet another rumor? check. monitoring around him to make sure there wasn't any people trying to attack him in the paddock? check.

you didn't mind of course- anything to help your boyfriend one step closer to his end goal. you hated seeing him coming home, again and again, dejected over the progress he's made, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he raced.

today, a night race, gave you an opportunity to give your boyfriend another chance at points. with the sky being pitch black, it made it easier to navigate around without being seen.

in the garage, under the harsh incandescent lights, engineers and alpine employees mill around, checking data and making any final adjustments to the car. before long, pierre gets the green lights to drive up to the starting spots on the track. just prior to pulling on his helmet and climbing into his shitbox of a car, he pulls you close.

"remember what we talked about, okay?" he whispers into your ear, playing it off as a tight hug.

you nod, pressing a kiss to his freshly-shaven jaw.

"of course, baby," you respond earnestly.

when the car rumbles awake and your boyfriend steers the car towards the starting grid postions, you take off running as well. taking a flying leap behind the car, you shift into your bat form and fly up, up, up, into the rapidly darkening sky.

you sit patiently on a tree branch near the track, watching carefully with your sensitive night vision. like you planned, when you spot the telltale black carbon-fiber and vibrant red bull car pull in towards the pitlanes, you dive bomb down back towards the garages. it takes a second, maybe even quicker, to find the engineers poised with the fresh tyres ready for max verstappen's pretty little rb20. you don't hesitate to sink your pointy teeth into their unprotected necks, one by one. the venom in your saliva works quick, and by the time max pulls into his pitstop spot, his pit crew all lay on the ground, incapacitated.

huh, that worked suprisingly well, you think, soaring away from the crime scene. maybe you should try that again in the next prix.

V - witch - gr63

with the fia implementing the barbarous rules at every prix at every calendar, you would think people would be more scared to come. however, it seemed like the audience doubled, if not tripled ever since the rule was announced. something about 'the thrill of it,' lewis had said when you asked him. so, like the crowds of fans lingering in the fanzones, the vips and sponsors visiting the paddock club increased significantly, eager to get a look at the track action and drama between drivers like it was some drama movie.

so, the only thing that made sense to do was to profit off of it, of course. with your magic and brewing pot at hand, you could do most anything to the pompous rich pricks who wanted nothing more than an in to the thrilling secrets of the bloodthirsty sport of formula 1.

"what are you wearing tonight, darling?" the vip asks, flaunting her massive diamond ring in your peripheral vision, obviously fishing for complements. it shined tauntingly in the colored overhead lights at the exclusive paddock club event. jazzy music and the clinking of glasses drown out the pretentious conversations of yet another pair of billionaires talking about their newest private jet acquisition or supercar purchase.

you fake a half-hearted smile at her, smoothing down your own outfit.

"i'm not really sure. i just pulled it out of my closet, i suppose."

failing to get a proper response from you, she smooths down her own glittering dress haughtily and brushes her carefully styled hair behind her ears.

"well, i'm wearing all ysl. the heels themselves cost at least 1.3k!" she exclaims, pointing to the rather painful-looking heels holding up her feet.

just then, your boyfriend appears next to you, lips wide in a smile.

"hello, darling," he says, handing you a drink from the bar. it's a small glass of margarita, coincidentally matching the one in the pompous vip's hand.

"it's not poisoned, i promise," he says to you, making you roll your eyes. the vip, hearing this, laughs.

"so exciting, isn't it? with all the fia's rules, i can't wait to finally see some more drama on track tomorrow," she says giddily, as if george wasn't in grave danger every day, on track and in the paddock because of people like her. dropping her voice down to a scandalous whisper, she continues, "i heard, some fan fell- or was pushed off the grandstands last night!" she giggles, waving her hand. "honestly though, i would probably jump too, if i had to sit in those grimy seats."

you and george both exchange looks of disgust, but she doesn't catch it as a well-dressed gentleman walks up with a grin, giving her a polite hug.

"ah! ricca, how nice to see you again! i haven't seen you since- what, our little outing to bali a month ago? wanted a little bit of racing action now huh?" he asks, swishing his whiskey on the rocks. he turns after finishing his sentence, as if just realizing you and your boyfriend's presence. his gives the both of you a demeaning look, as if you were the ones butting into the conversation instead of him. however, after a beat, his eyes grow wide, and it is obvious when it clicks in his brain where he has seen george.

"oh my!" he proclaims, clutching his chest. "you're that- that racing driver! what's your name again? lando norrin? ferdinand alonso?"

that really said a lot about the reason these socialites were here. who the fuck was ferdinand?

your boyfriend, like the kind-hearted person he was, pastes on a smile and gently corrects the man.

"er- no, sir. i'm george russell- driver for mercedes."

"as i thought," he states with no shame. he then loudly clinks his drink with the young lady, ricca's, glass, and they both down their respective liquids.

you literally could not take it anymore.

"let me take those onto the bar for you," you offer helpfully to the affluent pair. "another whiskey and margarita?"

they have the decency to thank you tipsily before shoving the empty glasses in your hand. you turn back to george, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"i'll be right back," you whisper.

squeezing through the crush of the crowd, you station yourself in an mostly empty table in the corner of the room placed next to a floor-to-ceiling window. the empty glasses in your hand clink when you set it on the table, the last dregs of the drinks swirling at the bottom of the glasses. a quick wave of your hand summons fresh ice cubes in each glass, and a practiced flick of your middle finger and thumb sends a stream of margarita and whiskey out of thin air into its respective glasses. from your pocket, you retrieve a vial of silver liquid that you brewed just about every grand prix. with a hint of nightshade, wings of a spanish fly, and ground up pearls, it made the drinker do whatever you wanted, really. after carefully pouring half into each drink, you throw the empty vial into the air, where it is promptly teleported to your vial cabinet back in george's driver room.

perfect.

before heading back, you take one last look through the glass that presented the night sky and darkened track below. the track still had streaks of black from the burnt rubber from the race only a few hours ago.

it was a wonderful sport really. it was a shame that implemented these barbaric rules that forced your hand. but if that's what you had to do for george, then you would do it.

it didn't take very long for the potion to take effect. you could tell from their slurred speech and slow movements that one could pass off as being drunk.

deciding to waste no time, you pull out your quill pen and paper out of a hidden pocket in your dress. it levitates in the air, visible to only you.

with a nod to george, you both go through the usual spiel- bank account numbers? passwords? credit card numbers?

the vips list off the information as if it is public knowledge, unknowingly allowing your quill to copy the numbers and sensitive information into your notebook.

when you are satisfied, you slip the notebook back into your pocket.

"alright, i think we're done here, georgie," you say to your boyfriend, ignoring the two figures that sway, silent, next to the two of you.

george pouts.

"aww, i was really having fun with that!" he whines.

"well," you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. "do you want to stay at this god-forsaken place where you might be stabbed by "ferdinand" alonso for no reason or do you want to go home to our comfy flat?"

he shrugs.

"i guess you have a point," he says unhappily.

taking his hand, you lead him out of the still-packed event, but not before slipping another vial of blood-red liquid into their drinks- mind-wiping serum that worked perfectly every single time, except the fact that it also had a tiny side effect of excruciating pain that lasted a few hours.

eh, they deserved it for not even knowing your boyfriend's name.

tomorrow- if they even survived- they would wake up to see their bank accounts drained. you suppose you should send them a thank-you letter next time for single-handedly sponsoring the next merc upgrades, even if they didn't know it.

VI - hellhound!shapeshifter - cs55

at this point in time, you didn't care anymore. you dared one person- a fan, an official, or opposing team member to try again to break into carlos' driver room. they never seemed to learn their lesson of how loyal and protective you were of your boyfriend. one bite with your teeth are sure to dismember an arm and one swipe of your paw could brake even the most sturdy tire drills, as demonstrated with the last haas mechanic that tried in vain to murder carlos.

it might not seem like it, the way you were curled in carlos' arms on his couch. you practically had your face buried in his red branded hoodie, half-asleep, while he scrolled mindlessly on his phone. it's so soft and comfy, you can't help let out a soft snore as you drift off.

carlos laughs, chest rumbling, patting your head with his free hand. "i thought you were supposed to be on guard, protecting me, mi amor!"

opening your eyes a tiny bit, you pull yourself even closer to carlos, reveling in the warmth of his body.

"i am on alert," you defend, but it doesn't help your case the way your voice comes out muffled from being pressed against his hoodie. "i am always list-"

footsteps.

you hear a pair of scuffled footsteps from the hallway outside of carlos' door, thanks to your exceptional hearing. it slowly drags closer and closer to the only door out of the room, a slow patter of sneaker on pavement that is only audible to you.

without wasting a second, you leap up off the couch and shift into your hellhound form, baring your sharp teeth towards the door, poised, ready to attack whatever poor soul that had decided had your boyfriend was an easy target.

behind you, carlos slides off the couch slowly, recognizing something was wrong.

a knock sounds on the door, making him flinch and eliciting a warning growl from you. however, when both you and carlos don't move an inch toward the entryway, the door slowly slides open.

you muster up all the power you have to leap straight at the attacker, making sure to aim for the neck. but before you can pounce and go for the kill, carlos roughly yanks you back by the scruff of your neck.

"woahwoahwoah," he says to you, pushing your foaming mouth away from the cowering man in the doorway. "it's fine- it's okay!"

you snap at the man once, making sure to purposely show off your canines, but back off a little into the room. if carlos said the man was safe, you wouldn't go against his words.

carlos scratches his head, briefly apologizing to what you realize was his head race engineer, riccardo adami, explaining the precautions he had to take in light of the fia's new rules.

riccardo laughs nervously, but proceeds to let carlos know that he is wanted in the media pen.

carlos holds your hand in his when you stroll down the lighted walkways of the paddock. you flounce your way past the plush couches next to the walkway and the little cafe/bar that served absolutely bomb coffee and cocktails. honestly, you missed the times before the fia's stupid fucking rule where you could drink cocktails with alex's girlfriend or gossip with yuki's girlfriend without fearing that they would poison your drinks or strangle you behind the mclaren hospitality just to help their boyfriends. you guess you still could if you really wanted to, though. maybe you'll do the poisoning and strangling if really needed.

lost in thought, you miss the fake smile the interviewer gives you before dragging your boyfriend off into the media pen.

throwing yourself onto the said couches from before, you convince yourself that he'd probably be fine, but you make sure to keep an eye out and train yourself to listen to any concerning sounds within all the chatter and crowds.

to your surprise, the interview ends quite early, and you have hardly taken a sip of your iced coffee (even though it was, like, 8pm a the track) before carlos storms out of the media pen.

"you okay?" you ask your boyfriend concerningly as you take another swig of the still-full iced coffee in your hand.

carlos huffs angrily, running a hand through his hair, before grasping your free hand to lead you back to his driver's room.

"it's fine, let's just go," he says dismissively, straight-up dragging you behind him.

you pull him to stop with your strength, and glare at him with your arms crossed.

"no! carlos sainz, you tell me what happened in there," you demand.

he rolls his eyes. "well, that stupid interviewer just kept on asking me questions about my thoughts on the missing otmar, dead steward, the fan "falling" from the stands, and all that bullshit that i said didn't want to talk about. i told her i wanted to talk about the race, but then she just responded with a question about my reaction to max's pit crew being injected with some type of venom. i was so done at that point, i just walked out."

you frown. that woman sure sounded like a bitch. honing in your hearing to find the woman through the noise in the media pen, you hear what you assume to be the interviewer mention carlos' name.

"...no, and like i felt like he was so hard to work with," she laughs.

perhaps she was talking to a friend in the media pen?

"...yeah, and he wouldn't answer any of my questions- like what am i going to put in my article? nothing?" she says incredulously. "honestly," she continues, "i hope he dies next on the grid, so it'll make it easier for the next poor reporter who has do an article on him, because then, she won't have to go through the misery of interviewing him!"

a symphony of giggles from a group follow her sentence, a few muttering their agreement.

you turn back to carlos, purposely blocking off the noise of the media pen in your ear, and give him a genuine smile. pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek, you comfort him, "i'm sorry that happened to you, baby. i'm sure it won't happen again- ever."

true to your word, you wait until carlos is proccupied with arguing with charles in the hospitality about one of the controversial on-track battles that took place earlier in the day when you make your move.

the sky is dark, throughly littered with sparkling diamonds, when you pad through the mostly-empty paddock towards the media pen. several fans and officials, seeing your demonic form, scamper out of the way in an effort to avoid your wrath.

you spot your target with your sharp eyesight immediately, walking wobbly in her high heels with a clipboard in one hand. several of her reporter friends huddle next to her, their laughs echoing through the darkened paddock.

time to enact your plan.

stopping a meter behind them, you use your sharp claws to draw a circle on the ground. with three taps of your paw and a breath of fire into the middle, the pavement slides away to reveal a portal into a fiery pit. you're not too sure where it leads, but you don't really plan on finding out either.

silently scampering over to the group, you clamp your jaws down the legs of one of the people that you heard agreeing with the interviewer. you ignore the group's screams before roughly dragging the woman towards the pit. she falls, and it's not long before her yells are covered up in the rumble of the flames.

even when the group scatters in different ways, it doesn't take long with your supernatural speed to catch up to them and drag each person into the pit. you purposely save the main interviewer for last.

when she lies at the edge of the pit, arm bleeding profusely from the wounds from your teeth, you shift back into your human form.

"don't fucking talk shit about my boyfriend ever again," you snarl.

with a shove from your arm, she falls backwards into the deep fire pit with the rest of her "friends."

if carlos was hard to work with, you bet whatever demons down there were so much more harder to work with. oh well, that was her problem.

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