#soft rock stations are lying to you!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bangtan-in-black · 10 months ago

Text

VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION

Chapter 1: the beginning.

‘Many many years ago’

That's how most stories start, right? Stories that entail a damsel in distress unable to do as much as defend herself, or would be so ditsy as to leave her magical shoe behind.

Yes ‘many many years ago’ is used to tell stories, these olden folk tales. Stories that are told to make village daughters work for their happily ever after. A happily ever after in which all likelihood would never come to them. Would never arrive on the common girls doorsteps like they so desperately desired.

These are all they are, tales and stories promising a better future that would never come.

~~~~~~~~

Another day rises over the mor. The soft light awakens the village's inhabitants.

A tired sigh leaves your lips as you are one of the first to rise on this new day.

A dull ache remains at the bottom of your back from the injury acquired days ago, where you had slipped over a glistening wet rock on the way back uphill from the town market, on your way back to your workhouse.

The red lion workhouse.

Far from the life you'd heard and even imagined as a child hearing the stories of lower class peasants like you, as you were often called by nobles passing through the shacks and muddy barren fields. The peasants in the stories were able to leave their station with their gentry and noble husbands. A glint in their eyes as they walked towards their new life with their husbands. A ring on their finger and a life in the lap of luxury secured.

Time.

Time had been the one to slap that dream out of your head. The cruelest reality of all, indeed. The one where you realized that no prince on a white stallion would come riding up the mountains for you.

Any hope of that happening died that day, 15 years ago.

The moment the king's soldiers, the knights came to town.

They had stormed into your small village where your family lived. They came marching towards your shack, dragged your parents out of bed and mutilated them where they stood while they made you, their child watch on in horror as they were tortured and finally being thrown into the blazing flame that ate away at your home where you'd all lived.

Your tiny body held back despite the struggle against the stoney like hold of the royal pests holding onto you.

You screamed out for your parents to come back to you from the fire.

You were found in front of your burnt down home after the knights had ridden off into the dark distance.

Madam Rouge, the village wealthiest resident, was the one to find you after the tragic events of that night. Scandalous red lipstick painting her lips, the torch in her hands highlighted the gleam in her eager eyes, eyes eager to help.

She dragged you back to the red lion that night.

Her kindness was what kept you alive, but you were too young, too young and naive to realize her kindness came with a price.

Yes, that was something you soon learned. Everything came with a price.

Madam Rouge's greatest pleasure in life was dolling her girls up as if the young peasants were royalty.

You were a particular victim of this. Often being pulled away from the other girls working.

Madam rouge may have been many things, but cruel to the ones she took in was not one of them.

She was firm but fair.

She gave you and many other girls homes through the years. Food and water being given to you when you could've been lying dead in the streets.

The girls, of course, had to work for what they had. And you worked the hardest, so happy to be alive. To be given a chance to have a family again.

But of course with every good thing comes a bad, many of the girls found it unfair. These girls were Madam Rouge's least favorite girls.

Spoiled, entitled and quite frankly, dull.

Of course a woman of her refined elegance would not take kindly to such behaviors.

The morning sun poking through the windows with the worn wooden frames. This was truly a sight accustomed to you by now, a surefire way to know it was time for the workday to start.

Getting up before the rest of the girls had become pure routine by this point. It was something you'd always prided yourself on ever since you first came to the red lion workhouse, your work ethic outshined any others in the shared house of labour.

There was something about the way madam red looked at you when you did the job better than everyone else.

Pride. A pride strongly glistening in her dark brown eyes.

If such a thing was possible you'd even describe her gaze as shining. A genuine pride that she held for you made you feel worthwhile, it almost felt motherly.

Almost.

You knew she could never ever be your mother, and she didn't try to be but that didn't stop you from reaching for her highest praises. They were the closest thing you'd experienced to parental pride for 13 years.

The closest you'd have for the rest of your life.

Getting ready for another tiresome workday was as tantalisingly mundane, as usual. Throwing your H/L H/C hair up into a scruffy loose ponytail. The birds continued singing, the cows kept mooing.

Walking down the olden wooden steps that were practically breaking apart. First thing on the agenda today was to help feed the rest of the girls in the mess hall.

It seemed as if fate had other plans as you were distracted from your path to the kitchens by the mistress of the red lion herself. Lady Rouge, much preferring her former title of madam, but was still three times the lady compared to most snobby nobles.

“Y/N i thought that was you? Come sit with us for a moment dear, you deserve the break. A proper lady like you should never have calluses.”

That was something that had always confused you greatly. You were going to get calluses working in a workhouse, but Madam Rouge seemed to believe that you were the only one above working hard enough for calluses. You were also the only one she ever called a lady, you'd never thought to question why. It must be because you were the youngest girl she'd ever brought into the red lion. She still sees you as the baby she had taken in.

She sat there with her posture perfectly poised, sipping a sweet smelling tea from a delicately painted teacup. She was adorning her usual attire with her hat placed splendidly on the solid oak coffee table.

Sitting opposite her was a face you had not seen for almost a year and a half. A woman wearing a navy blue hanbok. Her outfit was sophisticated for the village, but you doubted that nobles from the capital would ever even set their eyes on the scruffy silk patterns embedded on the course material. The brunette smiled, her hands caressing her large stomach.

“Oh my! Congratulations” you smiled brightly, truly elated at the sight of one of the older girls from the house doing so well. Sylvia smiles, her eyes creasing in the corners as she takes a sip of an equally sweet smelling tea.

“Oh well it's a lot of work but it's worth it to raise a future knight.” Sylvia says excitedly but her excitement makes you pause.

“A knight?” you couldn't help but ask incredulously.

Sylvia's eyelashes fluttered as her gaze fell to you and her smile dissipated.

“Yes, a knight, my little boy is already so strong.” she said with a certain look in her eye and the way she spoke had an edge, a colder, more stern edge than before.

“Boy?” you asked again, a little confused as to how she was so sure of her baby's sex.

Sylvia's eye twitches as she forces an almost unbearably noticeable smile on her pale pink lips. “Yes, a boy. I would never dishonour my husband, the man who gives me such a good life by giving him a girl.” her eyes look down at you as if you had killed her unborn child. Her eyes were filled with something akin to pure hatred.

Madam Rouge smiles as if not noticing the newly tense atmosphere in the workhouse common room. “I knew you'd bring honour to the red household” Lady Rouge smiled brightly as if all the village's problems had just been solved.

You’d stopped paying attention by this point, too entranced by something that Sylvia had said earlier.

Many thoughts swirled around your head at once. But the one most prominent was the one screaming at you to take this woman's baby from her as she clearly had no regard for anyone other than herself and ‘honour’.

Of course you knew you couldn't really take her baby away, but it hurt your heart to know of the future that this child will be forced into. Never feeling enough unless he becomes a knight and brings his mother honour.

“You'd really wish for your son to become a knight? Even after the royal platoon burned our homes to the ground?” You were unable to keep your tongue to yourself it seems as the words that spill out of you cause a huge sense of panic at the realisation that you’d voiced your thoughts. The question was asked sharply, something whic clearly bothered the mother to be.

“Y/N, they burned your home to the ground, not mine. My son will do as I say and you will keep yourself out of my business because you are pathetic. You hold onto hatred of the people who govern us. They give us everything an youre still not grateful? . Spoiled brat, even after your parents died you had everything handed to you. Didn't have to do anything but be as pathetic as you are to become madams favourite." There was a sick enjoyment in her eyes as she spluttered off her filth.

A deep ashamed feeling creeps into your stomach as you mutter a quiet apology.

“That's right, respect your betters. I worked for everything I have. You're just a sad little girl whose parents died and so madam pitties you because of your losses. If I want my son to bring honour to his family, he will do as I say.” Sylvia felt a sick sense of pride seeing the tears gather in your waterline.

Madam rouges face, once painted with a pleased smile, turns to solid stone as she watches the exchange between her favourite and a former girl of hers.

“My son will even bring honour to you, everyone in this rat infested squalor in fact.” Sylvia sneers.

You thought that out of everyone that Sylvias would be the most likely to understand her stance and the horrid resentment that you held towards the royal knights. Sylvia's story was perhaps more harrowing than your own so you simply couldn't understand why she was jumping so gallantly to the knights defence.

“That's enough Y/N, go and get some eggs from the chickens and some milk.” Madam Rouge raises her voice bitterly, even as she spoke to you, her fiery gaze was trapped on Sylvia. “And Sylvia,”

The brunette perks up, foolishly expecting to be praised.

“I’d not speak of honour while you force your own desired future on your unborn baby, a future in which he's with people who slaughtered your whole family.” Both you and sylvia became silent at madam Rouges outburst. Her breathing now gone ragged.

“This is not how I raised either of you. Start behaving like the proper ladies I've raised. Sylvia id like to have a word with you before you go. Y/N you'll need not stay here or help to cook this morning, go and gather ingredients from outside." Madam Rouge huffs.

“Yes madam.” Y/N curtsies apologetically, before rushing to go to the chicken coop and cow pen.

The room suddenly becomes eerily silent. Madam rouge looks at Sylvia with her sharp cold eyes. Sylvia shivers as madam Rouges cold demeanour becomes altogether something much darker.

“She was always your favourite” Sylvia starts, wildly off put by Madam Rouge's new frightening demeanour, Sylvia couldn't describe it. But she felt unsafe in the presence of the sole woman who raised her, a feeling that she didn't like.

Madam Rouge goes to speak but she never gets the opportunity as she is barraged with Sylvia's sudden emotion.

“Don't deny it.” there's a long period of silence,

“If I've ever treated that girl differently it's because she's deserved it.” Rouge defends.

Sylvia's resolve cracks and she utters a quiet and croaky “why? What makes her different from me or any of the other girls that've been here over the years?” Sylvia indeed felt threatened.

Madam Rouge stands firm. “Have a safe trip home little one.” she says, already turned around, prepared to walk away.

“It's always been the same! Why her! I worked hard too! I lost my family too!”

Madam rouge stops. A manic smile paints her blood red lips as she turns around, launching her sharp cruel words like a bullet.

“She's simply more beautiful than you my darling. Always has been and always will be. Do you even know what a pretty penny she'd fetch in the world of nobles looking for sluts to add to their expensive collections? You'd never be worth a sixteenth of her price.”

Sylvia stares with an unplaced hurt.

“But my dowry-” she begins to argue

“Your dowry was nothing but a cruel joke. Alas I knew it was the best offer you were going to get. You are not the prettiest girl like you believe yourself to be.” Madam Rouge retorts, un bothered as she picks at her pristine nails.

Sylvia could only nod as she fought back tears. She took a deep breath and then left quickly out of the red lion workhouse and into her chief husband's carriage that awaited her. Ready and eager to take her back down the steep hill on which the red lion was situated.

Madam Rouges expression returns to peace.

91 notes · View notes

ohnomytummy · 1 year ago

Note

Urgh... I have the stomach flu. I caught it at a 3 day festival I went to.

The first day was fine, I set up our tent and spent the whole 24 hours listening to the artists and having fun. I do remember noting that the nurses station was quite full.

After I went to bed on the second day, I woke up feel queasy. But I shook it off and went back on the dance floor.

A couple of hours later, some dude leaned over and puked right in front of me. This made me loose the fragile grip on my stomach that I already had, along with a number of others. I think all up, there were about 15 people uncontrollably vomiting.

I went back to the tent where I just got worse. I tried to sleep but I just kept getting sick from both ends.

They ended up finishing the festival 12 hours earlier then was planned because literally everyone, even the artists, had caught it.

Now I'm at home, still being sick from both ends. Yet somehow, even with the pure liquid that is coming out of me at both ends, my stomach is somehow rock hard??

So I'm curious. What would you do if you were with me? Would you catch it too? If not, what would you do to my poor tummy?

(Quick note: I'm into tummy torture and humiliation as well :)) )

😳🥴 I’m sorry…this sounds like a fantasy I didn’t know I had???? Wowowowow…how do you hold in such a kinky situation when everyone else is so…*gulp*sick….

Anyways….fuck…okay…

I have never gotten a stomach bug in my life. Not a bad one anyway. So I’m gonna pretend, if I WERE to be there with you (moans), it’d be as an innocent bystander. Maybe I don’t go with you, but I see you from across the tent and think you’re cute. I’m already turned on from watching people get sick all around us. Poor babes. Such poor tummy’s. So weak…not strong like mine ;)

The music is loud, and despite the chaos, I’ve been watching you wrestle with your tummy for the last hour. I’ve been paying attention to your stomach slowly bloating, the heave of your chest as you hiccup and burp, the way your hands brush innocently against your gut. I can tell you’re either clueless about your belly ache, or lying to yourself.

When the stranger hurls his insides in front of you, I remind myself to thank him if I see him because I know you’ll soon have your first trip down the hurl train to. And of course, I’m right. I watch you puke all over your shoes, barely missing the guy who puked on you. Using the moment as my opportunity, I approach you quickly and encircle my arms around your waist.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. Let’s get you back to your tent,” I whisper in your ear. I rub your sides as we walk, you wipe your mouth every so often, but otherwise your arms are wrapped tightly around your belly. I feel your belly gurgle and the hiccups build. You softly moan, the short trip making you feel worse.

When we get to your tent, I gently strip you. “We’ll keep your clothes for when you’re well. You’ll mess them in this state, and then what will you wear?” Each movement you make causes a cramp and painful gas, making you pause, but you do as I say. Despite not knowing each other long, you’re already begging for me to rub your sore tummy, to pop the sick bubbles and let up the gas trapped inside you. Your shyness is nowhere in sight. You’re blinded by your horrible infected belly.

“Where are your trash bags?” You point with a soft moan. In the quiet of the tent, we can both hear your belly’s sick groans and gurgles. I grab a bag and hold you in my lap, opening the bag in front of you.

Without warning, I press into your rock hard belly. You gag and a flow of sick comes up and into the trash bag. “I knew you needed to release. Your tummy can’t even handle a little stomach bug. Look,” I put my hand over your lower tummy. “You’re already filling back up.”

Over the course of the night, you go back and forth from my lap puking, to crouching over a hole, clutching your stomach and moaning or praying to god to make it stop while I tease you and press hard into your tummy, making matters (and the mess) worse.

Must’ve been one hell of a festival…shit

#anon #seriously…wow #I’m so turned on by that image #tummy fantasy #(I’m totally picking these at random lol)#answers are answers

39 notes · View notes

foggyfanfic · 1 year ago

Text

Echoes on a Toy Guitar

Oneshot Summary: Coco AU. Imelda's parents die in a house fire and it just so happens the only photo she has of them is from her and Hector's wedding. On the Day of the Dead she puts the photo of her, her parents, and Hector on the ofrenda without a second thought. That night, the toy guitar Hector sent for Coco starts playing Coco's lullaby.

TW: Death, implied sex

It started on the Day of the Dead. Imelda’s parents had died in a house fire barely a month before the holiday and the only picture she had of them was from her and Hector’s wedding. She put it up without much thought to her husband standing beside her in the middle of the photo, the only one smiling in what was supposed to be a serious portrait of their wedding party.

“How can I do anything but smile?” he had asked, when her father had complained, “I just married the most wonderful woman in the world.”

Imelda had blushed, and tried to fight down her own love sick smile, but when he’d turned those soft brown eyes her way, she had melted.

So she put the wedding photo on the ofrenda and placed down a few offerings, including the gifts Hector had sent for them three and a half weeks ago. Well, gifts was perhaps not the right word, her parents had asked her to ask him to send them some parts to fix their record player, and he had complied, albeit a few days too late. She didn’t know what she expected them to do with those parts in the after life, but hey, they’d asked for them.

As Imelda placed the wedding photo on the ofrenda, her only worry was that Hector might not have received her letter alerting him that her parents were dead. In the letter sent with the gramophone parts, Hector had mentioned that he was trying to talk Ernesto out of yet another detour that would only serve to lengthen their tour. Based on the return address on the money she’d received two days later, Ernesto had once again gotten his way.

A toy guitar had arrived for Coco the day after, with a note promising he would teach her how to play it as soon as he got home.

She was glad the tour was going well, really she was. They had bills to pay after all, and it was nice to have some savings. However, Imelda missed her husband, and she couldn’t help wishing that he would just come home already. She had started looking at alternate ways for her to make money, perhaps working was a bit below her station, but if it meant their little family could be together more…? Imelda would do it with a smile on her face.

But then on Day of the Dead, less than a month since she’d last heard from her husband, the little toy guitar in Coco’s room started to play music.

It was when the child friendly festivities were over and Imelda was putting Coco down for bed. Her teeth were brushed, her face was washed, and all that was left for her to do was sing the lullaby her father had written at 8:15 sharp. Coco started singing, and the small guitar sitting on the rocking chair in the corner accompanied her.

Coco laughed and clapped, “Papa sent me a magic guitar!”

Imelda stared at the guitar, slowly nodding, “You know your papa, he wants you to have the very best.”

She tucked her daughter in, kissed her good night, then lifted the toy guitar so she could inspect it for gears. Imelda didn’t find anything, but she decided that they must be there regardless, hidden somehow. It was simply a fancy looking music box, she told herself, that went off by itself after three weeks of lying silent. It meant nothing.

No, that wasn’t true, it meant Hector had tracked down a toy maker and custom ordered a music box for their little girl. That ridiculous man. Didn’t he know Coco would have been happy with a perfectly normal toy guitar? Imelda shook her head, smiling fondly.

When she was done toasting their parent’s memory with her brothers, Imelda changed into her nightgown and laid down to sleep. She thought again of Coco’s “magic” guitar and her heart ached for her husband. It ached so hard that as she fell asleep she could almost swear that she felt a hand stroking her hair, just as Hector sometimes did.

The guitar played Coco’s lullaby the next day, and the day after. Coco was delighted, Imelda was mildly curious about how it worked.

No more letters arrived from Hector. The last gift she got from him was a necklace with Coco’s and his name inscribed on the heart shaped pendant. She wore it every day.

The money he had sent lasted them six months, long enough that Imelda was able to learn how to make shoes and had started doing so before Hector’s money ran out. Her brothers moved in to help her run her new business, they didn’t ask where Hector was, but they eventually did ask about the self playing guitar.

“It’s a music box,” Imelda brushed off the question, “Hector wrote that song for Coco, he must have gotten it custom ordered. Like my necklace.”

Oscar and Felipe had shared a look, a worried frown taking over both their faces. Imelda pretended not to see it, she just focused on the shoe she was making.

The guitar accompanied Coco every night, even when she sang the song a little bit late or early. Most nights, Imelda fell asleep to an invisible hand stroking her hair. She tried not to think about it, she focused on shoes and raising Coco, and tried not to wonder where her husband was.

A year after Hector’s last gift arrived, the radio in her workshop began playing Hector’s songs. Sung by Ernesto.

The first time one of his songs came on the radio, everything in the workshop froze. It was the song Hector had written for their first anniversary, a song that he had never allowed Ernesto to sing.

“It’s not for them Ernesto, it’s not for money,” Hector had said, shaking his head, “It’s for the love of my life, and the many years we will spend together.”

“But Hector-.”

“No,” Hector had stood firm, he always stood firm when it came to songs he’d written for his family, “I’m sorry mi amigo, but this one belongs to Imelda.”

Imelda stared at the radio, Oscar and Felipe did the same. She put down the shoe, and stood to turn it off or perhaps change the channel, but before she had taken a single step towards it, the radio turned off by itself. They could all clearly see the off switch toggle off without anyone touching it. In the ensuing silence you could hear a pin drop, so there was nothing to cover the sound of feet stomping out of the shop and up the stairs.

A door slammed somewhere else in the house.

“Imelda,” Felipe said.

“I know,” she whispered.

She sat back down, eyes still glued to the radio, and her heart pounding in her ears.

“Oscar, Felipe, I… I need you to run an errand for me,” Imelda eventually said, “the last of the money came from Mexico City, I need you two to go, take Hector’s picture and-. I-if the police there don’t recognize him, he was in Santiago de Queretaro before that.”

“Si Imelda,” they said as one.

“We’ll go pack,” Oscar said.

“We’ll leave on the first train tomorrow morning,” Felipe added.

“Bien,” she heard herself say, slowly nodding.

They left her alone and she sat there holding a half finished shoe for who knows how long before she eventually got back to work. Nothing was confirmed. It could have been… a power surge, perhaps the radio was broken. And the stomping was the pipes banging around. And the hand that stroked her hair every night was her imagination. And the guitar was a music box.

Hector… Hector was probably fine.

Except he wasn’t. A week later she met Oscar and Felipe at the station, they looked at her with mournful eyes and handed her a copy of her husband’s death certificate. The cause of death was listed as curare poisoning. Three days after the toy guitar arrived, Hector was found dead in the street with his suitcase and wallet, but no guitar.

“He… he had a train ticket home,” Oscar said, voice choked up.

Felipe nodded, “He would have been back in time for Coco’s birthday.”

Imelda stared at the sheet of paper and wondered how in the world she was going to explain to Coco that her father was dead.

“They’re going to send us his personal effects.”

“And somebody to… arrange for the b-body to be moved here. If that’s what we want-?”

“It is.”

“Imelda…”

“We are so sorry.”

She nodded, still staring at the death certificate, “Curare poisoning.”

Her brothers didn’t respond, when she looked up at them they were avoiding her gaze.

“How does somebody… is it a kind of food poisoning?”

“It… no. It’s not something that…”

“They said it doesn’t happen… naturally.”

Something cold settled in her gut. Her husband was poisoned, and left for dead with his wallet but not his guitar.

And now Ernesto was singing her song on the radio.

“Let’s go home,” Imelda said, she could feel steel crawling up her spine, coating her bones. Her mind whirled with thoughts of violence and grief. She went straight to her workshop and made shoes until it was time to pick Coco up from school. Dinner was thrown together, then eaten, and before she knew it, it was 8:15.

“Coco, mi corazon,” Imelda put a hand on her daughter’s wrist to forestall the inevitable song, “we… need to talk. I need to tell you something, about your father.”

Coco’s face fell. She had stopped asking when her Papá would be home four months after the guitar started playing her song. Imelda hadn’t dared to ask where Coco thought Hector was, Imelda hadn’t dared asking herself where Hector was.

“Where’s Papá?” Coco asked, for what would be the last time.

Imelda swallowed past the lump in her throat, but there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from forming in her eyes, “He… He is not coming home, mija. Your father loved us very much, and he wanted to be here with us, but he… he is with abuelo and abuela now.”

“Are we going to have a funeral for him too?” Coco asked, beginning to sniffle.

“Sí,” Imelda nodded, she would have said more but Coco began sobbing, all Imelda could do was hold her.

Hesitantly at first, then somewhat desperately, the little toy guitar began playing Coco’s lullaby. It didn’t stop there this time, it played every soft song Hector had ever known, one right after another. Coco cried herself to sleep in Imelda’s arms after an hour, but the guitar kept playing until the break of dawn, when it played “Remember Me” one last time, then finally went silent.

Imelda listened to each song, held her daughter, and slowly accepted that her husband was haunting their home.

“Hector, if I can find some way to kill you for dying, I will do so,” she whispered to the room, then when there was no response she continued, “do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you? How much we’re going to-. Hector, you are the love of my life, you can’t just, just-, if you think I’m letting you out of this marriage that easy you have another thing coming!”

She almost, almost heard a chuckle. But it could have been the wind, or an echo from outside.

“Hector, what am I supposed to do?” Imelda squeezed her daughter a little closer, “How am I supposed to raise Coco without a father?”

The rocking chair rocked without anyone touching it.

“Sí, sí, you’re here, but you’re not here Hector,” she frowned at the toy guitar firmly, “you can’t help her with her homework, or run errands while I make dinner. You won’t be there to dance with her at her quinceanera, or walk her down the aisle. You… you’ll be a face on the ofrenda, a hole in the family photo, and a lullaby on a toy guitar. That is not the same thing as being here.”

There was once again, no response, but she didn’t need to see or hear her husband to know he was wearing the same kicked-puppy look he’d worn the first time Coco had gotten sick.

“You never should have left, we could have made do without the money,” Imelda sighed, then said, “I love you Hector, I always will.”

A hand began stroking her hair and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the tears that fell anyways.

Imelda wasn’t surprised when she got Hector’s things back and his songbook was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t surprised when rumors spread about his fate, and soon the whole town knew he’d been murdered. She wasn’t even surprised when the sheriff showed up at her door and asked if she wanted him to investigate Ernesto.

“I am gathering evidence, anything you can add will be most appreciated,” she’d said, chin raised high.

“What you planning to do?”

“I simply wish to ensure that my husband is remembered well.”

Imelda was surprised by how many people showed up for Hector’s funeral, although she probably shouldn’t have been. Hector was a kind man, a charming one, she was far from the only person who loved him. Still, the crowd that gathered for the modest service was almost overwhelming in its size. The amount of well wishes and offers of help was enough to almost break through her defenses and pull the tears from her eyes.

“The only assistance I require is in gathering proof,” Imelda said, to each person that offered their help, “If you could write down any memory you have of Hector and that man you think may be relevant, I would like to collect them.”

The memories came, and they kept coming. When they could afford to do so, Oscar or Felipe would travel to the towns Hector had played in, and ask around at the venues Hector had written to her about.

Before Imelda knew it, another year had passed, and the guitar still played Coco’s song every night.

Ernesto’s voice was almost inescapable, it seemed that every other song on the radio was written by Imelda’s late husband.

The radio in the workshop would change channels the minute Ernesto started singing. It freaked Oscar and Felipe out at first, but they got used to it, at one point Oscar had even asked for a song to be turned up. The radio had obliged, even as Oscar had frozen solid, staring into the distance as he realized what he’d done.

One night, Imelda sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair out before bed, and when she looked at the window in the mirror, she could see Hector’s silhouette. She couldn’t see his face, but he was turned towards her, doubtlessly staring at her with a soft smile on his face, like he’d done so many nights before.

There was something about it, about this ghost of her husband sitting in the window, likely giving her the same love sick look he always had, that broke her. As she started sobbing the silhouette came closer, then disappeared. A hand stroked her hair until her tears dried.

She drifted towards her bed and curled up in a little ball under her covers, holding herself as tightly as she could. Arms wrapped themselves around her and out of habit she went to place her hand over his, but there was nothing there for her to hold.

Imelda didn’t sleep that night.

By the third anniversary of his death, she had collected every story of her husband there was to collect. Whenever she wasn’t in her workshop, or taking care of Coco, Imelda was putting the stories in order.

A poster of Ernesto reached Santa Cecilia. He had Hector’s guitar.

Imelda had to stop the musicos in the square from burning the poster, “I can prove that guitar is Hector’s, let me have this. And if you find any other pictures of Ernesto with my husband’s guitar, send them to me.”

The pictures soon came flooding in as well.

With the evidence compiled, Imelda began checking out law books from the library. The librarian ordered books on copyright law and intellectual property.

One night, at 8:15, Coco sang her lullaby along with the guitar, then stared at the toy.

“Mamá, when you said Pá was with abuelo and abuela… are you sure?”

Imelda hesitated, but eventually said, “Your father loves us very much.”

“He’s not stuck, is he?” Coco asked, brow crinkling in concern.

Imelda hadn’t known for sure how to answer that, but she shook her head and simply said, “No mi corazon, he’s just not ready to leave us.”

Coco accepted this with a little nod, “Good night Mamá, good night Papá.”

Imelda pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair, stood and walked to her own room, doing her best to keep her steps calm and even. As soon as the door to her bedroom was closed she hissed, “You’re not stuck, right? You’ll be there to meet us when it’s our time, right Hector?”

The room was silent. Imelda waited for something, a sign, a whisper, a miracle, but there was only the faint sound of music coming from outside. She sighed and got ready for bed.

As she drifted off she heard a voice, an achingly familiar voice say, “I will never leave you again.”

It took until a little after the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death for Imelda to feel sure that she had all the evidence she needed, and a thorough enough understanding of the law to keep from getting steamrolled over by Ernesto’s lawyers. Now she just needed to figure out the best way to come forward.

Her confidence flagged. She was just one woman and she had no proof that Ernesto had killed Hector, just that Hector had written all of Ernesto’s songs. And that he wasn’t receiving any credit.

She could surely sue and receive enough money to set her family up for generations to come, but she didn’t want money.

Imelda had never cared about the money her husband’s songs brought in.

Then, it happened. It was a normal day, she was making shoes with her brothers, listening to the radio and keeping half an eye on the clock. Coco would come home from school soon, and Imelda would have to get started on dinner. The radio jumped around, avoiding Ernesto as it always did.

And then, “Remember me…”

It was like the first time the radio had played one of Hector’s songs, but somehow ten times worse. Oscar and Felípe froze, and so did their breath as it hit the air and turned to mist. The only movement Imelda could muster were a few shivers as the temperature in the room plummeted.

She smelled Hector’s cologne, just a quick whiff of it, and she heard a guitar. Not a stolen guitar playing a stolen lullaby over the radio, but one that floated invisible through the house, echoing and rageful and drowning out all other sound.

The radio lifted itself into the air, and then slammed onto the ground, it cracked but played on. So the radio slammed into the ground again and again until it was nothing more than a pile of broken pieces.

The guitar settled, then disappeared, the temperature returned to normal.

Oscar and Felípe gulped in unison, each as white as a sheet. Imelda, took a few deep breaths, she put down the shoe she had just started and stood.

“Oscar, Felípe, will you go wait for Coco? Take her for ice cream,” Imelda said, and they were nodding, racing for the door before she’d even finished talking.

When they were gone, the room was briefly still, Imelda fought hard to keep her eyes from drifting down to the pile of rubble that had once been her radio.

Invisible arms wrapped around her legs, then she heard Hector weeping.

If she could have touched him, she would have bent down and pulled him into her arms. She would have rubbed his back and kissed his face and told him she loved him. If she could touch him she would have dragged him up to their room and held him until he fell asleep.

But if she could touch him, he wouldn’t be dead, would he?

So all she did was wait. The weeping went on for what felt like hours, and her feet ached by the time the arms wrapped around her legs released her. But she didn’t dare move, standing there and waiting was the only thing she could offer her husband.

When she looked down at her skirt, the lack of tear stains made her want to hit something.

“Hector, go upstairs, go rest. Or whatever it is ghosts do when they’re tired, I will clean up the radio.”

The broom in the corner fell over, Hector had always hated it when Imelda cleaned up after him. It didn’t happen often, if he made a mess he was always sure to clean it up before she got to it, but sometimes even the best of men get sick. Rather pathetically, the broom started trying to drag itself over to the destroyed radio.

It barely moved, Imelda wondered if Hector had tired himself out with all the theatrics.

“Go,” she said firmly, “I will handle this.”

The broom gave up, a kiss lingered against her cheek for a second or two, then she was alone.

Imelda frowned as she realized she could feel the difference between Hector being in the room and him not being there. The startling thing was that she hadn’t felt the absence of his presence since… well, for a long time. Was he always watching her?

It wouldn’t be too out of character for Hector to spend all day staring at her, grinning like a damn fool, the thought that he was doing that even now made her heart ache. But he had been such a vibrant man, a man who so enjoyed life and all it had to offer. He hadn’t spent all of his time staring at her, there’d been too much else to hold his interest.

There had been food to eat, and by extension recipes to learn, songs to write, guitar strings to pluck, a daughter to play with, and an endless list of random hobbies to try.

Now, what did her husband have? A wife to watch, a toy guitar to play for the daughter he loved, and a best friend to hate.

When Imelda was done cleaning up the shop, she went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Hector, mi amor, are you happy here?”

There was, of course, nothing but silence.

“We love you, we miss you, a-and I wish-, I do not want to let you go. But I love you Hector,” her voice broke and she stared down at her lap, “I-I can’t-. It’s bad enough knowing what was done to you, what was taken, seeing you suffer like this? Por favor, if there is somewhere you can go, if there is an afterlife that will hold some peace for you-.”

The bed shook, and she heard that guitar again. It wasn’t quite as angry as before, rather it strummed out a tango much like the ones they used to dance to.

Next to her ear, rougher than she’d ever heard it in life, her husband’s voice growled, “I will never leave you again.”

Imelda stopped breathing.

The bed stilled. The guitar faded. She took in a shaking breath.

When Coco got home, Imelda sat with her and explained that Ernesto had started singing Coco’s lullaby. Imelda told her that she didn’t want to hear that man singing Hector’s songs anymore, so she would no longer be allowing a radio into the house.

“From here on out if you want to hear music, you will have to rely on a record player,” Imelda said, sternly.

Coco nodded, “I understand, I don’t want to hear that murderer sing Pá’s songs either.”

“You-, who told you that Ernesto was a murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Coco shrugged, looking up at Imelda with a confused pout, “everybody I guess. Everyone in town knows what happened to Papá, was I not supposed to?”

Imelda sighed, “No, I just- I suppose I wanted to protect you from all that.”

Coco didn’t say anything, she just stared down at the table in between them.

A few months later, word reached their little corner of the world that Ernesto would be starring in a movie. A plan started forming in Imelda’s mind.

She kept up with his interviews as he promoted his movie, taking notes. She also started searching for a lawyer.

One night after everybody else was asleep, she set the law books down on her desk, and set her notes aside. Imelda stood, stretched, and walked to her dresser to pull out her nightgown. As she unbuttoned her dress, the room grew warmer.

Imelda frowned when that guitar came back, she hadn’t heard it in months, and she had assumed it only happened when Hector was feeling emotionally charged.

She shucked the dress and the guitar got louder, she glanced at the mirror and jumped when she saw her husband’s silhouette standing right beside her. Invisible hands began pushing her slip’s straps off her shoulders.

“Ay for god’s sake, you’re dead Hector, I can’t even begin to describe how inappropriate-,” she started to say, but cut off when he kissed her neck.

She had missed her husband, in many, many, ways.

Imelda sighed, “Why now? It’s been almost six years?”

Her slip fell to the ground and her corset opened by itself. Kisses and love bites continued to make their way up and down her neck. Her linen chemise started opening button by button.

“You’ve figured out how to touch me, have you figured out how to let me touch you?”

The mouth on her neck paused, then grinned, it kept going and the guitar sounded almost teasing. She could just see Hector’s eyes sparking with mischief, and she felt a reflexive smile spread across her face.

The chemise joined her slip and corset on the floor, as did her bloomers. The knee high socks were allowed to stay, she noticed.

Hands gripped her hips and began directing her to the bench at her amour, and she gasped. Hector always had her sit there when there was something very specific he wanted to do to her.

“Hector,” she whispered, “this-. We shouldn’t. None of this should-.”

The back of her knees hit the bench and she sat, invisible hands spread her legs wide and she could almost feel him pressing against her as his mouth reappeared on the tops of her breasts. Her knickers started creeping down her hip and she instinctively lifted herself off the bench long enough for them to be pulled off completely.

She closed her eyes, and let herself forget that her husband was dead. His hands caressed her softly and his mouth sucked on her sweetly, as a guitar plucked out an impassioned love song.

After that night she barely went a day without her husband's caress.

He was becoming stronger, she realized, he touched her more, interacted with the house more, his silhouette appeared in the mirror more. Another month, and she stopped bothering with the record player, whenever she was home the invisible guitar followed her from room to room.

Ernesto’s movie came out, two weeks later the lawyer she had chosen knocked on their door. She invited him in, and swallowed back her amusement as he tried in vain to find the source of the playful song Hector was strumming.

“I can not prove any violent crime, but I can prove that my husband’s songs and guitar were stolen,” Imelda said, after briefly bothering with pleasantries.

“Stolen by who?” the lawyer, Señor Bererra asked.

In answer, Imelda placed the family photo of her husband holding what was at the time a brand new guitar down on the table, followed by some of the letters Hector had sent with song lyrics and dates.

Señor Bererra picked up the photo and stared at it, jaw slowly growing slack, “Is that…?”

“That bastard was my husband’s best friend,” Imelda all but growled, and Hector began playing a war march, “he was at our wedding, he was my daughter’s godfather! Then my husband showed up dead in the street with no guitar, no song book, and all of his valuables. And now, he’s playing my daughter’s lullaby as a tawdry love song!”

Bererra gaped, “I-I think I need further proof. What you’re implying is that-.”

“I know what I’m implying, and I’d be happy to provide whatever proof you need,” Imelda pulled out a folder, “here are the receipts from when we bought that guitar, and correspondents between Hector and the guitar’s maker discussing the design. Oh, did I mention it was custom made for him? Here is a signed letter from the guitar’s maker verifying that he made the guitar for Hector, not Ernesto. Here is a wedding photo with Ernesto, myself, and Hector, here is a photo of Hector and Ernesto preparing for a performance in Mexico City two days before my husband was poisoned. Ah, speaking of which, here is my husband’s death certificate and a signed letter from the coroner verifying he most likely died of curare poison. Anything else?”

Instead of responding, he shuffled through everything, shock giving way to grief. Eventually he put everything down, and sat back in his chair.

“I have all of his albums,” he said, in a quiet voice.

“I would thank you to keep them far away from this house. None of us wish to hear Hector’s songs being sung by that scum.”

He didn’t show any sign of having heard her and for a minute she worried she had chosen poorly. He shook his head, sighed, then started nodding instead. With a resigned look he held his hand out for her file, when she handed it to him he immediately began flipping through it.

Imelda waited. Before long, Hector began playing random melodies, and plucking out experimental new songs.

Finally, Señor Bererra put everything back, closed the file, and pushed it back towards her, “You are right, you won’t be able to prove Ernesto de La Cruz killed your husband, not with his team of lawyers. However, you have enough here to end his career if it were to come to light, you and your daughter will be set for life.”

“We are already taken care of,” Imelda waved his words off, “I want my husband to be remembered as the artist he was, I want the entire world to know that he wrote those songs, that he was the genius behind Ernesto’s success. And if I have to burn everything Ernesto has built for himself to the ground in order to make that happen, well! I will consider that a perk.”

He pursed his lips, “Coming forward with this information would be extremely risky, for you and your daughter.”

The guitar music abruptly stopped.

“I am not afraid of Ernesto. That vapid-.”

“It is not Ernesto de la Cruz I am speaking of, although I think it bears mentioning that we have reason to believe he has already killed once for success. It is his fans. They will not accept this easily, some will accuse you of lying, they may come after you and your family in a misguided attempt to protect their idol.”

Imelda drummed her fingers on the table. She hadn’t considered that.

Hector plucked out a nervous melody, he had never been one for caution, not until Coco was born. Even then, while he had staunchly guarded their daughter from every swinging cabinet door and potentially dirty fly, he hadn’t bothered exercising the same care when she was out of his arms. But Imelda recognized his plea for caution in the song.

“I will talk to the sheriff,” she decided, “see what protections he can offer us.”

And she would abandon some of the flashier plans she had made. Much as she would love to grind Ernesto under her heel, she would not allow any harm to come to her little girl. As long as people knew the truth about Ernesto and Hector, that would be enough.

“Ah, sí, that is an excellent idea,” Señor Bererra agreed, “in the meantime, we should have copies made of all this. And I will begin drafting some letters for some friends of mine. This will be quite the undertaking, I will most likely need help.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “is there anything else you need from me?”

The meeting went by swiftly after that, Señor Bererra explained what she might expect to happen next, what letters he would be writing, what judges and agencies he would be contacting. All that. She offered him one of the guest rooms, since he had come all the way from the city, and he accepted.

At dinner that night he seemed quite charmed by Coco’s questions about his job, and increasingly confused by the guitar music that followed Imelda in and out of the room.

He didn��t ask, not at dinner, and not in the morning on his way to the train station.

Imelda spoke to the sheriff and he offered to round up volunteers to guard her house when the news broke, she accepted, despite her pride. She had her daughter to think of, after all.

By the time Señor Bererra returned with his secretary to make copies and take pictures of the evidence, the towns’ musicos had formed a militia they were calling the Hector Riveria Revenge Patrol. Hector was quite touched.

Then, things started happening very quickly.

Señor Bererra got in touch with somebody in the government who did something concerning copyright.

News broke two weeks later that Ernesto was being investigated for multiple copyright violations.

A reporter came to town and asked around the square about Ernesto, and Hector. Somebody, Imelda didn’t know who, spilled the whole story, suspected murder and all.

The story hit the front page of multiple newspapers, mere days after it became known that Ernesto had another movie in the works.

More reporters came.

Then the fanatics arrived. Imelda had expected yelling, anger, even violence. She hadn’t expected a group of fans to camp out in the streets outside their home with a record player and every single one of Ernesto’s albums. Señor Bererra advised her that throwing shoes at them might hurt her case.

Hector did his best to drown them out, but the anger and pain in his songs hurt just a little more than the sound of Ernesto singing Hector’s wedding vows.

After two weeks of those bastards camping outside, Imelda stepped out of the house to do the grocery shopping, only to be met by wolf whistles and drunken offers.

“Oh terrific,” she grumbled, eyeing the pile of yelling morons leaning on the house across the street, “somebody gave them tequila.”

“Ay mamacita,” a red faced man hollered, trying and failing to get to his feet, “how’s about you let me give you a reason to remeeeemmmber meeeee.”

A barrage of drunken giggles and guffaws followed his attempts to sing Coco’s lullaby, and they only grew louder when the man finally got to his feet, managing to dance with all the grace of a lame rocking horse.

Hector started playing louder, and the wind picked up.

When the man was swaying in front of the record player, he let out a startled shout, then fell onto the table holding the record player, smashing it.

The guffaws turned to angry shouts.

“Who pushed me?!” The man shouted.

“My record player!” One of his compatriots, presumably the one who owned the now obliterated record player, gasped.

“Hey! That record was limited edition," yelled another.

“Aw the music,” the fourth man lamented, then took another swig from the bottle in his hand.

“I mean it, which one of you assholes pushed me?”

“Nobody pushed you, you moron, you fell and smashed my record player!”

“No, no, somebody pushed me! I felt it.”

“Do you have any idea how much that record cost me?”

“That record-?! Do you have any idea how much the record player cost me?!”

“I know one of you assholes pushed me, now fess up or I’ll-.”

“Or you’ll what?! Break my record player?”

“And my record!”

“Hey lady, do you have a record player we can borrow,” the fourth man called out to her, over the arguing.

“Would you forget about your damn record for a second?!”

“It was limited edition!”

“You know what?!” the first man pushed both of his companions, “There! See how you fucking like- oof.”

Predictably, the three men stumbled their way through a drunken brawl, while the fourth grumbled and scooted away from them. Meanwhile, one by one, all of the records they brought started floating up and smashing themselves against the side of the building they’d been sitting against. By the time the sheriff arrived to break up the fighting, there was only one album still intact.

The sheriff “accidentally” stomped on it as he dragged one of the men off the others.

Hector’s chuckle echoed down the street.

Imelda spent her time in the market racking her brain for a single instance where Hector had followed her out of the house. She had only ever felt his presence in their home, she had assumed he couldn’t leave it. But now the faint sound of Hector’s guitar followed her as she ran her errands.

There were more fanatics, most weren’t calculating enough to actually reach Imelda, usually she only found out about these fans when she had company over and the men would boast about how they’d ran this fan or that out of town. One memorable exception was a young woman with a sweet smile, and a mean right hook. She managed to sneak past the musicos and the Hector Riviera Revenge Patrol to knock on Imelda’s door.

As soon as Imelda opened the door the young woman attacked her, fortunately, Imelda had been holding a shoe at the time and had no qualms with using it.

She’d sported a shiner for the next week, anyone who saw it reacted with either sympathy or awe.

Mostly awe.

Things only got worse after Imelda traveled to the city to tell a judge her story. The courthouse had been surrounded by reporters and fans alike, and she was encouraged to play up her grief for her husband as the cameras flashed. The courtroom itself was empty with the exception of her, the judge, the stenographer, and the lawyers. She was offered a truly obscene amount of money to drop the case.

“Exactly how much money do you think I’d need to convince death to give my husband back?” she had asked the opposing lawyers with narrowed eyes, “I will accept no less.”

They hadn’t responded, and she had turned away from them in disgust.

The judge accidentally let slip to the press that after hearing her testimony he felt the case was all but over. The fans who rolled into town started seeming a bit desperate. Somebody painted threats on the side of her house. A few rocks were thrown through her window. A young couple were caught in the act of trying to burn down the house.

A few months into this pandemonium, Imelda stepped out of her house to head to a meeting with the sheriff and almost tripped over a young man holding a guitar. The boy had been lying on her stoop but immediately got to his feet, stuttering apologies as he did. Imelda examined him closely.

He didn’t look like any of the musicos from town.

“Who are you? What do you want? If this is about de La Cruz my lawyer has advised me-.”

“No! Well, yes, but also no-. I uh, I don’t really,” he shrugged, “I-I guess I just want to um p-pay respects? Or um apologize? I don’t know. I just um wanted to acknowledge, you know, how not great what you’ve been through is?”

Imelda frowned at him suspiciously.

He shuffled his feet and shrugged again, “I know you’ve probably had a lot of Ernesto fans knocking at your door, I read about that stuff in the news sometimes, b-but-. Well, maybe somebody else has come to offer their condolences, I mean, I hope other people have. B-but as an ex Ernesto fan, I-I feel like I should be one of them?”

“Ah,” Imelda said, not sure how to take this, “I am headed to the sheriff, do you know your way to the cemetery?”

“No?”

“Come, I will give you directions, you can pay your respects there,” she started walking, not bothering to check if he kept up with her. After a few beats he appeared in her preferary, so she launched into her explanation on how to get to Hector’s grave.

The boy hared off as soon as she was done, but reappeared outside her door as the sun fell, nervously strumming on his guitar.

“You’re back,” she informed him, through the window above his head.

He glanced up at her, then nodded, “I’ve been a traveling musician for a while, I don’t really know where else to go.”

“The inn.”

He grimaced sheepishly, “I’d need money for that.”

“Then take your guitar to the town square and make some.”

“I uh I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well… the only songs I know are- are your husbands.”

“Ah.” Imelda opened the window so she could stare at him.

“It doesn’t feel right, y’know? Singing his songs,” the boy told her, “not after what happened to him.”

Imelda sighed, leaning crossed arms on the window sill and staring up at the stars, “What do you want? My permission?”

The boy took a couple beats to think about it, “No, I think even if he came back from the dead and gave me permission it still wouldn’t feel right. It- I- His ability to sing his own songs was stolen from him, I-I could never-.”

He cut himself off and sighed, heavily.

Hector played a sad melody that echoed into the street. After a few beats, the boy strummed along, then trailed off.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he whispered.

“I know the feeling,” Imelda quietly admitted. It was easier, somehow, to be honest with this stranger than it was to be honest with her well-wishing neighbors.

The boy looked up at her, eyes shining with sympathy.

“My husband and I used to sing and dance together on nights like this,” she closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s ghost play a song of tragedy, “I still love music, I still love dancing, but to do it without him? What would be the point? It would never hold the same joy as it did when he was alive.”

“So you’ve just stopped dancing?”

“I… I have found other sources of joy,” she said, “other things that keep me going. Like my daughter, or the shoes I make, even the fight to ensure my husband is given the credit he is due. I do not dance any more, but then again, I didn’t use to know the pride to be found in a well made pair of shoes.”

The boy nodded, slowly, eyes growing distant. He looked down at the guitar in his hands, strummed out a few chords, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of her house.

“Your husband was a genius-,” he started to say, but was cut off when Imelda broke out laughing.

Hector briefly stopped playing, then when he started again the song was at once playful and angry.

“Sorry, sorry, I-, sí, of course he was incredibly talented, he had a real gift,” she got herself under control, “b-but he also was an idiot. A complete fool.”

“What? Really?”

“Sí, first and foremost, he could have had any woman in town, but he chose the most difficult one he could find,” Imelda said, with a wry smile, “then there was his complete inability to make breakfast, he could make lunch and dinner just fine, but breakfast? If it was before that first cup of coffee it was beyond him. He was terrible at mopping, somehow, but always insisted that if he tried one more time he’d get the hang of it. And he always had way too much faith in people, the poor fool thought everybody in the world was as good hearted as he was.”

The boy gave her a few beats of silence, a chance to say more, then said, “He sounds pretty great.”

She took a deep breath to keep from crying, “I could talk about him all day, and only ever cover half of what made that idiot the love of my life.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Imelda didn’t respond, all too aware of the love song Hector had started playing.

Eventually, she gave the boy some food, and enough money to pay for a night at the inn. The kid hung around a month or two, joining the musicos in the square, only ever playing accompaniment. He helped to run a few of the more stubborn fans out of town, and last Imelda saw of him he was following some doe eyed girl to the train station, carrying both of their suitcases.

He was not the last of Ernesto’s ex fans to come give their condolences. Soon, there were as many well wishers running around town as there were enraged fanatics. Imelda never let any of them into her home, but she did agree to a memorial being set up for Hector in the town square.

Hector’s songs stopped sounding so sad.

Finally, there came the vultures in their fine suits. Lawyers who promised to get her three times the cash el Señor Bererra could, talent agents offering up a career with the stars if she sang Hector’s songs, even a few fellows with cameras who wanted to make a documentary about her situation.

After consulting her lawyer, Imelda sent each of them packing, but kept the contact information of the most earnest seeming documentarian.

“My only wish is for my husband to be remembered, for him to have the credit he is due,” she told him as she accepted his business card, “I don’t want any of this attention, but perhaps, when the court case is over, you might tell his story.”

“I would be honored,” the starry eyed young man had said, almost breathlessly.

When he was gone and the door was closed, Imelda remarked to Hector, “Hope that boy was just playing innocent, they’ll tear him to shreds in that business if he’s actually that naive.”

Hector chuckled, playing something light.

“Would you want your story told? They’d put it on the silver screen, you’d be even more famous than you are now,” she asked, walking towards the kitchen.

The guitar trailed off and she felt a sigh brush the back of her neck, a ragged voice next to her ear said, “I only want to come home.”

She stopped walking, staring straight ahead. She tried to swallow the emotion rising in her throat, then took a deep breath and continued on with her chores. The guitar picked back up, playing a song of longing.

Slowly, things started to wind down. The money from the various lawsuits started to trickle in, and just to make a point, Imelda donated most of it. As far as she cared, the day was won as soon as the world learned the truth, she never wanted the money. She wanted her husband, alive and whole, and if she couldn’t have him, she wasn’t about to accept Ernesto’s blood money as a substitute.

The well wishers and mourners now outnumbered the enraged fans.

Hector followed her wherever she went.

Coco started trying to learn how to play the guitar.

And somehow, Imelda felt that things weren’t quite over, that it wasn’t safe to let her guard down. So, she always answered the door with a shoe in hand, even though every time she opened it she was met with a friendly face.

Imelda thought perhaps she would finally have closure when she got Hector’s guitar back. Yet, even once it was sitting on their family’s ofrenda, surrounded by wedding and family portraits, there was still this nagging feeling that things weren’t over.

She wasn’t done, there was still more to do.

One night, a week after the last of Ernesto’s blood money had been donated, Imelda sat at her kitchen table. Her hands were cupped around some cinnamon tea that had long since gone cold. She was still, but her thoughts raced.

When they reached the finish line, she all but deflated.

“You need to move on,” she told the gently strumming guitar that had been trying to soothe her all night, “please Hector, I need to know you’ve found peace.”

His voice was quiet, but the kitchen shook from the emotion it held, “I will never leave you again.”

“Trust me, I am aware,” she huffed, being very careful not to shout and wake the whole house, “there will never be a day that goes by where I won’t miss you. But I’m not asking you to leave, not forever. I am asking you to move on, to go… I don’t know, wait for us at the pearly gates. Visit us on the day of the dead, and play Coco’s lullaby in heaven every night, but stop-. Hector, please, stop punishing yourself.”

As soon as those words were out of her mouth, Imelda knew what was left to do.

The air was still, the guitar silent. She could feel him, however, like a thick blanket on her shoulders, like a warm hand in hers, like a vow on their wedding day. She could feel him standing taut, every intangible muscle in his body tensed for action.

Imelda closed her eyes and prepared herself to lose him, to truly be without him.

“I forgive you, Hector,” she whispered, “I forgive you for leaving, I forgive you for dying, I forgive you for not being here. You can stop atoning now. You can rest.”

Like a cut guitar spring, the tension snapped and the heavy warmth lifted from her shoulders. She held her breath, waiting for the guitar to pick back up.

It didn’t.

“Hector?”

There wasn’t so much as a single note.

Imelda’s breaths sounded like thunder in the empty kitchen. One of them shook, then the next one came out sounding like a whimper. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. No invisible hand stroked her hair, there was no mournful melody to assure her she wasn’t grieving alone, it was just her, crying as quietly as she could in the empty room.

When she heard the creak of a floor board, she cut herself off mid sob. Holding her breath, she listened as quiet footsteps approached the kitchen, coming from the foyer where the stairs up to the bedrooms were. Swallowing a curse she took out her handkerchief and did her best to clean her face.

The footsteps were too heavy to be Coco’s and the only other people in the house were Imelda’s brothers, so when somebody pushed the kitchen door open behind her, she said, “Sorry hermano, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

But it wasn’t one of her brothers who responded.

“Oh no Imelda, you didn’t wake me,” a deep, smooth voice replied, “I’ve been up for hours. Drove all through the night to get here, in fact.”

Imelda gasped, standing from her chair and turning, “Ernesto?!”

He closed the door behind him, and smiled at her cooly, simmering rage lighting his bloodshot eyes. Ernesto’s hair was not quite perfect, his suit almost wrinkled, his stubble just a tiny bit more visible than was considered decent. By his standards, he was an absolute mess.

“Hola Imelda, how have you been,” he said, as casual as you please, despite the revolver held in his right hand, “I myself, I haven’t been well. You see, I’ve lost everything thanks to-.”

It took a few seconds for her brain to register what she was seeing, who was in her kitchen, then it clicked and without thinking, she took the chair and hit him with it.

“You’ve lost everything?!” She yelled as he staggered back, no longer caring if she woke the rest of the house, “You’ve lost everything? Hector has lost his life! I have lost my husband! My daughter has lost her father! All because you couldn’t write your own damn songs.”

He tried to speak, but she hit him with the chair again.

“Was it worth it? Was all the fortune and fame worth killing your best friend?!”

“It was,” he raised the revolver before she could hit him again, and although she snarled, still enraged, she stopped.

The last thing she wanted was for Coco to lose both of her parents.

“Well, good for you then,” she sneered, “so glad my husband’s death was so profitable for you.”

Ernesto glared, cocking the gun, “I worked hard to get where I was-.”

“Worked hard! Hah! Oh what?! Did your hand get tired stirring the poison in Hector’s drink?”

“Shut up,” he hissed.

But Imelda shook her head, “This isn’t one of your movies Ernesto, I’m not following your script. You killed my husband-.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to,” she smirked, “you wouldn’t be here threatening me if I did.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, “you didn’t need to prove it to ruin my life, which is why I’m not here to threaten you.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped, putting the chair down so she could put her hands on her hips.

“You know what the most painful part has been?”

“The feeling of the devil clawing at your soul?”

“What all this has done to my legacy,” he ignored her, apparently determined to get through whatever monologue he’d prepared for her, “I was going to be remembered as one of the greatest artists who ever lived, people would have worshiped me for the next hundred years, I was going to go down in history. But now? Now you have taken my legacy and turned it into ash to spread on Hector’s grave.”

“Hector shouldn’t even be in a grave,” Imelda said, through gritted teeth. If she wasn’t a mother, if she didn’t have Coco to think of, she would hit him with the chair again.

“And yet, he is. What good does it do to take my success and give it to him? He has no use for fame and fortune,” Ernesto chuckled a little and she snarled almost against her will, “even when he was alive, all this meant nothing to him. For whatever reason, all he wanted was you.”

“Did you ever stop to think that he would have let you sing his songs if you gave proper credit? That you could have had your fame and fortune, and he could have come home safe and sound?” Imelda interjected, she didn’t want to listen to this monster’s practiced speech, she wanted to know how he lived with himself, “Did you even try to negotiate, or did you skip straight to murder?”

Ernesto sighed, “I wanted to sing to the world, he wanted you. Since you have taken my dream from me, it is only fair that I take his.”

“You’ve already taken his dream, you killed him, remember?” she shook her head, making a sound of disgust, “All he wanted was to come home and you stabbed him in the back for it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Imelda, do you understand I am pointing a loaded gun at you?”

“Sí, it’s the only thing stopping me from beating you to death with a chair.”

“I’m here to kill you Imelda,” he took a step towards her, “you have killed my dream for Hector’s sake, so now I am killing Hector’s dream.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Sì.”

“No matter what I do?”

He nodded, and started to speak, but didn’t get the words out before she had raised the chair once more and knocked him back a few steps. The anger was still there, but now she was fueled just as much by fear, fear that if she hesitated Coco would be left an orphan by the night’s end.

Ernesto tried to point the gun at her, but she knocked his arm away even as he pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber was deafening, but Imelda didn’t dare let it cow her. She swung the chair again, forcing him to jump back in order to avoid it.

He raised the revolver again, and pulled back the hammer. She raised the chair for another blow, stepping towards him, but knew there was no way she’d beat his trigger finger.

The kitchen started to shake just as the second bullet whistled past her ear.

Imelda almost didn’t hear the guitar music over the sound of her own heartbeat. She had to put the chair down again so she could use it to steady herself as Ernesto was thrown to the floor.

The revolver flew out of his hand and across the room.

“What in the-?!” he started to say, then cut off when he apparently recognized the melody playing.

Imelda had never thought Coco’s lullaby could sound so haunting.

“Remember me,” Hector’s voice echoed low, multiplied and layered on top of itself, at once a guttural growl and a choir of hissed whispers, “and prepare to say goodbye.”

“H-Hector?” Ernesto tried to right himself, only to get slammed back onto the floor.

“Remember me. You owe me for your life.”

Ernesto struggled against whatever force was holding him down as the shaking settled and the air froze, “Hector, what-?.”

“You tried to send me to heaven,” Hector sang, “but now you’ll burn in hell.”

Ernesto was lifted from the floor and pinned to the cabinets instead.

“You killed me for my daughter’s song,” slowly, Hector appeared above Ernesto, face colder than it had ever been in life, his feet didn’t quite touch the floor, “I hope it served you well.”

The gun dragged itself back into Ernesto’s hand and he struggled against it as it raised itself to his temple, “How-?! What-?! No. No!”

“Remember me. The blood you spilt got you far,” Hector sneered, “Remember me. My stopped heart got you where you are.”

“Hector, I’m-. Please, I’m sorry, Hector please!”

“No, don’t try to beg! When you took everything from me,” Hector shook his head, fists clenched, “I’ll let you have one last breath to…”

Hector trailed off, the guitar plucking out a crescendo while a mismatched beat underscored the whispered echoes of his latest refrain.

“Remember me,” Hector commanded, disappearing from sight even as the hammer pulled itself away from the barrel.

As the guitar finished with an angry flourish, Imelda realized that mismatched beat was not accompinate like she’d assumed, but footsteps. The kitchen door slammed open and people spilled into the room.

Imelda didn’t look at them, she couldn’t take her eyes off Ernesto as tears spilled down his cheeks. With the gun still jammed between his hand and his temple, the trigger twitched away from the barrel.

“No!” It wasn’t just one voice, but several. All combined the shouts were almost enough. But they couldn’t quite drown out the gunshot.

Ernesto’s body collapsed back onto the kitchen floor.

Imelda felt Hector’s presence slip away.

“Imelda,” one of her brothers, she didn’t bother to check which one, shouted as they pulled her into an embrace, “thank god, when we heard the gunshots-. The door, it wouldn’t open and-, and-, oh thank god you’re ok.”

“Señora Riviera,” the sheriff put a hand on her shoulder, “are you alright, did he hurt you?”

“He tried to kill me,” she said, faintly.

Several people gasped, and there was a great deal of shouting. A few people surrounded the body, blocking it from her view. She blinked, the world suddenly coming back into focus.

“Coco? Where is she, is she ok?” Imelda asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

“She’s with Oscar,” Felípe told her, only half letting her go, “come on, I’ll take you to her, before she comes racing in here and sees-. I’ll take you to her.”

Imelda allowed herself to be led away, the last thing she wanted now was for Coco to see a dead body in their kitchen. The sheriff called out a promise to take care of things behind her, and she turned to give him a polite thank you, but he was already bent over Ernesto’s body.

Felípe took her to the workshop, where she could hear a soothing melody playing on an invisible guitar. Inwardly, she sighed and wondered if she would ever convince Hector to move on after this.

When she stepped through the workshop door, Coco looked up and shouted, “Má!”

“Mija!”

They ran into each other’s arms and squeezed tight, Coco started crying. Imelda did her best to soothe her even as it started to sink in that she almost lost her life. Her daughter was almost orphaned. Then what would have happened to her?

Imelda shoved those thoughts away and focused on her little girl. She let the sheriff do as he promised and spent what was left of the night hugging Coco close.

When Coco was eventually asleep, and Imelda was alone with an invisible guitar, she drifted off. The transition from waking to dreaming was almost seamless. Almost.

“Ah, you’ve learned a new trick,” she remarked hollowly, even in her dream, she felt boneless, exhausted. She couldn’t stop picturing Coco in her funeral garb.

They were dancing, her in her wedding dress, him in his musico suit. He’d saved up and got a real suit for the wedding, a modest suit, but one meant for formal occasions rather than preforming; it had met an unfortunate accident shortly after arriving from the tailors. In hindsight, Imelda wondered if the accident had anything to do with the fact that Hector had lived with Ernesto at the time, Ernesto had never wanted Hector to settle down.

In real life, her family’s courtyard had been full to the brim with people. Here in her dream, it was just them. Cheek to cheek.

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Hector’s voice only sounded a little muffled, a little distant, “I-I was saying goodbye to Coco.”

Imelda blinked a few times, before the words made sense, “So, you’re moving on?”

“Uh, sí, eventually. I uh, I have to wait until the day of the dead,” he smiled sheepishly, she couldn’t see the smile, but she felt it pressed against her face and knew exactly what it looked like, “it-. I will need-. Leaving won’t be easy.”

Imelda nodded, then pulled back so she could see him, she drank his face in but couldn’t manage anything else, it took almost everything she had in her just to whisper, “I will miss you.”

“I will visit, every year, I promise,” he held her tighter, but the sensation was muffled, “although not like this. I-I don’t have any unfinished business anymore. Once I move on-.”

He cut himself off, but Imelda’s tired mind eventually churned out what he’d left unsaid. Hector would be at peace, but that meant she would lose him. For real this time. She swallowed back the urge to rescind her forgiveness, to come up with some other reason why he should keep haunting them. He could touch her sometimes, and talk to her in her dreams, and play his guitar. It was almost, almost, like he was alive.

But she loved him too much to keep him, “Promise me you’ll be happy. Wherever you go when…”

“I will be as happy as a man can be when he is separated from the love of his life, and his daughter.”

Imelda nodded, closing her eyes, resting her chin back on his shoulder, “Good enough.”

“And I will wait for you,” Hector said, “at the gates. However long you take, however long we are apart, I will wait for you, mí amor.”

They spent the rest of her dream dancing in silence, tears mingling on their joined cheeks.

The last month didn’t last near long enough. Hector managed to appear to her four more times, but never as solidly as he had on that night; he appeared to Coco once, to give his final goodbye, but Imelda didn’t find out about that until days after it happened.

It ended on the Day of the Dead. Imelda allowed Coco to stay up all night, and they danced along to the invisible guitar that followed Imelda wherever she went. Eventually, Coco could barely keep her eyes open, but stubbornly persevered through the night. Finally the toy guitar Hector had gifted Coco plucked out Coco’s lullaby, the last few notes seeming to echo through the room as the sun rose.

Then it fell silent.

#Coco #Hector Coco #Imelda Coco #ernesto de la cruz #Coco AU #ghost Hector #sadly the internet did not want to tell me the secrets of Mexican copyright laws in the days of bw film #so I had to make guesses based off of American copyright laws in the days of bw film #tragic #Coco fanfic #Hector x Imelda

49 notes · View notes

cottoncandy-cult · 1 year ago

Text

Babification Ignihyde

Ok so this will be shared between Idia and Ortho, like Ortho would take care of the more serious aspects of care because Idia is either embarrassed or scared he might hurt or drop our dear reader! While Idia handles the affection and basic observation of the child.

"Thanks again for helping Ortho, it's kinda weird having to take care of her like this you know?" Idia sat nervously in his gaming chair, facing away from the young male who was changing dear (Y/n) and putting her in a nighty. Lillia had brought her by earlier, they didn't want to just leave her with Grim, but no one really knew what to do with her. So as her significant other taking care of the little girl was brought to him, of course he had Ortho to help him as far as learning how to handle and care for a baby, but the male found certain things aspects awkward. "It's no problem, you're trying to respect her privacy, right? She might be embarrassed if she learned you had to change her and stuff." The little male was somewhat right, Idia worried that knowing he had to change and bathe her would make her uncomfortable or awkward out of embarrassment. But he was also scared of dropping her, it didn't take much research to learn how fragile infants and small children are, and it scared the hell out of the poor male. Ortho though was more comfortable; he had easily scaled himself down so that he can handle her firmly but without discomfort or injury. Idia did like holding her though, she was like a little heating pillow when she'd lean against his stomach during a nap while he gamed. Of course, he'd stick to the sleep schedule she made for him, he had promised after all and though he wanted to take advantage of this moment where he wasn't really being supervised, he also understood her concern as he had been less than kind to his body over the years and his addiction was really unhealthy. So, when the time would come, he would move to the bed and lay down with her, making sure she couldn't roll around but also that he couldn't roll on top of her. He had never been so thankful to be a person that sleeps like a rock. He doesn't move in his sleep, period. It's to the point he often wakes up sore, it's why he doesn't care for super soft beds because they just make him ache more.

"It's almost 11 Idia, are you still gonna follow (Y/n)'s schedule?" Ortho tilted his head as he looked to his brother, of course he knew about the agreement as he was thankful for it. It still gave him ample time to do his games and on days where he really wants to do something at a specific time, they alter his sleep schedule so he can get some naps in so that it's still the same amount of time. "Yeah, one sec, I'm checking for any updates and saving some adjustments to some stuff. You can go ahead and get her comfy, tomorrow I'll make something so that she has one of those…. what were they…" Idia stared at the screen in front of him blankly a moment, he could see it clearly in his head. Ortho stayed quiet as he let his brother think it through, knowing that trying to guess for him doesn't help usually. "Basinets. I'll make her a basinet, co-sleeping isn't safe, so I don't want her to sleep with me for too long. I'll make it something that attaches to the side of the bed, that way she's still close." Idia nodded to himself; he knew he could build something that simple quickly. Once everything was saved and checked if Idia began shutting things down, Ortho had already put (Y/n) to bed in the little nest between Idia's usual sleeping spot and the wall by the time the older male finished. Lying flat on her back she was out cold, not even budging when Idia climbed into bed and laid down on his side facing her. He was in some basketball shorts and a t-shirt since the room was already at a comfortable temperature, so he just had to sleep with his sheet that night. Ortho had already hooked himself up to the charger and shut down, the dim blue light from the station being the only real light in the room. It was enough for him to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, she was alive, and nothing had gone wrong today. He really hoped the rest of his anxiety went away, even if they never really left the dorm, he still worried that something would go wrong. Ever since reading an article on SIDS during his research he felt like he had to have her close and within eyeshot of either him or Ortho, even having Ortho tell him of any drastic changes to her physical state. Even something as small as a sudden blood pressure spike, he wanted to keep track. He was a scientist after all, with that came attention to detail and the need to record even small changes. It had gotten easier for him to calm down through the day though so his anxiety wasn't necessarily as active as it was a downtime burden, but he kinda dreaded sleeping as that seemed to be when most accidents happen was during the care takers sleep.

Reaching over a gentle shaking hand he placed it on the girl's body, no real pressure just enough for him to be able to feel her breathing and heartbeat beneath his palm. Just something for reassurance, she needed him right now and she needed him calm. So, he pulled his hand away, curling up somewhat as he got comfortable. With a few deep breaths he managed to lull himself into a light sleep, waking occasionally through the night to check on her visually before dozing off once more.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fluff #x reader #babyfication event #Ignihyde #Ortho Shroud #Idia Shround #Fanfic #sfw #candy cult vault

31 notes · View notes

imp-writes · 3 months ago

Text

FANFICTION FRIDAY!

I'm running behind on Desalunier Chronicler....sooooo here have an old excerpt from a Megaman fanfic I started a while back :3 Copper is my OC.

Awakening

Copper opened her eyes as a screen opened above her. What happened? Where am I? Running diagnostics…wait…all systems seem normal…what? Wh-?

“Hello,” a friendly voice said. It sounded old and almost rusty, but kind, calm, and curious. Copper blinked as the world came into focus. She looked around. There were diggings around her and large chunks of buildings buried within and lying above. She looked to her left and right and found she was in a stasis pod or charging station, kind of like what Rock had in his bedroom. A wrinkled hand was extended towards her to help her out.

“Hello,” the voice said again, “I am Dr. Caine. And who might you be?” Copper finally got a look at the owner of the hand. He looked like a stretched, lank Dr. Wily with a kindly smile or a skinny Santa Claus. He was mostly bald on the top of his head and he had a long white beard that matched his coat. His long face looked quite old, Copper guessed at least in his sixties, but his eyes were bright and sparkling.

“C-Copper,” she stuttered. What am I doing here? Why…why do I feel like…I…

“What am I?” she asked aloud. If the man had looked curious before, more curiosity glittered in his eyes than ever after that question.

“You’re so much like him,” the man said, “You must be of the same make! Copper, you are a very special robot. You can think for yourself! You can feel, you can worry! It’s…beyond what science could have imagined for your time. I have only found one such robot who is anything like you before. You were made by the owner of this lab, I am certain.”

“A…robot?” she replied thickly, “for my time?” They did it then…even though I told them not to. But why? I…Dr. Light agreed with me. They respected my wishes. What changed their minds? She shoved the thoughts from her mind.

“Who owned this lab?” She asked.

“The legendary Dr. Thomas Light,” Dr. Caine said with an odd tone of almost reverence.

“This is…Light Labs?” Copper said, nearly reeling from the realization, she gripped Dr. Caine’s shoulder. “When did this happen? What happened to Dr. Light, Rock and Roll? And Blues? Are they okay? Please tell me!” Dr. Caine looked confused.

“It has been almost a hundred years since Thomas Light was alive,” he said, “Rock…you must mean the legendary robot hero, Megaman. I myself thought he might just be an urban legend, but if he is indeed real, I cannot say what happened to him. We have no records.”

“Rock—” Copper faltered, “They’re…dead?” She looked away. Tears pricked her eyes. I knew Rock could cry…she said…this doesn’t prove anything about my humanity. It’s probably just simulated grief.

“Copper?” Dr. Caine asked. His voice was warm and soft as featherdown. It had a comfort in it Copper didn’t want to feel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “It’s…it’s a lot to take in. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Caine.” Dr. Caine smiled a little.

“Come with me,” he said, “You can stay with me and X at my lab. My house is attached to it.”

“X?”

“According to a journal we found from Dr. Light,” Dr. Caine explained, “X was his final and finest creation. A special robot who could think for himself, who doesn’t need to follow the laws of robotics. He can worry and feel like a human. You are a similar make as him, though something does seem to be different.”

“Yes. Something is,” Copper said, “Very well. I’ll come. I would like to meet X. But I need to do something first. Alone. I’ll be back here in a few hours at most.”

“Where are you going?” Dr. Caine asked.

“It’s something I have to do. I can’t talk about it…not now.” Dr. Caine nodded and she ran. Dr. Caine’s team members joined his side by the empty pod.

“You just let that robot go?” one of them asked. Dr. Caine’s eyebrows were furrowed and he stroked his beard.

“Some emotions are so strong that even in a robot they must be genuine,” he said. With that, he walked away, leaving his team to wonder what had passed between the two.

Copper ran and ran as fast as she could. She closed her eyes and ran back to her cave through muscle memory since the terrain would have changed. At least my memory seems to be intact…I wonder how Light pulled that off… She ducked into her familiar cave which was still there…but different than it used to be. It was a bit more eroded and it had a very damp feel in the air within.

“NEEDLE!? GEMINI!? QUICK!?” She called out hopelessly, “TOPMAN!? MAGNET!? CRASH? HEATMAN? METAL!?” A slight wind whistled through the cave. I knew it…I can hope, but in the end…they wouldn’t last a hundred years…I guess I’m the last one…She walked further in and saw their sparring room, metal bars rusted, broken off and scattered, mold growing on the ripped and disintegrated remains of the padding on the walls and floor. It was practically unrecognizable. All that was left of the arena was the broken pieces of the plastic flooring that had once stood on a wooden stage, now long decayed.

She walked on into the further recesses of the cave, where her room was. She pushed up the rusted pieces of bed and dug beneath them. There were no crystals, just a metal stick, about the length of a stick of gum. She picked it up and noticed a button on it and pushed it. A small hologram appeared and she gasped as in a geeky blue glow, the figures of the robot masters appeared. Quick stood in the middle of them and stood foremost.

“Is it working?” he asked, “Copper. Dr. Light told us what happened to you. He also told us that we most likely won’t see you for a long time if ever. So, we all wanted to say…we wanted to say goodbye. And…and thank you. You gave us a purpose, without changing us. You put off our death, if only for a little. We, and all our brothers, will always be grateful…” All 8 of her companion masters in turn said their goodbyes, sometimes inside jokes came up in their final words to her. She cried.

“Oh, one more thing,” Topman said, “Dr. Light wanted us to tell you.” Crashman and Heatman stepped forward.

“He made something to get rid of the crystals,” they said, “We got rid of all of them, so you don’t have to worry if you find them missing when you wake up.”

“So…” Topman said, “I guess this is…goodbye. I, for one, was honored to be a Guardian of the Crystals.” He spun and bowed. The others again murmured goodbyes and the hologram glitched out. Copper covered her hand with her mouth and bawled freely, no longer caring as the sobs racked her body. She lay there for quite some time, mastering her tears and then breaking out again in new racking gasps as she thought of them. She held the stick tightly at last and stood up.

“I’ll miss you,” she said to the empty cave, “goodbye.” Then she walked back out of the cave for the last time.

She slowly made her way back to the ruins of Light Labs, where Dr. Caine still waited for her as the last rays of sunset fought their sinking below the horizon.

“I’m ready,” she said softly with a sniff. Dr. Caine smiled gently and picked up a bag.

“Come,” he said, “It’s late. X will be worried by now.” They drove to Dr. Caine’s lab and Copper breathed deep, smelling the familiar scent of a robotics lab: Grease, metal, cleaning supplies, and the occasional whiff of some food or other. In all honesty, it was a homey smell to her.

“X!” he called, “X!” Copper’s jaw dropped as X walked in. Blue eyes, brown hair…she nearly cried Rock’s name. Indeed he looked almost just like an older Rock. He appeared to be about 16 and wore light blue armor. She quickly shut her jaw.

“Dr. Caine!” X exclaimed, “I was getting worried! Oh, hello. I’m X.” He smiled brightly. Even his voice sounds like an older Rock…A lump formed in her throat and she couldn’t speak for a moment, holding back more tears.

“Is…is something wrong?” X asked gently. Copper rubbed her eye and shook her head.

“N-No,” she stammered, taking a deep breath. “I’m Copper,” she said at last to X, “Nice to meet you, X. Dr. Caine invited me to stay after he found me at Light Labs.”

“Light Labs?” X asked, “The ruin that he was excavating where he found me?” Dr. Caine nodded and X laughed. Copper held back more tears.

“That’s great! Welcome! Dr. Caine’s dinner is ready. Why don’t you come join the two of us?” Copper nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

#Fanfiction Friday #Megaman-X fanfic #IMPwritings #help I was so close to being done with TDC ;u;#next week I promise

2 notes · View notes

swaggywalkman · 4 months ago

Text

Jane The Killer Short Story: The Richardson Account

Hey all, this is my rendition of Jane The Killer, based on multiple renditions of her character. I will definitely have to shoutout the creator, MadameBlackWolf. Thanks for making a staple!

Without further ado, enjoy.

“This was my biggest mistake”

It was October 24, 2006, I was taking a bus ride home; my best friend Alyssa, she lives in Lakewood, so a few cities north from me, I was getting home from her halloween party.

For the party, I dressed up as a fallen angel, black contacts, angelic wings that’re showstoppers. Took me a few months to complete it, so when a fight inevitably happened, I got thrusted into a table damaging my wings. I got pissed, storming out to any bus station close enough to take me home. I’d rather walk home than sleep over with them, I couldn’t just tell them off, I couldn’t.

The soft flutters the bus made left the air light, the night sky almost mesmerizing on this short-lived trip. An uneasy feeling arrived, the feeling of soft vibration gripped my thigh in a repetitive pattern; immediately looking across the seat to the other side. All I saw was just some man across from me, staring off. Left in thought, I realized way too late that my phone began to ring, it was just a phone call from Alyssa.

“Jane? What the hell, You just left! I was worried!! ” Alyssa said, the sound of Rock BLASTING through the phone.

“Yeah Lys, I’m fine, just thought I’d go home early instead of sleep over, the fight was. . to much for me. . .I’m. .I’m Sorry” I said, leg bouncing.

“Jane. . .it’s whatever, you gotta stop doing that though, you had me worried” In her end, the music died down, making her voice clear. “Hey Janey, listen, I’ll make it up to you. Next time I throw a party, it’ll be just you and me, and I’ll let you have the living you to yourself. . . .with your little friend, Mary” She cooed on her side, she knew what she was doing.

“Okay okay Lys, whatever, you got my attention” I chuckled, my grin widening as a last stitch effort to hide my flustered expression. Feeling the bus slow down as I recognized the terrain, I said to her “well, I gotta get going, got a LONG walk back, wish me luck Lys, cya girlie~”

“Yeah yea, don’t stay up too late again, I’ll see ya Janey” She gave me no chance to respond as the music grew, hanging up on me. That ass.

When the bus came to a stop, I got up, heading to the center, that man was there, we both met in the middle. His smell was rancid, like roadkill that was left in the sun, his gray hood having all these splotches as he faced downward, concealing his face with that long black, dry hair.

“Sorry sir, you can go first . .” I said to him, he didn’t even listen. Is he deaf? “S. . .sir...you can go first.” All he did was stand there. What made this worse was the fact that he was in the middle of the path. I had to squeeze around him, feeling his damp hoodie rub against my dress, tainting it with that nefarious scent as I stepped out. “Sorry. .”I muttered, having to invade his personal space to get past him. As I walked towards the exit of the bus, he followed , even when I left it. I did everything not to think about it, stepping onto the sidewalk, prepping my walk home.

Moving through the streets of Westminster was a return to form, a chance to let my stress wind down. However, I couldn’t shrug the heavy feeling in my chest, footsteps following me in these timid streets. It wasn’t something I wanted to worry about, attempting to consider that whoever that was near was just making their own trip home. After enough time, I took a glance behind me, shuddering as I saw that man again. This time his hair finally subsided. What I saw was charred, flaky skin, pale as ash. The smile he made from a distance was almost cartoonishly long. Squinting allowed me to see the edges of his smile ripped through flesh, muscles pulsating through any of the open crevice. Peering up at him, his eyes were comparable to a raccoon with his bags. The bloodshot red easily apparent from a distance, it disgusted me.

My heart dropped as I froze in place for a moment as he approached me. I only realized how bad this situation truly was when I saw him slowly reach into the pocket of his hoodie. I didn't care what he had, but I had to fight; run. I was paralyzed in fear as he slowly approached, 10 feet. . .5 feet. . .3 feet, once his scent was apparent to me, it broke my trance. I jolted from the scene, hearing his footsteps increase further and further into a sprint . I ran as fast as I could.

Choosing the nearest alleyway was my only opportunity, quickly barreling the pathway, feeling puddles of muck shoot up at me, his footsteps closing in. It’s a game of tag, zigzagging around these tight narrow halls, I just kept running. The further I got the worse I began to panic, I kept running, finally stopping as my chest took in a sharp pain. I snapped back, staring down the dark halls, taking a sigh of relief as I crawled to one of the walls, curling next to a dumpster to catch my breath, I lost him. Now that I had a moment of rest, I noticed my wings, the condition worsened, leaving a trail, feathers lining the path I ran, trailing to me. To my surprise, he never caught on, he didn’t follow. It was a chance for me to escape.

It took me an hour longer to get back home. Paranoia engulfed my mind, scrambling to find anything recognizable. Luckily, I noticed Magnolia Street, the panic that engulfed me dissipated, I’m almost home. As I came back to the apartments, nightfall encouraged me to tiptoe around, continuing my silent journey to not disturb anyone. Something I didn’t notice at the time is a small trail of feathers, a reminder of where I’ve been, how close I was to being safe. Hunting my specific complex, I stepped into the building, exhaustion making the trek up the stairs grueling. Counting the numbers of each floor, then each door left my breath heavy, my mind sporadic. I took out a key, opening the door, locking it shut.

Nothing was more comforting than the soft breeze that engulfed me entering the living room, placing my phone onto the kitchen table as exhaustion forced me to collapse into the couch. Haphazardly removing the clasps that held the wings onto me, I processed the night that occurred to me. Reflecting on what to say, could I tell them? They’d be mortified to know I came back alone. Contemplating my actions, I sluggishly forced my body into action, they needed to know. Approaching my parents bedroom door, I knocked, after a long wait, I let myself enter.

“. .Mom. .Dad. . ? I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be back so soon. . .but. . .”

Flicking the light switch on left me and made my chest burn. The bedsheets are wet and damp. My father was on the floor, punctures lining from the back of his leg all the way up to his back. A pillow left on my mothers face, her body limp. It left me paralyzed, feeling the world revolve around me put me in a dizzying haze. I fell to my knees. I couldn’t move.

Only with all the strength my mind could muster could I get up, running back to the kitchen table, rushing to dial the police.

“Please Please come I need you please I. .MY Parents they were. .” I felt my chest clamp, my speech becoming harder to lift.

The droning in my head wouldn’t let me hear what the officer was saying on the other end, I couldn’t think straight, that image ingrained in my head. The only sense of clarity occured when the thought of my sister came into the forefront, it got me to scramble to her.

“JESSIE!!!” I cried, dropping my phone. I ran to our bedroom, she needs to be okay. The anxiety in my chest was already enough, the pain was unbearable; it explains why it hurt more than ever. I struggled to breath, that putrid scent made it so hard to. The shock left me queasy,collapsing to the floor. I felt myself choke up, liquid strangling me. My back hurts, I couldn’t breath, the fluid that blew from my mouth left a small puddle. Attempting to look to my side, I saw the window in the living room wide open, my vision blurring.

“go to sleep” was the last thing I heard, almost comforting as my eyes began to black out, sirens seeping through the rush of footsteps.

#reading #literature #digital illustration #digital painting #jane the killer #jeff the killer #creepypasta #horror #short fiction

5 notes · View notes

viscerax · 2 years ago

Text

Don't wanna love you anymore, but I can't help it

Memories were blurry. Tim doesn't remember a time in his life where his brain wasn't totally fucked, but it seemed to be getting worse ever since he showed up. He shoved his little camera in his face, spinning some intricate lie about trying to continue Marble Hornets, that stupid fucking film project he got dragged into by Brian. Tim knew something about it was suspicious, the way he never stopped recording. The whole situation gave Tim a bad pit in his stomach. But he gave the man a chance.

Oh, how stupid he was. How stupid it was of Tim to think that anyone around him could possibly have good intentions. How stupid of him to think that things could possibly get better.

The fucker put his medical records on the internet. For the whole world to see. When Tim saw that video, hearing his name read out and snippets of his confidential information being sprawled out for the world to see, he wanted to vomit. How did he even get ahold of those?

Tim wasn't one to pull punches. And he sure as hell didn't when he finally confronted the lying bastard who fucked him over. The feeling of his fist connecting with the man's face, sending him into the concrete of the parking lot, left a satisfied buzzing in Tim's mind. Therapists were bullshit. Sometimes, violence did help.

But that satisfaction didn't last long. Because now he was here, stuck in the car with the same fucker who betrayed him. Sometimes he wished his spells of memory loss and consciousness would kick in while he sat in the passenger seat, across from Jay, listening to whatever "rock hard music" the shitty radio station decided to play, which mostly consisted with of Queen.

Tim was sure he wouldn't mind coming into consciousness, leaving Jay on the side of the road and driving off. He was angry, and when he got angry, violence tended to creep up into his mind, even if he didn't want it to be there. It almost felt like someone cracked open his skull, the soft buzzing giving him a headache, and implanted the idea of bashing Jay's head into the steering wheel into his mind.

As angry as he was, part of him understood the man's voyeuristic tendencies, his heedless courses of actions. The man was acting out of fear, instinct, a true survivalist. He'd seen the videos of him chasing after the poor guy. He was surprised Jay lasted so long. Tim being clad in that typical porcelain mask that sent shivers down his own spine when he saw it, a reminder of his inevitable succumbing to the other side of him.

To keep himself from blowing up on Jay, taking his camera and breaking it over the poor boys head, he instead opted for giving him the cold shoulder, turning the scratchy radio up loud and chainsmoking, letting out a rattling cough every now and then.

"Smoking kills, you know?" Jay let out a half-hearted chuckle, it was obvious he was trying to ease the tension. Tim's eyes shifted, shooting the man a glare. As he did, he caught sight of the way the golden sun crowned Jay's head in a halo of soft light.

Tim internally kicked himself. This man was nothing like an angel.

"So does being nosey." He snarkily commented, taking another drag, turning to Jay and blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction. Jay let out a few coughs, waving the smoke away.

"Would be nice if you didn't blow that in my face... at least not while I'm driving." Jay let out an annoyed huff, eyes shifting to glare at Tim, although there was a bit of lighthearted-ness to his gaze, much less stern and upsetting than Tim's.

"Yeah... whatever..." Tim grumbled, obviously done with the conversation.

Jay let out a sigh, catching Tim's attention for just a moment. "This is fucked. Ya'know."

Tim just stared, he wasn't sure if he should respond, if Jay wanted gim to respond. So instead, he quirked and eyebrow, urging Jay to continue.

"This whole... ordeal. Everything. You, me, Alex. It all fucking sucks." Tim could tell Jay needed some kind of outlet, so he didn't stop the boy as he continued rambling. "You don't deserve this, Tim. You.... you're a good man. God, a kid shouldn't have had to deal with... with that fucker." Tim recalled briefly telling Jay og how Tim saw "that fucker" long before Marble Hornets was a thing. How he could feel the buzzing in his skill for as long as he could remember, ever present and only getting worse as the years went on. For a long time, Tim was convinced it was all just another hallucination, the schizophrenia nipping him in the bud. But everything seemed to align so horribly perfect. Seeing the stark image of him on those tapes only further confirmed his suspicions.

Tim stared kind of dumbfoundedly at Jay. He wasn't sure what to say. The topic of his childhood, of "that fucker" always made him uneasy, but another part of him felt like the exposure therapy made it easier to cope with, to know that in some twisted sense, he and Jay were in the same boat, both of them clinging to eavhother to keep the other from going overboard.

"You just... I just.... God I hate this, Tim. I should have never gotten involved with this shit. I shouldn't have dragged you back into this, I-I'n so- fuck- I'm so sorry." The dam inside of Jay was broken. He seemed to be spilling every thought he had, tears clouding his vision as he did. His hands shook as he clutched the steering wheel, and Tim worried about the logistics of driving safely while crying.

"Pull over." Tim muttered. Jay, unsure of what Tim planned to do, but seeming to have an inkling of trust in Tim, obliged. He slowly pulled the car off the side of the road, putting it in park and staring down at the wheel as he seemed to have a death grip on it.

Jay sniffled, eyes still brimming and spilling with tears. He refused to look up, he just let his hot tears stream down his face, slowly gliding down his chin, his neck, and soaking into the neck of his shirt.

After a few moments of awkward silence, only broken by Jay's slowly quieting sobs, Tim silently reached over, placing a hand on Jay's shoulder. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. It was a silent reassurance. A way of saying "I'm here. You can cry" without Tim having to actually say it.

After a few moments, Jay finally looked up, over at Tim. Tim's eyes locked with the tear ridden boy, and he gave him a weak half-smile. It was the most vulnerable he had ever managed to be.

Suddenly, Jay's gaze shifted, and his eyes filled with horror as he stared at something just past Tim. Tim quickly shot his head around, searching for any kind of warning signs. There was nothing. Nothing except for the distant line of trees. Tim looked back to Jay, who had began to shake. Jay's breathing quickened, and his eyes were wide, stray mumbling escaping his lips.

"H-he's out there... isn't he. H-he's coming for us a-a-and he-"

Jay let out another sob. The shaking, the state of frozen shock,, the hyperventilating, the mindless mumbling, Tim had a vague idea of what was going on. He figured Jay was having some sort of panic attack, induced by the paranoia that "It" was out there, watching them.

Tim has had his fair share of these. He knew how to pull someone out of this state. He have Jay a soft gaze before unbuckling his seatbelt, turning and opening the door. He got out, turning to Jay. "I'm coming over there." He let Jay know he wasn't leaving him, reassuring him that his presence would return. He walked over to the drivers side of the car, popping the door open. He reached over Jay, and unbuckled his seat belt, reaching out a hand for Jay to grab. "We're going to go to the back seat. You'll have more space, you can lay down. You won't feel as cramped." Tim explained, his usual gruff tone replaced by a tender and cautious one.

Jay, barely processing his surroundings, only nodded before grabbing onto Tim's hand. Tim steadied Jay, the poor guys legs shaking from the shock and fear. He steadied him, opening the back door and allowing Jay to climb in, Tim following suit as Jay crawled into the middle seat, his breathing still quick and shaky.

Tim kept a firm grip on Jay's hand, trying to comfort him, reassure him.

"Jay... hey, listen. Its okay. Alex, The opera-"

"Dont say its name-" Jay quickly interjected, eyes wide with fear as he stared at Tim.

Tim nodded, continuing on. "-it is not there. You're okay, Jay. You're here. You're in the backseat for your car." Tim grounded him the best he could, a soft tone edging into his voice. He looked at Jay, a gaze that once only held contempt towards him, now only laced with concern and care. He was like him. He was scared.

Jay seemed to subconsciously lean into Tim's presence, the only constant in his boggled mind. This didn't go unnoticed by Tim, him being the ever observant man he was.

"How about you lay down. C'mon." Tim mumbled, awkwardly taking a hand and placing it behind Jay's head, leading him so that he could lay down. Jay didn't complain, and in fact seemed welcoming to the touch. He gingerly rested his head in Tim's lap, seeming hesitant at first, before the exhaustion of his slowly calming panic attack took over. "Good... now, breathe with me, kay?"

Jay didn't audibly respond, simply nodding. Tim gave him a half-smile, taking that as a yes, and he took a deep inhale for 4 seconds, holding for 8, and exhaling for 7. Jay followed suit, inhale, hold, exhale. The cycle repeated a few times until Jay's breathing became steadier, and he wasn't shaking with fear. Jay's eyes rested upon Tim's stark features. He found an odd sense of calm in the mind. To him, Tim was possibly the strongest person on the planet. If Tim could do it, then so could he.

The staring didn't go unnoticed by Tim. He gazed down at the man in his lap, eyes soft. Absent-mindedly, Tim's hand that rested behind Jay's head had began to carefully play with his hair, curling his fingers into it and releasing. When the action was noticed, Tim began to pull his hand away, unsure if the touch were bothering Jay. Before he could, Jay grabbed Tim's wrist, and he pushed his head back towards his hand. Almost like a cat.

Cute.

Tim chuckled, returning to curling and unfurling his fingers around Jay's locks. The feeling seemed to calm Tim as well, the repeated action calming his ever-raving mind.

After a few moments, Jay's eyes seemed to be slowly drifting shut. Tim let out a hum, glancing up at the front seat. "We gotta get going, Jay." Tim mumbled, glancing up to the front seat. Jay let out a defiant groan, shaking his head, bring his hands up, placing them against his chest and dragging them down in a semi-circle motion.

Tired.

Tim was aware of Jay's tendency to go non-verbal. He often experienced the same thing. He nodded softly. "It's okay, I'll drive." Tim hummed. "You wanna stay back here so you can spread out?"

Jay quickly shook his head. Tim didn't blame him. The dark and dim backseat didn't seem like avery comforting spot at the moment. "Alright, come on, I gotcha." Tim popped open his door, allowing Jay to sit up before he slid out, Jay following him in the process. Jay sleepily stumbled next to Tim, Tim keeping a tight grip on him as he opened the passenger door and helped Jay sit down.

For a few minutes the car ride was silent, the only sound being the soft sound of the radio, turned down so that it wouldn't disturb or overwhelm Jay.

Tim felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked over, finding Jay leaning closer to him. Jay watched him for a moment before signing.

Talk to me.

Tim looked back to the road for a moment before his gaze returned to Jay. "Talk to you? 'Bout what?"

Anything.

Tim nodded, thinking for a moment.

"I used to hate you." Wow, harsh opening. He looked over, seeing a panicked yet understanding look upon Jay's face. "I was... angry. And my mind was fucked and I just. Raged. Not saying that you publishing my medical files online for all to see is okay, but what I'm saying is... I understand. You.... you're scared. You never intended to get dragged into this and you are just trying to help. I honestly think it's a bit admirable." Tim let out a short chuckle. "I wanted to have something to hate. Someone to blame and take my anger out on other than myself. And you were right there and I just- I shouldn't have punched you. I'm sorry, about that. Hope I didn't mess up your cute face too bad." Voicing his concern had always been an issue for him. It still was an issue, but it was obvious that Jay wanted some sort of reassurance. Tim was willing to give it.

You think my face is cute?

Jay cheekily grinned, and Tim just stared, sputtering for a moment. "Thats not- no- i-"

Jay chuckled, the noises catching Tim's attention, embarrassment of being caught in the act of complimenting someone written all over his face.

I think your face is cute too.

☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆

Part of Tim wanted to hate Jay. He wanted to despise him. But he couldn't. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop liking him.

#jam #marble hornets #jay x tim #theyre so important to me #gay gay homosexual gay #idk what this is. just me rambling.

25 notes · View notes

cl0udy-wolf · 8 months ago

Text

price of freedom

part one: fate and destiny.

during his years as a fire nation soldier, lee has faced much strife. but now he must realize the true price of freedom.

tws?: character death.

In the back of a carriage, Lee sat covered with a cloth, camouflaged with the sacks and crates of vegetables. Aito sat next to him, alert, an arm around Lee's shoulder, pulling him in and keeping him steady. The wheels would hitch every now and then from the debris on the path.

They were both extremely lucky to find Aito's relative where they were stationed. He was willing to bring them back to where they belonged after they strayed from the rest of the division during battle.

Aito peered down at Lee, who seemed out of it. He placed his hand on Lee's forehead and was disappointed to find he was still burning up. He removed the cloth so he could get some air, then took a deep breath himself.

For a moment, he allowed himself to be calm and thankful that they had made it this far.

He gently shook Lee by the shoulders. No response.

"Hey, you doing okay?"

No response. Lee continued to stare blankly at the floor of the carriage.

Aito snapped next to Lee's right ear, and the younger turned his head slightly. He snapped next to the left ear, and once again received no response.

He retrieved his water skin from his pack and poured some on a smaller cloth, then placed it on Lee's forehead to hopefully reduce his fever.

The rest of the trip was spent changing Lee's cloth and watching the endless rocky landscape pass by. Aito stole an apple and offered one half to Lee, who held it loosely in his hand. He took a small bite after a while.

It was quiet, save for the hooves of the ostrich horses clacking against the road, and the sound of Lee's breathing as he napped on Aito's shoulder.

With a bit of childish curiosity, Aito asked the sleeping boy, "We're friends, right?"

He was interrupted by the clang of small, bullet-like rocks ricocheting off the carriage. Aito dodged, then shouted to his cousin. "Hey, park us over by the rocks!" He threw Lee over his shoulder. "Lee, ride's over!"

The carriage left them behind, and Aito brought Lee to cover behind large rocks. The enemy army rapidly approaching, Aito tried to wake Lee from his dazed state, and still, nothing. He groaned.

Gently, he tucked away Lee's messy hair, then placed his helmet on his head. He stared at him for a moment.

Eyes closed, Lee could've been mistaken for an angel. In these few seconds, he was away from the world that had caused him so much strife, instead dreaming about a place where he found peace.

He couldn't dream for long, Aito knew that, and he shook him. Lee woke up, a soft groan of pain leaving him.

"I'll be back soon," Aito said. "If I don't come back in-" He glanced behind him at the enemy. "-ten minutes, then leave without me."

Lee gave him a confused look. He barely registered the words, in his groggy state.

Aito sighed. He shifted to Lee's right side. "Listen. Wait ten minutes, and if I don't come back, save yourself."

Aito turned and began to walk away. Lee reached out for him, his hand shaking, but Aito didn't look back.

Lee waited five minutes before gathering all his strength and rising from his seat. He stumbled several times before regaining his footing. He trudged forward, watching the dust settle from their attackers, shuffling until he hit the dirt. He crawled on his stomach.

He was covered with mud and dirt and soaked with rain by the time he reached Aito, lying on his back with his arms and legs spread out, a knife just barely out of his grasp. The sight of his blood, being carried by the runoff, made Lee pick up his pace, though not by much.

Aito was still alive, but...

Lee plopped himself in the dirt next to Aito, sitting over him. His lips parted, and he didn't speak until a few seconds later.

"Aito."

Aito stared back at him. His lips slowly curled into a soft smile. He struggled to see over the blood in his eyes, yet he knew Lee was safe, for now.

"For the...both of us..."

"Both of us?"

Aito grabbed Lee by the shirt and brought him in for a hug. Lee rested his head on Aito's chest, feeling his arm wrapped weakly around him. He was slipping away, out of his grasp.

"Live," Aito breathed.

He chuckled softly. "That's right...you're gonna...you're gonnna..."

Lee sat up, coming back with his face coated in a layer of Aito's blood. He returned Aito's gaze, seeing his smile grow as he turned his head to the side and watched the rain sprinkle down into a small pool.

With his other hand, Aito ripped his dog tags from his neck and placed them in Lee's palm.

Aito. Fire Nation Army. 41st Division.

Lee tried to shake his head in protest. As if that would stop the hands of fate.

Aito let out a soft breath. And that was it.

Lee held Aito's tags close to his chest. He looked up at the sky, gray clouds blocking the sun. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he squeezed the tags a little tighter.

His heartwretching scream turned sob echoed for miles. He threw himself down into Aito's arms, holding his hand so tightly he felt it would break.

Letting the rain wash over both of them, Lee remained unmoving. He peered up at Aito.

Eyes closed, he could've been mistaken for an angel. He was far away from the world that had caused him so much strife, instead floating up in the clouds above.

The seconds stretched into minutes that stretched into hours, and yet Lee didn't seem to notice. He felt like he did back in the carriage, dissociated, out of it, his illness wrecking havoc on his body and weakening his spirits further.

This would be a nice place to die, he thought.

But then the face of someone dear to him, waiting for his return in Capital City, flashed in his mind. A fire was lit in his heart.

As the storm cleared and sunlight poked through the clouds, Lee rose. Aito's tags in his hand, and their final conversation repeating in his mind, Lee's determination burned like raging flames.

He forced himself away from Aito's final resting place and took his first few steps that would lead him back home.

#oc x canon #zuko x oc #atla zuko #atla #atla oc #netflix avatar the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #oc backstory #oc fic #tw death #angst #angst with a hopeful ending #ffvii parallels #ffvii coded #cloud strife coded #the price of freedom #lee wants to be cloud SO BAD

4 notes · View notes

emeraldiis · 2 years ago

Text

Cross Country Love Affair // Idaho (11)

A/N: a shorter chapter to lead up to the events of the last two! I’ll be busy for the next few days, but my hope is to have at least one more chapter before the end of next week. enjoy!

CCLA Masterlist

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Bucky makes your blood boil like no other man can. In a twisted turn of events, the two of you are stuck on a road trip from hell. This fic follows Bucky and the reader from Florida all the way to Washington state. Nothing like being trapped in a car for fifty hours to break the ice. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Or something like that.

Warnings: canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, recreational drug use

You slept like a rock. The high had faded as you dozed, and you awoke bleary eyed to the rumble of a van underneath you and the bright morning sun shining in your face. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sat up and groaned. The events of the night before rushed back to you in a dizzying wave, and your stomach turned as you shot a glance up to the front of the van.

Bucky sat silent in the driver’s seat. At the sound of you waking, his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror for a brief second before returning his gaze to the road ahead. You grimaced. Looked like you were back to not speaking.

After taking a moment to fully wake up, you clambered into the passenger seat as gracefully as you could manage. “Good morning,” you tried.

He grunted in response and kept his eyes forward, barely acknowledging your existence. You sighed and looked out the window, hoping to see some sort of sign to tell you where you were. A billboard flew by, advertising a local potato farm. Ah, Idaho.

Just one state to go, you thought to yourself, resting your chin on your palm as you settled into your seat. No radio, no banter, just the sound of the highway to keep you company as the scenery blurred past. The wide open plains of the countryside weren’t enough to keep you occupied; you couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

Bucky’s lips had felt so soft on yours, and your mind drifted back to the hurt on his face when you had pulled away. Irritation bubbled in your chest. If Bucky couldn’t handle rejection, then he was no different than any other man you’d turned down. One ‘no,’ and he was left sullen, pouting like a child. It honestly seemed out of character for him. Sure, he was arrogant and annoying, but immature enough to ignore you because you didn’t want to sleep with him? That was a whole new level.

Something nagged at the back of your head, a lingering suspicion that maybe, just maybe it had meant more to him than just sex. You banished that thought in an instant, but couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be something more with him. You thought of late night talks, teasing that held more affection than vitriol. You thought of road trips that had nothing to do with missions, thought of belting Nickelback and Taylor Swift and Bucky’s hand clasped in yours across the center console. It sounded…nice. No, you were lying to yourself. It was more than nice, it was everything you had ever wanted in a partnership.

Frustrated tears sprung to your eyes as you came to the realization that you had destroyed the chance of that over one kiss. If there was even the smallest chance that Bucky cared for you more than he let on, it was gone now, replaced by clenched jaws and uncomfortable silence. Sniffing slightly, you dashed the thoughts from your head and settled for counting billboards.

The hours stretched on, the state line to Washington drawing neared with every agonizing minute. Neither of you had spoken. When the low gas light came on, Bucky pulled off towards a gas station without a word. You drummed your fingers against the window, thankful for the slight break in the thick tension.

“Going to get snacks, want any?” You said quietly as Bucky pulled up to a gas pump. You hadn’t seen him eat much in the past day or two; he must’ve been starving.

He opened the door and stepped out, shrugging. “Not really,” he grunted.

You sighed and left him to wait by the pump. After a trip to the bathroom to look at your weary face in the mirror and some brief deliberation, you decided to get him something anyway. Fighting Hydra on an empty stomach didn’t seem like the greatest idea. Scouring the aisle, you settled on a protein bar. It wasn’t much, but you hoped it would be enough. As you neared the counter, a bright red bag caught your eye, and you smiled slightly as you recognized it as the brand of gummy bears that he’d bought at the beginning of the trip. After a moment’s hesitation, you picked them up and set them on the counter with the rest of your goodies.

“Just this, and forty on pump five.” You said, glancing out the window. The cashier rang you up and bagged your snacks, and then you were off, back towards the van. You climbed back in as Bucky pumped the gas, idly snacking on a bag of chips. Truth be told, you weren’t that hungry either. Your stomach felt queasy at the thought of almost another full day of driving in silence. It wasn’t the end of the mission you were worried about; despite Bucky’s refusal to speak, you knew he’d be professional when the time came. He’d have your back, and you’d have his.

You jumped slightly at the slamming of the door when Bucky got back in. Before he could put the key in the ignition, you reached into the plastic bag to grab his food. “Here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He eyed the protein bar for a moment, then settled his gaze on the bag of gummy bears. Something akin to a smile tugged at his lips for a moment as he gingerly grabbed them from your outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.” The surprised gratitude in his expression eased the clenching of your stomach. Fuck, you’d never thought you’d be here, missing Bucky’s smile. It had always irritated you in the past, but its absence left a void somewhere deep in your ribs. “How much further?”

Bucky started the van and pulled out of the station. “About seven hours, we’ll get there late.”

You nodded and pulled out your phone, shooting a quick text to Sam that you were closing in on the target, along with a vague threat that if he was wrong again, you’d have his head. He replied with a thumbs up emoji. Boring.

With a sigh of complete and utter boredom, you peered out the window. “A, Mcdonald’s.” You mumbled to yourself.

“Sorry?” Bucky looked at you quizzically.

You shrugged. “Oh, it’s just a dumb game my parents used to play with me on road trips.” Saying it out loud felt a bit silly, and you laughed sheepishly. “You, uh, try to find all the letters of the alphabet in order on billboards.” You explained. “You can’t use one sign for more than one letter, you can’t use a sign someone else used, and whoever gets to the end of the alphabet first wins. But I normally just play by myself when I get bored.”

Bucky hummed to himself, nodding. He was quiet for a few minutes before piping up. “A, Idaho,” he said, pointing up at a sign hanging on the overpass you just passed.

Hiding your grin of surprise, you raised your eyebrow at him. “Alright, you’re on.”

Most of the letters early on came easily, and it wasn’t until both you and Bucky were stuck on the same letter that things started to ramp up.

“Q, quality,” you said smugly, giving Bucky a triumphant smirk. “Good luck finding another Q.”

He sulked in his seat. “This game isn’t fair, I have to focus on driving, too.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re just mad because you know I’m going to win.”

You raced through the next letters, until the only one you needed was Z. Fingers crossed for some sort of pizza place sign, you grew more and more ansty as Bucky caught up to you. Once again, you were stuck on the same letter, and he looked more determined than ever to win.

A sign approached from the left side of the road, and you scanned it quickly, eyes on the prize, mouth opening to-

“Z, pizza.” Bucky said before you could get the words out. “I win.”

“You fucker! I was just about to say that!”

He laughed and shrugged. “Skill issue?”

Oh, what the fuck. “Who the hell is teaching you all these Gen Z phrases? I need to have a word with them.”

Miming a zipper over his lips, he said, “Trade secret, sorry.”

“Is it Wanda? I bet it’s Wanda.” You crossed your arms across your chest and pretended to pout. As frustrated as you were about losing, you felt like you were walking on air. One silly little road trip game was all it took to finally convince you that yes, you enjoyed spending time with Bucky. He kept you entertained, whether it be with snarky banter or dumb competitions. There was rarely a boring moment with him. You were done pretending; you liked Bucky.

“What?” He said, giving you a concerned look.

You jerked your head to the side, realizing that you’d been smiling up at him dumbly for god knows how long. “Uh, nothing. Just thinking about how I’m definitely going to take down more Hydra agents than you.”

He smirked and dropped a hand from the wheel to extend it to you. “May the coolest Avenger win.”

#cross country love affair #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #mcu #my writing #fanfiction #bucky x reader #imagine

21 notes · View notes

harmonictechnicality · 2 years ago

Text

This has got to be a mistake. There is no way on this spherical floating rock of fucked-uppery that this is the right hotel room.

Rose petals. Champagne bottles in a glass bucket. A silver tray of chocolate covered strawberries. A goddamn hot tub in the center of the room??

Mistake. Total mistake. The highest of errors.

See, Eddie is just tagging along with Steve on his monthly trips to visit Henderson at his big-brained university. And since Eddie has earned himself an appalling (yet valid) reputation of being flaky as dandruff, Steve was in charge of all the travel arrangements. Gas, schedule, hotel room.

This isn’t a hotel room. This a fucking honeymoon suite.

“The concierge said this was the only room left.” Steve tells him, plopping his duffel bag onto the heart-shaped bed. Which… fuck, really? Those exist outside of soft-core pornos?

“Sure. Okay.” Eddie spots candles on the balcony. Their balcony. Holy… “But why is all of this romantic shit here? Cause I’m sure as hell not paying for any of it.”

Eddie is barely paying for anything to begin with. He bought the snacks at the first gas station stop and has conveniently forgotten to pitch in ever since.

Steve shrugs. “It just… comes with the room, apparently.”

Eddie really wishes Steve had not put emphasis on that specific word. Knowing his hyperactive imagination, he won’t be able to un-hear that phrase for the entire duration of their trip. Awesome.

See, none of this would’ve been a problem two months ago. Up until then, Eddie never thought about inflicting red-rope marks around Steve’s wrists or how salivating it must sound to have his own name leaving Steve’s mouth while it’s stuffed with silk. No. Before two months ago, Eddie had Very Normal thoughts about Steve Harrington.

But since that day - the day Steve insisted on helping Eddie reapply his new eyebrow piercing, Eddie’s normal thoughts have been fucking poisonedwith vulgarity.

It was everything whipped into one moment. The close proximity, the chemical-high off the sanitation wipes, the wetness of Steve’s fingers on him, the slight pinch of the metal threading through Eddie’s skin.

As soon as Steve inserted the thin barbell, Eddie audibly gasped, swore quietly, had to play it off like the insertion hurt or whatever - just so Steve wouldn’t freak the fuck out. It proved to be an ineffective attempt at coolness, obviously Steve knew what he was doing. Has been an absolute tease about it ever since too. Flirty comments with Eddie when no one is around or making subtle touches whenever Eddie is close enough to get away with that sort of thing.

And look, Eddie would happily encourage all of that. He’d get Steve out of that stupid little polo and kiss every muscle on his torso if he thought that’s what Steve really wanted. There’s just no damn way that they are into the same stuff, physically.

Steve is probably nuts about fluffy-pink sex. All wispy touches and muffled moans under the covers. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit. Eddie wants bruising kisses and sensual demands. He wants to dissect all the vanilla parts of Steve and replace them with black magic and velvet.

That. That is why this room, these things, that person, is making this all of this very dangerous for Eddie.

“You okay, man?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.” Liar.

“You’ve been staring at the desk lamp for like, five minutes.”

“Just speculating as to where the interior designer may have found a dark red lightbulb.” Which, yeah. Why is it red? Is red the horniest color? Eddie bets if Steve is lying beneath red lighting, it’ll look like his whole body is flushed, overheated from whatever Eddie is doing to him.

Fuck. This is bad. This is so very bad.

And yet, Steve is so unfazed. So casual. He’s eating the gummies off the snack bar like they’re not shaped like dicks. He’s turning on the stereo as if it’s not only looping through steamy saxophone solos. Why is none of this affecting him like it’s affecting Eddie? Is passion and desire so deeply woven into his Harrington DNA that this stuff is just a typical Tuesday for him? Ugh, Eddie is making his own head spin.

“So…” Eddie sways side to side. “None of this is weird to you?”

“What do you mean?”

What does he mean? What fucking gives? “Uh - there’s a bowl of flavored rubbers sitting next to your hand, dude. How are you so chill about this?”

Steve clinks his nail over the condom bowl. “It’s just stuff. No biggie.”

“Just stuff? It’s like a romance novel threw up in this place.”

“Yeah, but..” Steve counters, sounds irritated. “It’s only romantic if you’re with someone and wanna… get it on.”

Eddie scoffs. “Get it on? What - suddenly, you can’t just say fuck?”

“You’re so annoying.” Steve rolls his eyes, tosses another dick gummy into his mouth. “These are all just things. It’s all about your mindset.”

“I disagree.” Eddie states. “I think anyone with an active libido would wanna fuck all over this sex-trap.”

“Booby-trap.”

“Nice one.” Eddie gives Steve a high-five. Unironically.

“Still…” Steve turns the volume dial down on the stereo. “I think you’re wrong.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s arms fold into his chest, taking a step towards Eddie. “Then prove your point. Convince me otherwise.”

Eddie should back down. He should wrap a leash around all of his sick thoughts and chain them up somewhere far away. He should not say what he’s about to say. He shouldn’t.

“How about we make a bet?” Big yikes. Wrong move.

“What kind of bet, Munson?”

“I bet you twenty bucks that I can change your mind. If we can use up all of these so-called ‘regular items,’ without you feeling a twinge of romance, then you win.”

Steve doesn’t respond, so Eddie keeps talking. Can’t shut up anymore.

“But if you so much as blush during any of it, then I win.”

Steve opens his mouth, shuts it. He raises an eyebrow and tries again. “When you say regular items, that excludes the condom bowl, right?”

“What ever do you mean?” Eddie gives a sneaky grin, no restraining his dirty plan now. “You’re not interested in making balloon animals this evening?”

Steve huffs, plops down into a nearby chair. “So weird.”

“Do we have a deal or not, Harrington?”

This is so dumb. Eddie can tell just how dumb it is by the puzzled expression on Steve’s face. But here he is, making bets like he’s still in fucking high school, trying to swindle beefy jocks out of their cushy-privileged allowance money.

However, it appears that Steve is just as dumb as Eddie is.

“Make it forty bucks.” Steve offers a hand out to him.

Eddie accepts it, gives the firmest handshake. “You're on.”

So much for this being a normal evening.

*the rest is on ao3 :) here's the link*

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #this was supposed to be up yesterday sorryyy #hope you like it though!#all the foreplay and spicy bits are on ao3 (if you're into that) ✌️

400 notes · View notes

gretavanlace · 3 years ago

Text

Whispers In the Dark

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact

Warnings: graphic sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, masturbation, listen, all the warnings on this one. Blame Jacob Thomas Kiszka Sir

"Do you think they like me?" Jake asks, lazily spinning the mood ring that adorns your thumb. He bought it for you at a gas station as a joke. It's too big, never changes from the dusty teal color it was in the plastic display case, and it turns your finger green. In spite of, or perhaps because of, those things– you never take it off.

"I know they like you." you smile up at the ceiling of your childhood bedroom in the soft blue moonlight. "You brought my mother wine and knew all of my dad's favorite bands. Trust me, that's about all it takes."

Jake charmed his way into your parent's hearts tonight with the same ease and grace in which he had marched into yours a little more than a year ago.

He playfully swats your hip.. "Scoot over just a little, love. I'm about to fall off the bed."

You slide over and snuggle in against him. "I told you we should have booked a hotel room, but you wouldn't listen. Now look at us, squished up in a twin bed like sardines."

"I like it." he nibbles your neck playfully. "Your tits are pressed up against me."

He's only kidding, teasing you...but, lying this close to him, you can't help but want him. "I'll press my tits against you whenever you want, Jakey. All you have to do is ask." Your hand slips down to squeeze his soft cock lightly through his boxer briefs.

"You better quit." his mouth travels over your throat with a hint more urgency. "Gonna get something started that we can't finish."

"Who says we can't finish?" he's growing hard beneath your touch, but only a little, and slowly. He's fighting it.

"Seriously, babe, stop." he curls back, attempting to pull away from your touch. "They'll hear us."

"No they won't. I promise I'll be quiet," you look up at him with innocent, promising eyes as your mouth sucks at his chest, just above his nipple. "I've never been fucked in this bed before. Don't you want to be the first?"

"Never?" he digs his fingers into your hair tightly, pulling you closer and guiding you until your mouth is no longer above his nipple, but on it, licking and sucking at the tiny, hardened peak.

"Never. Close, but never all the way." you murmur, slipping your hand away from his cock to touch yourself.

You only intend to swirl a finger over your clit for a second, just to ease the ache that is quickly driving you crazy, but when you move to raise your hand away, his is suddenly there, circled around your wrist possessively. "Now, I know you don’t really want to stop. It feels good, doesn't it, love?"

When you nod, he rolls you onto your back, hovering over you on his side, hand smoothing over your belly after he pulls the sheets away to watch your hand play between your legs.

"You've never been fucked in this bed? You lived here all through college and you’re telling me one ever snuck in here and slipped it in while mommy and daddy were in the other room?" his voice is a low rumble in your ear, like sexy soft thunder in the distance warning of an approaching storm.

You shake your head, sucking your bottom lip demurely in effort to mute the moan his question has drawn from your throat. "No one's ever made me cum in this bed either, there's another first for you.

"Listen to you, whimpering already. You sound so fucking sexy." You swear this man could talk you into an orgasm without laying a single hand on you.

Your fingers slip into yourself, desperate already for that warm, full feeling. "Fuck, baby." his cock, rock hard now and hot against you, presses into your side "I can hear how wet you are."

"Jakey, please..." you whisper, need drips from your tone. "Please, I swear I'll be quiet. I promise I'll be a good girl."

You've brought out the big guns, he can't resist it when you get on your knees for him. Metaphorically, as you are now, or otherwise. He's a sucker for your uncharacteristic submission.

Watching with shaking anticipation as he slips two fingers over his tongue, you spread your legs further for him, hooking your left leg over his hip and letting the right dangle off the side of your old bed.

And then there those fingers are, pushing inside you while you rub circles over your clit, both of you working you into a (mostly) silent frenzy together.

"You're soaked, love." he nuzzles your neck, breathing hot little puffs of breath into the thin flesh over your pulse point. "You like working that pretty little pussy while I watch, don't you? Trying hard not to make a sound so no one will know what a dirty girl you are for me."

A moan that borders on being questionably loud escapes you.

"Shhh..." he breathes right against the shell of your ear. "Stay quiet, love..."

You let go of a whispered sigh and reach down, somewhat awkwardly, with your free hand to grip his cock. "You're so fucking hard."

A nod against your mouth is the only sign he's heard you speak. He slides his fingers out of you and walks them up your tummy playfully. "You said no one has ever made you cum in this bed, but that doesn't include yourself, does it?"

"How would you know?" You reach up and grab his hand, yanking it back down between your legs, but he merely caresses you, soft as dandelion fluff.

"Because I know you. You're so perfectly fucking dirty...tell me how many times you've laid here in this innocent looking bedroom teasing that needy pussy just right, wishing it was someone else's hand, or mouth, or cock."

Your back jolts away from the bed, pressing against him urgently, "I want it, Jakey. Please."

"So you aren't going to answer my question, but you expect to still get what you want? It's not that easy, pretty girl. I asked..." his fingers curl their way back into you without warning. "how many times..." another disarming stroke. "have you made this pretty pink cunt cum in this bed?" His fingers slip out, smacking your clit lightly when you whine.

"Too many times to count." you confess in a rush, eager to gain even a second's more touch from him. "Please don't make me do it myself again." a much too loud whine punctuates your plea.

"Hush, baby." he smiles through a series of soothing kisses down your neck. "Be a good girl and address me correctly. I might reward you. What do good girls get?"

"Good girls get what they want, sir." you peek up at him with pleading eyes.

You two have only ever tested the waters with his mild kink for authority here and there. It's rare and he has to be in just the right headspace. Sometimes you think you love it more than he does, but you always leave it to him to guide you down that path when the mood strikes him.

With Jake, exploring new things and venturing into the darkened corners of sex has become second nature. Never a particularly outgoing soul before, with him you have found trust. A partner who will hold your hand and drag you down with a smile into the depths of slight depravity. He grins with his gaze and catches your eye, silently asking 'isn't this fun?' There have been plenty of successes, and a few never agains...but damned if you two haven't had a great time together through them all.

Here, in the bed you slumbered in every night your entire formative life, and under your parent's roof–your father's more specifically–it makes perfect sense that tonight would be the night to usher in the return of 'sir'.

'Make me cum, sir..." you beg softly, in a gently coaxing tone. "Please? I need it so badly...I'm so wet."

"I know, baby...I know." his fingers fuck into you much too slowly, but you'll take what you can get. "You're dripping all over my hand. Feel that?" he presses his hot, hard cock into your hip. "Feel how fucking ready I am for you?"

"I feel it." you nod and lick at his lips, hoping for a deeper kiss. Instead, he pulls his hand away from your soaked center, taking hold of your neck instead.

"Listen to you whine." he praises while clicking his tongue. "So fucking needy. Is it this bedroom, where you spent so many nights wanting it? Or is it me?"

"I think it's both." Your throat is choked with pleasure, and it makes your response rasp low through a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"Like this, sugar?" he teases your clit slowly, fluttering the pad of his middle finger over it lightly. "Is this how you did it? Hmm? Too innocent to slip a finger inside? Too sweet to actually fuck yourself?"

Fuck! The things he says. The absolute depravity he's capable of is one of your favorite things in the world. He can unravel you with the flick of his wrist and a single dirty turn of phrase.

You're so close already. "Almost, Jake. Please don't stop. You're gonna make me cum."

"Already?" he whispers, with a sly grin evident in his tone. "Someone must've wanted this bad."

"Oh my god–" your hips are pumping frantically, fucking yourself up into his touch. "That's it...please, Jakey, Make me cum, fuck, make me cum!"

"Try again, love." he stills his hand and smiles when your huff of frustration flutters his hair.

"Make me cum, sir." your nails dig into his wrist, trying to force him to stay where you need him to. "I want it, I want it...please. I'll be so good for you, so quiet, I promise."

His groan of lust drenched approval makes the muscles low in your stomach clench. They begin to quiver as his hand starts working over you.

"Such a good girl, baby." His praise heats your body up. "You're my good fucking girl, aren't you?"

Mhmm,..." you nod, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, focused on the bliss he is creating between your legs and the seemingly impossible task of staying silent.

"Yeah, you are." he strokes your hair with his free hand. "Love you so much. Everything about you, sugar." He circles your clit faster.

Suddenly, he pulls your hand down and pushes your finger deeply into your warmth. "Can you feel that? How tight and wet your perfect cunt is?"

You nod, eyes staring into his in the dark as you pump your finger in and out, "So soft and sweet. Can you imagine how fucking good you feel around my cock?"

A moan gasps out of you and he shakes his head. "Too loud, love. You're gonna get us caught. We don't want them to know that their precious little angel is in here soaked and desperate to cum. Legs spread, dripping all over the sheets, and just...” — he licks into your mouth between each word— “...so...fucking...close."

That does it, as he knew it would, and with just one more rub, he sends you plummeting into your orgasm so violently your world flashes white and burns hot for a moment. You hold your breath and search for his eyes as your vision begins to clear, only releasing a ragged sigh when your lungs sting, aching for oxygen.

"Oh my god..." now Jake is the one who sounds out of control and desperate. "You did good, baby. You barely made a sound, and you came so fucking hard, too. Fuck, that was hot. I almost came in my pants like a teenager." he laughs a little at that last bit, but judging by the look in his eye, he isn't kidding.

Using his obvious need to get off to get your way, you bring your finger up to his mouth and gloss his lips with your slick cum, then dip it into his mouth, sighing as you watch him suck. "Fuck me."

He nods and yanks his pajama bottoms down just a little past his hips, he doesn't bother to kick them off all the way and you love that. It makes this so much hotter...like you really are teenagers, like you've snuck him into your room and you could get caught any second.

Rocking his cock into your center he drops his head and whispers in your ear, nearly killing you. "Can you take me nice and quiet? Or am I gonna have to cover your mouth while I give it to you?"

In response, you bring his right hand up to cover your mouth, and his left to press into your throat.

"You're bad." he breathes, upping the pressure around your neck. "I'm gonna give you what you needed all those nights you spent alone in here rubbing that pretty fucking pussy, trying to get yourself off. You want it? You wanna finally get wrecked in this bed, sugar?"

Your eyes roll back in your head from his words alone.

"Do you?" he insists, dead set on getting an answer.

A muffled noise of confirmation sounds passed your lips and into his hand with a fevered nod.

"Yeah, you do." he nods back, kissing your temple "And I'm gonna give it to you, pretty girl. I'm gonna give you my cock."

He continues on kissing the tops of your cheeks and forehead sweetly in contrast with the vulgarity of his words. "I'm gonna fuck that tight little cunt until you soak me, and then I'm gonna cum so fucking deep inside you. I'm gonna shoot you full and you're gonna fuckin' take it."

Do it, do it, do it, do it.... Is the only thing halfway coherent running through your mind, and even that flits away when his stare locks in on yours and, with a roll of his hips, he slides his way inside you all the way to the base. A quivering, breathless moan slips out of him as you melt into the feeling.

"Fuck, you feel good, baby."

He starts slowly, but sets a faster pace when a tiny whine of need falls into his palm over your lips, and soon you want even more. When you thrust up to meet him harder, he understands and wordlessly yanks a pillow up, shoving it between the headboard and the wall.

"It wouldn't do for them to hear me fucking you this hard, would it, love?" he taunts softly in your ear, biting down on your earlobe when you offer a small whimper, clutching and gently clawing at his waist.

It wouldn't do for them to hear him fucking you at all, but there's obviously no need to point that out.

Your nails bite into him and your touch is rewarded with a hiss of a moan that makes you clench around him.

"I felt that, baby..." he fucks you with deep, determined strokes. He's felt your body tighten and hum with electric lust, and he knows why. "If we were alone, I'd let you make me moan and beg for you."

Goddamn.

You can hear him so clearly...all those breathless groans and shaking breaths. The way his little surprised sighs hitch and catch in his throat the closer he gets to cumming. The way he begs and pleads to cum when he's almost there, even when he's wielding his control over you.

You want it almost badly enough to not care who would hear him.

Jake knows exactly what you're missing, and because of this, he drops his mouth down closer, allowing his strangled breaths to fall against your ear. He moans whispered sweet nothings to you, both filthy and endearing, secreting them away into the sweat sheened flesh of your neck.

You're close again already, but he's closer, and he knows it. So, with a flashing series of movements, he has pulled himself free of the grip of your hands, as well as the wet grip of your cunt. The loss you are left with is nearly physically painful, but it doesn't last long enough for you to even really register it, and now his face is buried between your legs. His mouth latches around your clit, his arms circling your thighs to hold you close to his kiss.

When your fingers lace through his hair giving you the leverage you need to buck feverishly against his face, he murmurs a muffled, "Oh, fuck yeah." into your core.

The second his pointed tongue begins drawing rapid circles over the swollen bud of your clit, that delicious warm coil twists to life in your belly. "Feels so good, Jake." you praise so quietly you can't be sure he's even heard you until he groans back in response. "Don't stop. Make me cum. Do it...please, baby."

He nods, "C'mon on, love...give it to me."

The desperation that drips from his tone pushes you forward, and abruptly you're free-falling into the warm pool of euphoric bliss that he has created just for you. In an effort to stay silent, you bite down on your lip until you taste the copper hint of blood. His hands are sliding up and down along your thighs, reveling in the way they shake and jerk, and while he doesn't stop completely, he slows his pace to gentle licks, guiding you back down slowly.

Reluctantly, you untangle your fingers from his hair when he sits back on his heels. His cheeks are flushed and pink, lips swollen, face shining with your release, hair a halo of tangles created by your tugging and pulling...in short, he looks like sex incarnate.

"You're fucking beautiful." you reach for him by clasping your hands open and closed like a spoiled child and it makes him smile.

When the back of his hand moves to wipe across his mouth before he kisses you, you stop him with a single, "Don't." that casts his eyes wild.

Licking a soft stripe over his chin and lips, you cause a rumbling groan deep in his chest. "You taste good, don't you? So sweet, that’s why you’re my sugar. So fucking sweet. "

In lieu of a response, you reach between your overheated bodies and wrap your fist around him. You both sigh when you tease the head of his cock up through your folds to your slightly over-stimulated clit.

He smiles down when you shudder at the sensation. "Sensitive, are we, love?"

You return his smile sweetly, completely taken with him and the way he makes you feel. "You made me cum so hard...felt so good."

His hand reaches for yours, lacing your fingers together as he pins it down beside your pillow. "Remember," he pauses to pepper your neck with soft, slow kisses. "quiet as a mouse, pretty girl."

You nod and bat your eyes innocently. "I'll behave." The promise is punctuated by a gasp of surprise as he drives into with one smooth thrust of his hips.

Immediately, he backs off, concern tipping his eyebrows up. "Too hard?" "No," you shake your head earnestly. "It's perfect. Keep going."

He picks up the pace, driving into hard and deep, rolling his hips to catch your clit just right. When your hips begin rocking up to meet him he nods into the crook of your neck with a growl. "That's my good girl, fuck me back."

The shaky authority you hear in his voice sets you frantic, and you don't even realize how hard you're pulling on his hair with your free hand until he sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. You ease your grip but he shakes his head. "Pull it as hard as you want, baby. Whatever you've got to do to keep that pretty mouth shut."

"Fuck, Jakey..." you demand breathlessly, yanking hard at the roots. "Say it again."

"You like that?" he teases, lapping at the shell of your ear. "Keep your mouth fucking shut, little girl, because I'm not stopping until you cum...and you might want to rethink your tone."

He fucks you harder, and it serves as both a punishment and a reward. It feels indescribable to be under the warm weight of his body, taking it so well for him, but you have to fight against every fiber of your being not to cry out, to scream, and sob, and call his name out to the heavens.

In the blink of an eye, your leg is snatched up and folded over the crook of his elbow, and it sends his cock grinding deeper. There's that delicious burning coil in your belly again...a welcomed old friend that precedes the orgasm he his quickly coaxing from you.

"Right there!" you whisper with a desperate exhale. "Right fucking there, Jake...fuck!"

"Gonna cum?" his question lilts up at the end, teasing you, a smirk with words rather than his lips.

"Yeah..." you mean to say more, but your brain is chasing a high and can't be bothered with complex thoughts.

"Come on then, pretty girl." his steady rhythm is beginning to waver. "Cum all over my cock...I wanna feel it."

It hits you with a staggering jolt, similar to that moment when you're almost asleep and your body rebels and makes you feel as though you're tumbling off the edge of a building.

His palm crashes down over your mouth, and that's the only indicator that noise of any sort might have been escaping you.

"That's it, sugar." he croons into your ear. "Don't stop. Please don't stop. Keep going, keep cumming for me. Just let it ride, feels so fucking good. You're gonna make me—oh fuck...please, baby, please."

There's that begging that rips you to shreds in the most divine way. You squeeze hard around him and sink down deeper into the dredges of your orgasm, waiting for him to join.

Curses and praises sink into your brain as his teeth sink into your neck, until his hips stagger and still. He cums with a vow of, "I love you. Fuck, I love you so much." floating into your heart.

The intensity has left you both completely spent and you fall into a tangle of breath and limbs. Curled into one another so tightly it's difficult to discern where he ends and you begin. As it should be.

You finally breach the silence with a giggle. "If they heard us, I will literally die."

"They didn't. You did so well, little mouse." he assures you, petting your hair soothingly. "Stop worrying."

You pinch the warm skin of his stomach and then run a fingertip down his happy trail. "Yes, sir."

He groans with a smile and clasps your hand in his. "Shut up and go to sleep, or I'll put you over my knee and knock some sense into you."

"Promises, promises." you tease back before snuggling in and drifting off.

Taglist: @goattsintrees @greta-van-chaos @moonlightbrekker @theweightofstardust @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @shesalrightshesouttasight @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @weightofdreams-gvf @gardenofgreta

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet smut #greta van smut #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka smut #fanfic #jake gvf #gvf fic

744 notes · View notes