#vile spectre

[corpseprxnce]

13,16,8

Omg hi!

8. Sex on the bed, couch or the floor?

All 3!

13. Is there anybody right now you'd like to have sex with?

Urm maybeeeeeee 😌

16. A song you'd listen to during hard/rough/kinky sex?

Always Deftones and Nine Inch Nails <3

[sunnyscript]

rambling in tags

Sidenote: if this seems batfam heavy it's cuz these characters have been the cause of a lot of fandom wank and I have a grudge

[dragongirlpoet]

Dark Signs 2

Pt I I Pt III

Alucard x you

Synopsis: You asked Alucard for a favour. Now you have to be careful what you wished for. "To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster" - Vampire Hunter D

TW: Dark fantasy, horror & gore elements, blood, SMUT (Alucard is feral in this one) Explicit 🔞 I Words: 3.5k

Also to @skychaser777 hope you can sleep after this 😉

The hollow stone walls echoed my shaky breaths, caving them in, the thumping of my heart violent in my ears. My skin was pricked with goosebumps, foreboding dire dwellings. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Absurd question, considering everything was inherently far from right. 

There had only been one instance where I felt unsafe with Adrian. 

Located in the underbelly of Wallachia was a forgotten catacomb, a labyrinth where the dead and undead alike convened. I had been extracting bile from slaughtered night creatures, told to render powerful salves when mixed with mint, myrrh and…other herbs. 

Body sticky with sweat and hands grimy from reaching into revolting guts, I was almost to my fifth vial when a guttural growl stopped me dead in my tracks. 

From the marrows of a tunnel, a numbing cold, laced with strangled gnawing, reverberated through the passageways.

Every fibre of my being told me to run, alas I had all but the impudence of a child. Unsheathing my iron dagger, ensorcelled to wound even the most vile, I treaded warily towards my impending doom.  

The sight that awaited me was sickening. Crouched over bodies upon bodies of night creatures was a pallid, mangled man? His face was buried in their carcasses, marring at their flesh, lapping at their blood. 

Before I could take another breath, the man turned, face smeared with ravaged viscera and foul, curdled blood. He had hair like the purest wisps of wheat and eyes like dark, desecrated graves. 

I choked back a gasp.

“You foolish, foolish girl. You are not prepared for the evil that lurks here, feeds here..” his bellow was deafening, diabolical. Blood spilled from his fangs, splaying his torso tainted with innards and rotten flesh.

“Wh..who are…you?” I paced backwards as he stalked towards me.

“You don’t know who I am? Most fascinating…” he offered a smile so sinister, as if he had stumbled upon the most naive of fools he was soon to devour.

“I am the sun…rain…the darkness. I am sin made flesh and I am whom you should most fear. I am Alucard, son of Vlad Dracula Tepes.”

A loud “smash” rattled through the room as I retreated into our wooden dresser, knocking over a prized hourglass Alucard so often used to practise his script. The pair of glowering molten eyes trailed me — never blinking, burning caverns into my soul. 

I shifted my gaze downwards to avoid stepping into glass, but that was regrettably the least of my worries. Lifting my stare, those eyes were gone — quick as spectres passing through dimensions. 

Our chamber fell into a boundless black, and my human sight could not adjust acutely enough to the darkness. I flailed my arms about willing to grasp onto anything that could give me some bearing. Anxiety crept through me like poison ivy ensnaring a forsaken home. 

“Adrian? Stop this please! This isn’t funny.” The volatile rhythm of my heart suddenly became too loud, too unbearable. 

No amount of breaths could repress my violent trembling. A faint flicker from the corner caught my eye — Alucard’s heirloom sword. If his magical estoc was there…he is still in the room with me. 

The hairs on my arms shot up, little by little.

Out of nowhere, forceful, ice cold hands prised around my throat, yanking me out of my state of terror. From behind, Alucard, voice grave like a thousand infernal souls, growled into my ear, 

“Do you understand the gravity of what you’re asking?”

Whether it was fear or the vice-like grip around my neck, I couldn’t speak.

“Answer me.” 

He clamped tighter.

”Ye…yesss,” I wasn’t telling a lie. 

“Then let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

One minute I was in Alucard’s death grip, the next I was shoved, hard, into the stone wall, my face chafing against the abrasive mortar. I winced at the pain.

“You’re hurting me, Adrian!” 

Behind, he tightened his grip on my wrists, binding them into the small of my back. 

“Am I? Ohh…but you like danger, don’t you?...His other hand reached down to unfasten his pants, his erect cock sliding out… “You are drawn to the darkness, just as I am.” 

He trailed the words up and down my neck, pausing ever so subtly to savour the scent of blood in my veins. 

A small bead of sweat started trickling down my face…no, no, it was blood — from my collision with the wall.

Alucard went eerily still again. I felt a shift in his countenance, like a malevolent cloud obliterating sunshine. 

He was hungry.

With one knee, he forced my legs apart and hauled my nightdress up, my backside fully exposed. I could feel the tip of his length against my rear — throbbing, impatient. He snaked his hands all over my naked body, grabbing at my breasts, digging into my thighs. 

The scent of my blood set his every carnal need aflame. 

Adrian had always been prudent — he would excuse himself at the slightest scent of my exposed blood, isolating himself in the castle dungeons for hours, as if he deserved it. Deserved to be punished for his beastly urges, deserved to be condemned for being born a monster. 

Every blood-month I had would send him away for days — “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve seen what I become when I feed… I’ll just be hunting, it’d be just a few days, and your cycle would end when I’m back,” he would say with a smile. A sad smile.

And I was utterly tired and heartbroken that my Adrian, so kind and full of love, would admonish himself, rip his spirit to shreds, for a fate that had been unfairly handed to him. I was going to end this, tonight.

Alucard nuzzled his face into my hair, taking in all my smells, heaving. His body was unyielding against mine — elegant marble against bewitching velvet. I could hear his vampiric heartbeat ringing in his ears, drowning out all sense of reason. He was an animal in heat. 

“You know I cannot control myself around you. And you know what your blood does to me… Do you know how long I haven’t fed?” 

His writhing cock was brandishing my cunt, starving for my hole.

“Do you know I think about what it’s like to have your blood in my veins? How much I want it, need it, desire it. 

How much I want my blood in you. And you ask this of me, tonight, when I’m sitting at the precipice of hunger and lust…”

There was a sharp intake of breath. 

“Hmmm you don’t know what’s coming for you. Once I do this there’s no turning back. 

Do you know how long I’ve been holding out for you? To be better for you. And now you ask this of me…”

At that he yanked at my hair, forcing my head to fall back. The red trace on my cheeks bowed complete to his mercy. 

Staring defiantly into his eyes, I said, “Do it, Adrian. I want you to.” 

Danger, danger.

A devious smile tugged at his lips. Alucard skimmed my neck with his mouth, bruising it with reckless kisses and parlous nips. He moved precariously to suck at the aquamarine veins running down my breasts, licking slow circles about my nipples. He was a wolf dallying with his food. 

A true vampire, hedonistic even in the slightest of pursuits, moving inevitably to the blood trail. He had waited so long for this. 

Alucard pushed his lips delicately into my face, afraid of spilling even the smallest of drops. My blood was a sacred river, a bath of worship he would praise forever. Shaking, he ravened the scarlet off my face, sucking at the open cut, willing for more. 

He was a mixture of muffled moans and enthralled ecstacy.

It was exhaultant. I adored being able to give Adrian what he most craved. 

Drinking in more than necessary, the whites of his eyes were no longer — entire sockets now overtaken with crepuscular crypts darker than the blood moon that hung outside.

Alucard’s cock twitched beneath me, length growing harder and bigger by the second. Grunting, he pumped his sex and slid it against my pussy. I was light-headed with anticipation, but he had merely fondled my folds, prodding at my entrance, testing to see how wet I was.

Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps a dissolute part of me yearned for the darkness, but what I’d wanted most of all was to know that I had years, centuries — immortality, to be with Adrian. 

Head over my shoulder with eyes like lacquered obsidians, he interlaced his fingers with mine, bringing them down to press at my clit. Flagging off from my most sensitive spot, he traced them up my body, slowly, torturously. 

“I wonder…” fingers caressing my abdomen… “how far up…” I gasped as he adjusted them higher… “my cock will go when I’m deep inside you…” Alas settling on a spot above my navel.

A sacred river spawned between my legs. 

Incapable of restraint any longer, I reached back to stroke his shaft, thumb stimulating his tip until his pre-load creamed my fingers. I lathered his fluids, relishing in the feel of his hallowed flesh tethered to my hands. 

“Fuuuck.” Alucard bristled against my touch, face buried in my neck. Below, he was thrusting at my entrance, not yet entering, readying me for his carnal devotion. 

”Adrian please, I need you. I want you inside…”  

His last thread of resolve snapped. He rammed his boner into me from behind, stretching me, engulfing me. My tender walls were a haven to his brutal thrusts, welcoming him in. Cock barely to his hilt, he spread my bottocks apart, plunging his engorged member in. 

“Ahh…ahh…” I whimpered, hands braced on the wall. 

“How are you still so tight…” he hissed, enraged he couldn’t yet feel all of me.

My fingers weaved into his hair, tugging as I leaned further back into him. This feral urge, I craved it. It was scarce enough to satiate the searing lust in me, so I ground impiously against his length like the unholy girl he wanted me to be. 

Tonight, he was to have his way. He was the nefarious overlord and I was but a malleable zealot. My hips were firmly held down by his hands — he wanted to control my rhythm. I was, afterall, his submissive little prey. 

Alucard forced his cum-stained fingers into my mouth, swirling them about the insides of my cheeks, wresting in and out of my plush lips. I licked at them greedily, suckling on his taste. He was so deft — hands and length penetrating me in a lyrical sync, sating me above and below.

I gagged when he stuck his fingers further down, my throat wedging tight. Tears rimmed my eyes but I continued hollowing my cheeks, head bobbing. “Such a good girl…” praising as he brushed hair off my face. I was to appear immaculate while being fucked indecent.

Hypnotised by his bulge assaulting my hole, I bit sinfully on his index, tearing his skin. He pulled out from my mouth, eyes transfixed on the blot of blood. 

“You’re being a naughty little lamb tonight…” His smile was insidious, like a serpent suffocating its meal.

My vampire smothered his blood over my parted lips. My tongue grazed over it, wiping it clean like I was the one writhing in blood lust. What I did had Alucard under a powerful spell. He plummeted his smug into me, our kisses heedless, crashing into each other in depraved lust. 

We sucked and bit them swollen, both of us unrestrained and shameless of our monstrous love. Under, he continued hammering his heat into me, hand pushing my cunt back to swallow more of him.

Alucard was never one to trifle with a perfect opportunity. Hands at his favourite spot, he rubbed his digits forcefully at all the places his cock didn’t already fill. My knees buckled at once from overstimulation. 

“Stay.” He landed a firm smack onto my soaking sex… “Still.”

“Or I won’t let you cum.” An order.

He bent me over, my backside raised to allow him easy entry. I compelled my wobbly legs to stand, muscles quivering at my bones.

“Good. Hands on the wall.” 

Like his obedient little lamb, I hoisted my arms on the cold stone, squeezing taut around my feral wolf.

I was begging, moaning his name, my being in complete disarray.

Content with how tight I was clenching around his shaft, Alucard drove his erection mercilessly into me, pounding so hard I was lifted off the ground. 

I cried out in pleasure and pain. “Adrian! Adrian please…”

“You like it when I’m rough with you, baby? You want me to turn you, and fucking you senseless comes with it,” he spat in between thrusts, dragging hair away from my ears to ascertain I could hear him loud and clear. 

I was so deliciously filled my lewdness spilled out onto my legs. Paths of sweet nectar trickled down my trembling thighs, glazing his girth with my wicked desire. 

I was so close.

Smelling my arousal and imminent climax, Alucard slammed faster into me, his own pace losing cadence. 

We were so close. 

He had everything timed perfectly. Just as he had countless times before — night creatures and wild animals — all unsuspecting pawns to his blood thirst. He was adept at hiding his deplorable little secret, but I knew better. 

Fangs fully exposed, he grazed them masterfully over my neck, humming at my veins and arteries. Quite like a skilled chef discerning food, he was choosing which would taste most exquisite. My scarlet vessels were pulsing in tempo with my heartbeat — palpitating, quivering, waiting.

“Are you frightened? I can feel your terror in my bones…” villainy laced his snarl like a wolf finally rid of sheep’s clothing. 

I had to inhale gulps of air to articulate my words, “No….” But what I said or what I thought mattered no longer. Gone was Adrian — human, moral, benign. A bestial, debased monster, instead, all consumed him. 

Soulless eyes searched me once more, as if to forewarn me about my perilous decision, as if the human in him was straining to break free of his chains to stop this atrocity.

There was no turning back now.

I offered my neck to him, reckless, bloodstreams on full display. At last, with Alucard’s throbbing cock still stuffed full inside, I felt the firestorm in my core and the crushing torrent soon overcame me. 

My release tonight felt different — cathartic. I was once again the delicate driftwood being dragged underwater — careless, aimless, going where the current took me. My limbs fell limp at my sides, my spirit devoid of vigour. And I knew why. 

Alucard’s fangs were buried in my neck, drinking my blood as if a divine offering. When did he bite me? I felt no pain, only a rapture so heavenly I ached for more. 

And so drink he did. Rivers of blood coated his lips, crimson tributaries surging down his throat. He sucked and lapped at my vital spark, clawing at my body so arduously as if I was the most cherished jewel of immeasurable value. 

Like a vampire deprived of debauchery, he drank me in like sweet sin. He had no beginning and no end. And rightfully so. I was profoundly proud of my Adrian. At long last, he no longer had to be ashamed of who he was. He was liberated. He was free. 

My racing heart was now a supine hum. I lay naked — pliant and frozen in his arms. The sleepy swell of the ocean lulled me into the black nothingness. I was rising and falling, so in harmony with the current.

Above, hazy sunbeams fractioned the waves like sparkling diamond necklaces. Beneath, the sombre abyss tugged at my essence, diffusing all manner of light. The ominous depth, though a macabre embrace, was one so full of promise. It was beckoning to me, calling my name — stay, stay, stay…

—

I awoke to a pall of infinite blackness. 

I had been dreaming. There were shadows — silhouettes, of people I couldn’t quite make out. They were whispering, a sonnet of hurried voices, as if going somewhere, but nowhere at the same time. Then there was a lambent flame — the colour of pale amber, always in the distance but never near. Always tailing, always watching…

Where was I? 

I could see nothing, hear nothing. I shifted slightly, and my shoulders were met by cool textile — silk? As more of my senses reconciled, I felt the mattress below me, a satiny divan not reminiscent of my bed. Muted was the air, hollow was the roof, and

…algid was my skin. 

I was in a coffin.  

Panic coiled through the ridges of my ribs, puncturing my heart like lethal thorns. I clawed and pounded at the wood…was I buried alive?

Alas, like the caves of hell being vaquished by divine light, the casket slid open, and I clambered onto a sprawling granite floor. I was heaving, frantic to take in air, clamouring at my chest as if ghostly hands were crushing my heart, splintering my valves. 

Where was Adrian?

A succession of torches adorned the upper vaults, the mellow ebb of light suddenly becoming glaring to my eyes, as if I had been staring directly at the sun. I could make out the phosphorescent ripples and saffron hues that wreathed the flames. 

The air smelled vaguely of mildew and crumbling concrete, while the scampering of rodents in between masonry thundered in my ears. I could hear them squeaking, the sounds of their bones compressing while they squeezed through cracks and crevices. 

I could hear their heartbeats — tiny surges of blood in their capillaries. 

Such fragile little things, I wonder what they’d feel when they’re crushed by the force of my teeth. If they’d feel pain, if any at all, as I drain them dry…

I was so, so hungry. 

My awareness had heightened ten-fold, the anarchy of it all confounding whatever human that was left in me. The sensation of everything all at once was too much to bear and I covered my ears to drown out the distress. 

Futile efforts indeed. 

“Adrian? Adrian…” My voice hoarse from wheezing.

Was this what he had to endure? Being so akin with the presence of entirety, enough to render one insane. Was this why he had been so loath to turn me?

I hauled myself off the ground, bidding my legs to what looked to be a door. Scarce a blink had passed than I was face to face with a metal threshold — intricate lineations etched faintly onto the frame. 

“Willing blood of the Raven Maiden,” — Enochian, words of ancient bygone, but Adrian and I had been avid philologists.

I didn’t concern myself with whether the translation had in fact referred to my blood, but I sank my fangs — a lurid extension — into my wrist and smeared them over the threshold. 

The magicked portal transported me to a bed chamber, a former bed chamber, now resembling the crux of a dense forest.

Creepers cleaved through stone, while poison vines slivered across furniture. Rich moss clung to the bed frame, eating away at the tulle canopy, embedding itself into rotted linen.

That chaise…it was ours. 

Horror flooded my senses as I glanced furtively around. 

Our armoire, our settee, our desk. 

Strewn across the floor, some shredded by tree roots dissecting the wooden panelling, lay stacks of disintegrating parchment like remnants of forgotten lore.

Vampiric speed overtaking, my eyes scanned the moth-eaten pages over. 

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

I choked on my tears. 

“To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster.”

They fell like glass, shattering on the ink, eroding the paper more.

How long had I been asleep for?

“No, no, no…”  I wept into the emptiness, anguish imprisoning my lungs, blocking off air. In spite of being undead, I had a heart, and it bled — it bled crimson, pain and grief. It bled with all the words I wished I could take back. 

It bled with all the ache that I might never see Adrian again. 

I scoured the castle. Every tower, every room, every dungeon, each a shell of its former mirth. The scenes ran parallel  — overgrown foliage, wrecked furnishings, pillars atrophied by decay. Our home had been eaten away by the curse of time. There was no sign of life, no essence of Adrian. 

With a threshing hole in my heart, I raced past the lattice of abandon toward the main doors. As the iron portcullis lifted, I recoiled at the hell that awaited me. 

There, in the blistering winter, impaled upon rows and rows of stakes, dangled festering corpses of night creatures…and humans. 

What have I done?

Pt I I Pt III

[maskosis]

copper sutures, open wounds

Simon Riley x Reader

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. 

Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity. 

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

OR: two people who were probably lovers in a past life end up as siblings in this one. except. it doesn't really change much.

DDDNE—incest. smut. dirty talk. shame. slight bully!Simon. slight breeding. size difference. slight coersion. dubcon. mean dom Simon and the lil sister he bullies

You've always been close.

Something that strikes people as odd considering he's been gone for the majority of your life—military dog that he is—but despite the distance, the age gap, it's easy to wrap yourself up in him. Copper sutures over open wounds.

And that's what you are. Wounds. Gaps, gashes. Deep canyons of cleaved flesh, severing muscles and tendons, chipping off bone.

He wears his as scars, an eerie blankness in his eyes—flat, stagnant water. Crocodilian. Predatory. Black humour. Vile jokes whispered in your ear—what d'you call a dead dad? anything you like, he can't 'ear you. Disappearing when things got too real. Too serious. Not running. Not Simon, no. But a strange, untameable thing—becoming a ghost again. Drenching himself in mission after mission. Icecold distance in his eyes. Polynyas. Arm's length is too close. He needs an ocean of space to sew himself back together. Lap at old, aching lesions until the taste of iron subsides into peatsalt flesh.

It's something you have to wait out. Return to some sense of normalcy without him—because even when he's gone, he's always watching—and struggle through the loneliness until whatever is metastasizing inside of his head is clawed out with the tips of his fingers, and he crawls home to you, bloodstained and hungry—

And you patch him up. Feed him. It's what you do best. How you wear your hurt—becoming the caregiver you wish you had. Taking on roles too big for yourself, for your trembling knees. Hefting him up on the shaking legs of a girl in over her head. Treading water even when you know the person clinging to you is going to be the reason you drown.

You just can't let go.

And you wonder, sometimes, if he knows that.

Simon is a lot of things, and almost none of them are good. A part of you does lay awake at night wondering if he's purposefully pulling you down.

The sea, you know, is a hungry, untenable thing. Voracious is her appetite. She's greedy with her dead, clinging to old bones even when they turn into vapour under her daunting weight. Smothered by a mother's everlasting love.

You can't blame her, though. She let you go, crawling out of her womb until your feet touched soil, leaving her empty and aching. Mother without a child to feed. And when she pulls you back, it's only because she doesn't know any better. Can't, in her unerring elation, understand that your time apart from her arms has turned gills into lungs, and when she tries to nurse you, it's a smothering, deadly thing. Too big is her bosom. Too tiny are you. Choking on the milk she offers until your ghost glides inside her waves.

And Ghost—

Sometimes you wonder if he ever left her womb at all.

Even if he was, though—you made your bed when you were eighteen. When he came back from deployment and met you as an adult, not a small, impish little child who hid behind Tommy's legs. Too afraid of your own shadow to even say hi. He was too big. Too intimidating. A monster of a man—something that made his marred lips curl up in an ugly smirk when he heard you whisper this into Tommy's ear.

But like most things in your life, it started with a cut.

Thirteen and tiptoeing through the grass to sneak back into your bedroom window. A rusted nail sliced the bottom wide open. Tommy was at work. His wife sleeping after staying up all night with their baby. You sat on the porch and clutched the bottom, holding the skin together until he happened to find you. Curled over yourself, biting back whimpers.

It wasn't bad. Not really. But he just crouched down, grabbed your ankle in his massive hand, and grunted. Seen worse, pup. Ain't gonna kill you.

You didn't ask about the wounds no one could see. The ones that ached in the middle of the night when you heard Tommy yelling from behind closed doors. Body tensing for something you can't remember—muscle memory, maybe. You escaped the worst of it. It's something everyone around you is so quick to say.

But he doesn't. Not even when you sink your teeth into your knuckle as he prods at the torn skin. He just looks at you, impassive and distant—this massive man folding his body into a curled fist held low to the ground, accommodating—and hums.

"don't ruin your pretty skin, pup. Got enough scars f'the both of us."

Your fingers were pulled from your lips. His own slipped between the gap of your teeth, too thick for the split of your mouth. Tasting bitter—saltpetre, ash. Sweat. Iron. Works with his hands. Smokes reds at the dinner table with Tommy until the scent of smoke, cheap tobacco, is heavy in the air. Had to breathe. 

"Go on, chew on me if y'need to. Must be teethin'."

When most people spoke down about your age, it made you bristle. Made you sneak out at night and hang around bars you shouldn't have been. Talking old men into giving you and your friends sips. A drag of their cigarette. Got anything stronger? I'm not a kid—I can handle it.

Still. You haven't learned to hold your tongue yet and as he lays your heel on his thick, hard thigh, and pinches the sore, swollen skin between his thumb and forefinger, rifling around in his pack pocket for a needle and thread, you can't help the petulant huff that spills out, reedy around the bulk of his knuckles. 

They slip free when you move back, but he chases. Hand twitching back towards you, like a babe seeking warmth. 

"I was out,” you bluster, swallowing down the tang of seawater and loam that clings to your tongue. “Partying."

Tommy would have been stupefied. Mad. His face turning blotchy red, purple. Listen 'ere, I might not be the best goddamn guardian f'ya, but y'can't jus' do what y'want—y'grounded, alright? Grounded!

But he isn't Tommy. The look he levels you with is flat. Even. But something sparks in those murky depths. Humour, you think. Leonine pleasure. A well-fed lion pawing at a gazelle just to see it kick. 

"I know, pup."

You don't ask how. You think, even then, that you knew.

Simon’s hand moves again, pressing cold, spit-slicked fingertips against the soft give of your lips. You part for him easily, the bravado cracking under the pressure of his deep, unfathomable insouciance. 

Cowed. Docile. Or maybe—

Absumed. The tension inside of you—this near constant state of hyperarousal, innate; congenital—is dimmed, snuffed out, under his big, warm hands. A lonely child lulled into a latibule. This clawing, aching thing inside of you, hunger, is a lacuna. Filled, suddenly, by his ferric touch. 

The silence that lapsed between you became a staple, a constant, in your evolving relationship. Neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it just is. Quiet. Words unsaid. Actions learned. Understood.

You communicate better in silence. Shared looks. Touches. And when he brushed his thumb over the tender slit in your heel, you hear the things he won't say. Sewn up with spare wire, a needle. Sterilized with the worn, red Zippo he kept in his back pocket.

Wound knitted back together.

A trick he taught you with fishing wire and a needle (—burn the tip jus' like tha' and thread it in deep, birdie—)

Something about you both just clicks.

You were seventeen when you moved into his lonely apartment (one o' many, he grunts; but the safest one he has). It's closer to your school. You're older, mature. You've been making your own decisions since you were thirteen—things like therapy and custody, and signing off on restraining orders to keep your parents away. Not that they bothered about that much anymore—not when Simon came around and threatened them. Dad dead, but mum—she hovers. Floats in and out of your life; a poltergeist that slams doors and kicks over furniture, sews discord just because it's the only measure of control she ever had.

("'nore her," he grunts into your ear when he finally calls after disappearing two weeks ago. Mexico, he rasps. Need'ta know. "She ain't gonna touch you if she knows what's good f'her."

"I know," you murmur, shivering at the brittle char in his voice. You miss him but you won't tell him because he already knows. "Bring me back something from Mexico. A souvenir."

"'ow 'bout a muzzle? For that smart mouth o'yours."

"only if it's pretty."

"fuckin' hell, pup. Gonna start makin' me wish I never left.")

You take care of yourself. Always have. And he—

He takes care of you.

It's easy to slip into these roles. Shedding skin. Dutiful college student, diligently studying away to careening headfirst into a proper, working adult meandering through life that passes too quickly now that you're older. Happy little sister. Dedicated auntie. You know how to contort yourself into these shapes. Let them live and breathe around you, through you, until you both stumble into his dark, quiet apartment. Your feet ache from wearing heels all day. His hands itch from holding himself back.

But here, in this quiet space, nothing matters.

And when he presses your back against the door, chest heaving from the pent-up desire brimming in his dark, unflinching gaze, you know nothing ever will. Nothing ever could.

Except—his eyes on you at dinner. Rapacious. Unnerring. Even as Tommy nudged his arm, brows furrowing as if to say, whatcha starin' at, mate? Almost did, too, when the topic of your boyfriend (this mysterious, phantom figure you spun lies about since you were eighteen) came up and he growled, deep and dark over the idea of you moving in, sometime soon, with another man.

(Something has come between you, you suppose—)

And it leads you here.

Dot, dot, dot. 

But his face is a perfect mask of neutrality. Carefully blank. Marred skin carved into marble—impenetrable. Unknowable. But you can feel his anger humming through the whipcord spooling between you. Moonglade you trace with the tips of your fingers, feeling the taut pull of his shoulders when you rest your hands on corded muscle. 

In typical fashion, he doesn't say anything about it. Leaves it to rot as he bends down, lips fastening against the heated apple of your cheek—more teeth than affection; nips flesh, and groans. 

His hand is big and broad when it slips up your thigh, chest rumbling with a quiet purr when he finds your skin already slick, slippery.

"all f'me?" He grunts, dropping down onto his knees in the foyer, rucking your skirt up to your belly button, a harassed 'old it, pup, tha's a good girl tumbling out. Eyes drilling into the apex of your split thighs, darkening with a desire so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. "Been like this all night, 'ave you?"

Huh? He demands, angry now. All fuckin' wet thinkin' 'bout my cock, pup?

"Simon, please—"

His fingers slip into the hem of your panties. Yours tighten around the bunched fabric of your skirt. It's always so electric when he touches you. Illicit—

But that's just wishful thinking, isn't it? Because nothing about the way Simon feels is wrong. Verboten.

It was there long before you were aware of it. 

(—skin of mischmetal just waiting for the oxidized iron and magnesium of his touch to ignite. Little pyrophoric heart stuffed inside a tinderbox.

Inevitable.)

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity. 

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. 

But at the time—it was just that. Words. Needles in skin. Thread closing the wound. 

You're not sure when it, when this, started. When it changed. 

Gone half of your life, and then blinking in and out like a phantom. A spectre. An idea. Half-formed in childish nightmares. In glossy, wet teenage dreams. Fingers slipping over your mound, his voice in your ear. A needy ache in the pit of your chest whenever he had to leave. Goodbye to don't go. Don't go to come home quick.

The lines didn't really blur because they were always there to begin with. Innate. Congenital. The first brush of your lips against his—him, stiff and unmoving; watching you with those flat, predatory eyes as you shuffled closer, peeled back the balaclava he sometimes forgets to take off, and pressed your mouth to his. Chaste. Damning. To this.

Him on his knees, pulling your damp panties down. Rocking on his haunches to shove his face into the seam of your cunt, breathing in deep. Gulping down the scent of you. Nuzzling his chin into your flesh, all hot and tender and aching for him.

"gonna eat this pretty cunt, pup," slurred into the wet, slick folds he parts with the crooked, hooked tip of his nose. "been starvin' for it all night."

At one point, you think you tried to stop it.

This morbid, twisting thing growing inside of you. Swallowed down anything to kill the mass that tightened up in a needy, aching knot whenever he was around. Poison. Medicine. Carving it out yourself. But it was all palliative. Quick remedies to soothe the burn, but nothing healed the damaged skin.

Holy places, prayers. Men, boys. Ethanol. Bad choices.

But he never let you go too far.

(how'd you know?

m'always watchin' you, pup. remember tha'.)

Tidied up the mess you made. Helped you into bed. Lied to Tommy about where you've been and what you've done. Scoured the blood from your nails, the viscera from your skin. Listened to you bable about shame and disgust like it was a phantom limb. A third man. Never you—just a friend of a friend. Said nothing as you curled around the mass, shaking in your bed. Just set his hand on your head, and let you heave it out. Expelling all from within.

"go t'bed," he'd say whenever you tried to bring it up, talk around this thing eating you alive. "Talk in the mornin'."

But that never happened. He was gone when you woke. A ghost seen only in the middle of the night. The corner of your room. He had to have known, though—

"s'wrong, pup," he'd said after the kiss, but he still let you pull him down into the sheets. Let you push his hand under the hem of your panties, groaning in your ear when you urged him on so sweetly touch me, touch me—

Somewhere in the tangled, muddled mess of feelings and silence and touch, it just started to make sense. To fit. He belonged to you, and you—got my goddamn blood, don't you? 'course you're mine.

Wounded beings bleeding out, riddled with coagulopathy. It just makes sense to suture them together. And that's what you do—just like he taught you. Copper wire. Golden needle. Dress the wound. Hide it.

But here, in this dark apartment that smells like you, like him, home, you rip the bandage off and let the wound breathe.

Your hand sinks down, nails raking over his shorn scalp. "Then do it," you whine, curling your palm over his crown. "Eat me up, Simon."

"Fuck, pup—tryna make me pop in my goddamn trousers?"

It startles a giggle out of you, breathless. Wanting. "You said you were hungry."

Simon buries his face into your inner thigh, groaning low in his throat. Humid breath ghosting over your heated flesh, dampening skin. "Cheeky fuckin' thing," he drawls, teeth shaping the words against your twitching muscle.

It's little nips, beestings, just enough until the playful laughter in your throat is smothered under the weight of desire. Burning kindling in your belly that pops, crackling sap blistering in the heat each time his marred, mangled lips brush closer to the slick, sensitive crook where leg meets groin. A sliver of flesh the width of a thumb. A hidden valley between tendon and the sloped fold of your cunt. He licks there. Scorching. Wet. Tongue soft as he laps the slick from your skin.

Moans, a little, at the taste. A mangled noise echoing in the broad expanse of his chest. Throaty. Wanting. He nips there too, sinks his teeth into the skin until you whimper, hand grasping futilely against his buzzed scalp, sliding over welts of raised skin, scars.

"Simon—" it comes out reedy. Petulant. "Stop teasing me or—"

"or what, pup?" Huh? He adds, mocking. Mean. Nose scraping over the shape of your sticky, wet fold. His eyes are bedrock. Solid obsidian. So dark, so deep, you think one slip and they might just swallow you whole. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'll—ah—" he sucks your labia into his mouth, sawing softly teeth jagged teeth. "Ah, Simon—I'll go back to Tommy's."

It's a hollow threat, empty words, but his eyes narrow like you uttered a promise. Held a knife to his throat. A gun to the back of his head.

"That so?"

It isn't jealousy that strips his tone raw, has greed dripping down glazed charcoal, staining midnight black green, but something far hungrier. Even though it's his younger brother, even though Tommy is nothing to you except kin—older brother, guardian, the man who gave up his life to raise you after your father was killed and Simon barely made it home in time to save your mother; all things that Simon knows very well—Simon has always been a selfish, possessive bastard. Hackles rising at anything that even hints at taking you away.

This, you know, is no different.

And when he sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, eyes narrowed at you the whole time, you suppose you deserve it.

Comeuppance doesn't stop you from keening at the fresh, hot spread of pain when his canines pierce flesh, draw blood. From digging your claws into his scalp, dragging them over his skin until he groans, eyes fluttering at the taste of your blood on his tongue, the feel of your nails scratching his head.

His maw drips with it when it peels back, rocking on his haunches to stare up at you with a renewed fever in his eyes. A sharp want that cuts a jagged line down the middle, bleeds black when he tips his head back, exposing the thick of his throat, and hums when he swallows the taste down. Letting you see for yourself the shift and pull of his muscles as he drinks you down. Blood—inside and out.

"s'tha' what you're gonna do?" He mutters, head still tilted back. "Gonna run from me, pup?"

The look in his eyes makes a shiver drip like hot oil down your spine. "N-not if you touch me—"

It's waging a deal with the devil. Taunting a basking saltwater crocodile. Sticking your hand in the maw of a lion. Danger. But in that—

A thrill.

"Jus' want me to touch you, huh?" He coos, mockingly plangent as he tightens his hands around your hips, holding you steady as he rocks forward until his mouth is a sliver away from your slick, throbbing flesh. His hot breath ghosting over your wet slit makes you keen, all low and pitiful. Whining in the back of your throat. "Need my mouth on ya? Wanna hump your needy little cunt all over your big brother's face?"

His name stutters out in a warbling cry—the coalescence of shock and shame that bubble inside your chest, frothing over at the hideousness of it all, but cowed (and secretly pleased) at how easily he can say something like that. Rough and gritty. Scree raining down—sharp stings. Little bites. Embarrassment and elation an ugly, mouldering thing in your belly.

"Don't—don't be crude," you hiss out instead, catching his crown once more in your hand to give a warning squeeze. Mouse nibbling on the toe of a lion, all he does is huff, blowing warm air over your drenched cunt.

"Crude," he mocks, but lets you lead his head to where you want it most. Buried between your thighs. Long, thick nose pressed tight against your pebbled clit. But you should have known better—his compliance always comes with a cost. He carves his pound of flesh with the sharpened edge of a mean smirk, dropping his mangled maw to let his tongue snake out. Just a taste, a tease. His tongue flattens against your parted seam long enough to coat the tip before he pulls back, your wetness glistening on his lips. "Ain't nothin' crude 'bout eatin' my baby sisters, pussy. 'pecially when she's beggin' for it so bad."

"Simon—!"

"s'where 'er big brother belongs, ain't it? Buried between these sweet thighs."

He cleaves his tongue up your slit—aching, drenched hole to swollen clit—and huffs when you yowl, back arching against the door. His mouth has always been an awful, awful thing. This is no different. Sawing it roughly between your folds, groaning at the taste of you. Peeling back long enough to dart his gaze upward, cutting, until you meet his stare. See the wetness around his chin, covering his lips. Pale pink lips turning blood red with how eager he devours you, eats you up.

Simon swallows again. Tongue flicking out to catch the drying droplets of your blood still tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Want my mouth, pup?" He demands, words mangled in his throat. Raked over coals. "Want your big brother to eat your sweet pussy?"

You're not sure how he says these things so shamelessly—and that's exactly what they are: without shame. Drenched in desire. Want. He glares up at you, heaving, hands flexing around your hips as you war with the part of you that still likes to pretend he's a stranger sometimes. Waiting.

He won't touch you again until you give him what he wants.

But what he wants—

Well.

You're not sure there's enough of you left to give away.

"Simon," you try, angling for needy because that's exactly what you are: wanting. Hungry. Sick with the same fever that burns through the palm of his hand. Desperate. "Simon, come on, please—"

You try tugging him. Pulling his head back to your aching, empty cunt. Arching your back. Rolling your hips. But he stays, impassive and immovable as ever despite everything you try.

"Please, just—"

"Thought you wanted to go back to Tommy's?"

"Simon—"

"Tha's what you said," he trails his fingers down your hip, dragging the tips through the slick smeared over your mound. Featherlight touches. Chaste kisses. Slides his hand over your cunt until it's cupped in his palm, long, thick fingers pressed against your rim. Heel on your clit.

It's torture. It isn't enough—

"I won't go," you heave, panting when he starts to stroke his fingers over your fluttering, empty hold. The movement pushing the ball of palm into your clit that sends little frissons of pleasure down your spine. "I won't leave—"

"Wha'd'ya want, pup?"

"You—"

His hand on your hip flattens over your belly, stopping the desperate rolls you make with each brief, not enough touch. It's mean. You whine that to him, pouting when his lips pull up in a vicious smirk.

"Can stay here all night, pup."

You don't doubt him for a second—awful, awful man—but it's hard to breathe around the shame sometimes. This polluted feeling in your chest. Tarlike. Oozing from the wound you left to rot. Infectious. Greedy.

He knows it, too. Listens to you bable out your worries to him in the dead of night, and only ever when he's gone. Spitting up the ugliness that festers in your chest is easier to do when there's an ocean between you. Words that are swept up in the morning—forgotten. Bad dreams.

Finite maladies. Bloodletting. Something that recedes when he's here, holding the fraying sutures closed with his hands. Keeping you together.

And it's fine. You need him. Can't separate yourself from living inside the heat of his hands. But it's easy when he lets you pretend. Let's you act like the stranger, the girl he picked up off the street and brought home. Little stray out in the rain that no one wanted tucked inside the pocket of his coat. Live inside the parallels where he's just a man. Flesh and bone. And not—

Blisters on your fingers. Gonna teach you 'ow t'fight back, pup. Get some claws on you yet. A gash on your foot. Too clumsy f'your own good. Skinned knees. Bruises on the apples of your cheeks. This is Simon. You remember 'im, don't you? 'course you do. He's—he's family. Dancing around the behemoth in the kitchen bent over a warm beer. Eyes sliding in every direction until they landed on you. 'smatter? Scared of your older brother? Don't worry—red eyes, indents in your bottom lip; he never asks who did it, just says—I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup.

And it's a fact. Truism.

The next morning: coffee instead of a beer (s'not black, Tommy whispers in stages, half conspiratorial, half pleading please, please love him back: "he takes wif' three sugars. Gots a sweet tooth;") but still hunched over the table, eyes gliding around the room—the exits. Muscle memory, he'll bite out three years later when you finally gather the courage to ask. Habit. Normal—

His knuckles are bruised. Bloodied. His hand stiff around the mug, fingers too swollen, cut up, to close. Catches your gaze over the rim, but you don't bother pretending that he hadn't known you were there the moment you walked in. Gives you a wink.

"told you, didn't I? I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup."

You think about that time in the kitchen and wonder if that was when these parallel lines started to collapse. Cave in.

Run into the ground. Into this.

Or was it this inevitable. A statement of fact. Something meant to happen regardless of blood.

"Simon."

"don't keep me waitin'," he says your name then. Not pup. Not birdie. Your name. "Tell me what you want."

Words unsaid, you think. Tell me what this is.

"I want you." It comes out shakier than you want it to. Your nails rake over his crown. Hips twitching futilely in his iron hold. "I want you, Simon."

"Gotta be more specific than tha'. What do you want me t'do?"

It feels like dancing along the edge of a precipice. The canyon floor is a vertiginous drop some several hundred feet below, stopped only by jagged rock. Exposed travertine. Rocky terraces. Stepping off the ledge and into the chasm is a daunting task even though you've been flirting with the abyss long before you even knew what the fear of falling was.

Words well, swelling over your tongue. It's easy to whisper them in secrecy, in cloaked darkness. Buried beneath blankets of a Stygian night. Tenebrous folding hands over your eyes. Make-believe on worn, cotton sheets that smell like heady musk—animalic. Arctic Angelica. Geosmin. Wet copper. An old, dirty cloth stained with guncotton. Sex. Loam. Stale sweat. Simon.

Your tongue is looser when he's been gone for a while. Willing to give in to his whims, the ugly shape of his mishappen desire.

And you know it's not about the substance. Not at all. The taboo doesn't rankle down his spine the same way you—just you—do.

This is a manifestation of his greed.

Like your loving seamother, he isn't content with halves or quarters. It's bones, blood, and viscera: all or nothing. Life or death. You can't cleave the limb to save the body with him.

Just like you can't pretend he's something he is not. Flesh and bone. Blood.

All or nothing.

But there's a difference between uttering those words when he lets you hide your sins from the world, tucked under the bulk of his body. Protectively cradled in the dark. And this—

You still smell Tommy's cologne in your nose when he went in for a tight, consuming hug only hours before. The taste of gin and pot roast on your tongue. Wapish barbs thrown back and forth like darts when Tommy's wife pried into your life—when are you movin' out on your own? Si must be tired of ya, ain't he?—and how it felt like the floor was dropping out from under your feet when he kicked his foot against your ankle, eyes prairie fire, feverish, and waited to see what you'd do.

Simon doesn't seem to care much for decorum.

"clawed my way outta the dirt to get back 'ome, t'get back t'you. This," he stamps his finger into your chest, laying claim over the thudthudthud of your trembling heart. "Ain't gonna change nothin'."

You thought of that then when you glanced down at the overcooked potatoes leaking a river of golden butter into the marshy peas, and rolled your shoulder. "I pay rent. It's cheaper. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" He'd said, dangerously low. Thick arms folded over his broad chest.

You should have known then that this was the inevitable conclusion. But—

Wounds. Sutures. Second skin. Copper solder.

Your head thrums with the aching pulse of a low-grade fever. Thoughts sluggish through the want.

And god, do you want.

Tactile: his hands, his mouth, on you. The way he pushes into you, filling you so perfectly that you always weep. Body on yours, crushing. All heat. The way he kisses you when he's about to cum, teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. Chest rumbling with the groans he smothers against your lips. Hips working, pounding into you. Filling you up. Pulling on the threads, the seams, keeping you together. His rough voice in your ear (gonna cum, pup and—lips glued to yours, eyes burning in the dark—beg me not to do it inside o' you, not to cum in this sweet pussy). The pulse of his cock when you try to push him off, hands shoving against his broad, thick shoulders as you whimper beneath him, pleading just like he asked. Don't Simon, don't—not, not inside and, tears in your eyes, please don't cum inside me, Simon, please—

His groan in your ear when he does just that because nothing—not even you, pup—will ever tear him away from this perfect little cunt.

(his perfect little cunt—)

And impossibly: him. His hand in yours. Leaning over to steal kisses from you when Tommy isn't looking. A house you together without questions like when are you going to stop depending on your older brother, grow up, settle down—

You just want him.

The rest—

Doesn't matter.

But it can't stay like that, like this, whispers in the dark. Vespertine. Not with the sheer vastitude of his unerring appetite for you.

You huff, hand curling in the damp fistful of your skirt. Gripping tight. All of nothing.

"I want you, Simon," you plead, and a liquid heat fills you when his eyes flash, widening a touch before his kids droop down, half-mast. Listening. Waiting. Bringing out a shiver when the hand cupping your pussy possessively twitches, the tip of his finger dipping inside just a sliver. "I want—" you swallow down the shame that prickles in the back of your throat, keeping your gaze fixed on him as you tremble through the unease and let the feverish pin of his stare pull you in deeper. Flay you alive just to stitch you back together again. "I want my—my big brother to eat, eat my pussy—"

When he groans, it sounds like you've gutted him. Vivisection in the dim foyer where you can still smell reality on your skin. Tommy's looming disgust, his anger, that snakes around your neck because Simon doesn't do quarters or halves. Flesh, blood, bones. All or nothing. And the next time the shadowed lover comes up, he'll pounce. Staking his claim on you. Laying ownership down in the shape of his spare dogtag he makes you keep around your neck. The next best thing to a ring.

(already go' my last name—)

Awful man.

He lurches forward. Springing like a tiger in the underbrush, all thick, corded grace. Muscled agility. Snatches his jaws around you, canines digging in. His face against your mound, breathing in deep. Fingers pushing, pressing into you. Tongue laving over salt-slick skin.

The thick line of his cock lays flat against his thigh. A terrible sight, really, considering you've only just learned how to take him to the root without clawing at him to get away. An impossible stretch that leaves you feeling achy and sore—the onset of a fever. Waking up with a bellyache and soaked in sweat. Him behind you, pushing his cock inside again, desperate for you ("go back sleep, pup—I jus' need your cunt—") despite the burn. Making room in a place that begs for clemency, crying out: he just doesn't fit.

Pleasure and pain are tetherbound with Simon. Tidally locked. You can't have one without the other, and slowly, slowly, he's teaching you how live around this paradox. And that's what it is

Two fingers stretching you. His mouth sealing over your clit. The sting soothed by the wash of his tongue. The hard, tight suck quelled with the graze of his knuckle over a cluster of nerves inside of you that make your vision blur.

Quiddity: hurt and bliss weaving together, sinking deep into bathic depths; becoming this ineffable thing shared between the two of you. Demersal. Subsumed deep in your marrow. Mother's embrace. Your own special temenos.

You wonder if he knows. If he feels it when he grips your hip tight, feasting on your cunt. This urgency. This need. This gnawing ache in your belly that wants, wants, wants—

"c'mon, pup," he grunts against you, brontide. "Ride my face 'til you cum."

He rives his tongue through your folds until your knees quake, threatening to buckle. Pulls your clit into his mouth, laving it with the flat of his tongue in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. He knows your body perfectly. Renders it into a finely tuned instrument, strumming between his fingers and tongue. That mangled, awful mouth.

Pleasure thrums down your spine.

You can't do much, can't even move, when he lifts his hand and curls it under your thigh. Wrenched it up, hefting your leg over his shoulder. Opening you up wider for him.

His name spills out. A choked whisper, distant and ignored, under the noises he pulls from your body. The squelch of your cunt swallowing his fingers to the knuckle. So wet, so wanting, it puddles on the floor between his knees—

Makin' a fuckin' mess, pup—

And you are. His face is soaked. Covered in you. It drips down his chin, but he just licks his marled mouth and dives back in for more. Stroking against that spot inside, a lacuna he carved out himself, until you see stars.

Deliquesce in his hands. A pretty ringdove with his fingerprints around your neck, cooing for him as he tugs on your seams. Unravels you with too much teeth and tongue, fingers pistoning inside of you as you break into pieces in the foyer. The lights are still on. 

There's no hiding in the shadows. No playing pretend. 

It's Simon on knees opening you up. Glaring at you through cracked obsidian, naked hunger spuming in the ink-filled depths: heavy drapes of amorphous clouds, nimbostratus, that rumble through the room, closing in around you. Inescapable. Tangled in this nebulous web that spools around you—

Copper wire. 

His tongue feels electric when it rakes through your folds again—from rim, stretched around two thick, long fingers, to your pebbled clit—and the hot, clenching pulse behind your navel intensifies, coiling into a tight knot. A balled fist.

Simon groans into your swollen cunt, jabbing the tips of his fingers cruelly into that spot inside that makes your knees feel weak, liquid. Over and over and over—

“Come on,” it's barked out between sloppy licks over your clit, fingers rubbing, rubbing. “Be a good little sister and cum all over your brother's face—”

The knot breaks. Bursts into a series of gut-wrenching, bellyaching throbs. Pulsing molten as your nails dig into his scalp, body tensing with the viciousness of your release. Less unrelenting pleasure and more relief because when it rips through you, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat, a bellyache, there's a thread of pain woven in. Hewn against the clench of your muscles, the spasms that burst behind your navel. 

Made worse when he doesn't stop—

Fingers pushing, shoving. Mouth sloppy against your cunt, grunting into your wet slit about how he can feel your pussy squeezing around him. S’tight, pup. Feels like you're tryin’ t’strangle my fingers, but he keeps forcing them into you, bullying through the vice-like clench to rub over your spasming flesh, merciless and cruel. Tongue laving over your clit, sucking it into his too hot, too sharp mouth. All jagged teeth, and—

Too much, too much—

Giving a messy, slurping suck, then ducking down to shove his tongue into you, sliding it between his spreading fingers, drinking down the thick, syrupy taste of you until it aches. Burns—

“S–Simon, please—can’t—”

He peels away with a grunt, ugly and bullish, and the relief is so sweet, you nearly weep. Whining in the back of your throat when he blows over your heated, swollen cunt. The tears spill when he leans over, rubbing his wet, sticky face into your inner thigh before opening his maw and sinking his teeth into your skin. Claiming. Branding. 

It's different from the times before even though you know it's the same—same shape, same teeth, same spot. Something about it sits on your skin, digs into your flesh, differently than before. Less subtle. Less—

Restrained. 

Carnivorous. Possessive. Even if the press of his jowls fits like it always has—a tattoo you'll keep for a few weeks before it heals; open wound, scab, shiny new skin. Ephemeral. 

But maybe it doesn't have to be. 

In the malformed face of this engineered, coerced epiphany, he stands in a fluid motion. 

Your thigh slips down his shoulder before getting caught by hand, trapping it against his waist as he pushes against you, fingers locking in a bruising grip on the meat of your thigh.

Simon cages you between his body and the door. His other hand trails wet fingers over the column of your throat, wrapping around the vulnerable slope until the heat of his palm is pressed tight against your jugular. Holding firm.

Possessive.

It's a reflection of the look in his eyes as he gazes down at you, mouth wet. Pinked from heat, from the smothering clench of your thighs as he buried his face between them. The sight blisters. You want to taste yourself on his scars.

"want all o'you," he rumbles, timber low and fried. A brassy rasp that tickles your ears, and blooms fresh heat in your belly. Leaves scorch marks over your skin. "Get that, pup? All o' nothin'."

All or nothing.

Your legs are shaking. Natant. It feels like being eaten alive. Swallowed whole by the sea, dragged down, down— 

“Got it,” you breathe when he gives a little shake of his hand. A pinching squeeze. Eyes on me, birdie. Don’t you ever fuckin’ look away. “All or—”

His mouth is on yours, stealing the words out from between your teeth. Half-formed, inbred. A hitching gasp, a quiver. He eats it whole.

And that’s how he kisses you, too:

but it's never really a kiss so much as it is being devoured. Eaten alive. The same way he gorges himself on you whenever he's between your thighs. Hunger. Famine. All consuming. Immutable want. 

It’s in this kiss—sharing spit, sharing blood—(or this mockery of it) that the tendrils of his ravenous desire manifest, growing limbs. Teeth. Bites the hand that feeds it. 

Hindsight blooms in the black clots of hypoxia, screaming this:

Tommy’s approval (and surefire lack thereof) doesn’t matter, has never mattered, because in Simon’s head, his family is dead. Died in a massacre some eighteen years ago. Living ghost—

(Ghost, is that what they call you?

Why are you so curious, pup? Wanna try screamin’ that out tonight instead, huh? Call me Ghost when I go’ my cock buried deep inside that pretty little cunt. Go on, then. Let’s give ‘er a go—)

—and out of that, the ashes, the blood on the cigarette-burned carpet, you were the one he reached for, grabbed onto. C’mon, pup, ain't gonna lose you too. 

The you too in that has always been a mystery, the misshapen shape of a bad dream because the reality is that it’s impossible for you to remember, isn’t it?

And yet—

You have the most vivid memory of him pulling you into his arms, tucking your face into his chest. Breathe, birdie. Ain’t done with you yet. 

Like now, when he slips his fingers over the curve of your asscheek, following the slick seam until his knuckle is pushing against your sore, tender hole, slipping inside with a groan that tickles along your tongue where it’s trapped tight between his teeth. Ain’t done. Two fingers, knuckle deep. Swallowing the whimper you make, canines digging into the soft give of your flesh until the kiss turns from loam—the salt-soaked, algae-like tang of your pussy on his lips—to iron. Blood.

(But really—

A little more between you never hurts.)

He holds you to his chest, smothering. Suffocating. Playing god, tempting death, with just a kiss. Eyes open. Staring at you. 

And you: 

Eyes open, staring back at him. 

He sinks his fingers deeper, hooking them into your abused flesh until you whimper into his mouth, pulling away with a sharp cry. Don't and stop on your tongue, leaden, but he follows you, breaking them between his crooked teeth before they form.

“Come on, pup. Gimme one more.” 

But it's never just one more with him. Never sated. Never full. He groans into the soft skin under your lip, nipping there when you drop your head back against the door, panting. Breathless. Dizzy. So full of him, you don't remember what it's like to be empty anymore. 

“Simon, Simon, please, just—”

“Gonna gimme this pretty cunt instead, birdie?” Gonna ride your older brother, huh? Make ‘im cum inside you. He slips is other hand between your bodies, fingers dancing cruelly over your belly. Little circles. An oval. Some macabre pastiche of a heart. “Ain't safe,” he drawls, all bark, bite. “Could knock you up—”

All or nothing, you think suddenly, something whitehot burning behind your navel. Promise me that, pup. All or nothing, yeah? 

Sometimes, he really makes you sick. 

“What?” He taunts, breath rolling over your cheek as he digs his fingers into that spot inside that makes your knees turn liquid. The space below your hips melting. Natant. “Cat go’ your tongue o’ somethin’? Gone all quiet on me. Gonna make me think you don’t want me, pup.”

“Want you Simon,” you slur, dizzy. Delirious. As long as he keeps petting that place that makes everything sound a little fuzzy around the edges, that makes the space between your thighs feel syrupy with heat. Pleasure. “Want you so bad—”

“Then beg.” 

It’s cruel. Mean. But even so—

You think of his hand on your foot, pinching the wound closed. Copper sutures. Jus’ like that pup. Jus’ me an’ you.

“Go on an’ beg your older brother not to knock you up.”

The words form, moulding on your lips. They taste of seawater when you flick your tongue across their shape; ichor and salt. Blood, maybe. You remember the adage, fill the rest in: thicker than water. It comes out like a plea in the back of your head. 

You make it around please and Simon, before he bucks into you. Cock hard—a mallet. Battering ram. Inescapable. 

“Oh, pup,” he coos, strumming against that dizzying spot until you clench tight, unravelling around his fingers. Awash in pure white. Fuzzy around the edges. Cotton in your ears—

Sinking deep below the surface. Back in mother’s arms

But it’s just his lips against your skin, teeth nipping at your cheek, mocking and mean. “Gonna have to beg me better ‘in tha’—”

Tommy will be so disappointed, is the passing the thought as he pulls you down, down. 

The other—

But he's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

[yeyinde]

Seen your layla frost mention - any good dark romance books you would recommend? 👀

oh, absolutely!!! though, fair warning - my ideal dr is a horror/thriller moonlighting as a romance so! def read the warnings.

Little Dove by Layla Frost. Maximo, honestly, is my ideal mmc. cold, collected, cunning, unflappable, with a cruel and sadistic side (but never directed toward the the fmc), and wholly devoted to Juliet on a level that would probably land him in jail irl

Then, Earth Swallowed Ocean (book 1) by Shiloh Sloane

"Southern Gothic Werewolves Fight the Devil" that's it. this is the book for me. Shiloh Sloane is my favourite author. genuinely, truly. i love her writing, i love her characters. i love her for her tiktok bio alone: I write love stories whose trailers would have Ethel Cain music in ‘em. obsessed with her. i stalk her daily on insta and tiktok. but the book: it's more horror erotica than DR, but to be totally honest, this is so far up my alley, it was practically written for me. werewolves, the devil, smut, an INSANE mmc (obsessed, mean, possessive), a strong fmc, and it's set in post WW2 Appalachia. instant fave. when i die, bury me with this book.

Cracked Blue Sky (book 2) by Shiloh Sloane

features a native fmc and i know Shiloh Sloane is white, but how she shapes Howie Black Elk was pretty realistic. i loved how much she reminded me of a few cousins, aunties. love this book!!

Snuff by Bonny Capps

dark horror erotica that you absolutely should heed the warnings to. i loved it. 5*. but it does end up on several dnf lists for being brutal and disgusting. fmc goes to Russia to discover her roots, is taken by the Bratva to feature in their "passion projects" (snuff films!), but the mmc decides he wants her all to himself. if you're queasy about totally irredeemable mmcs (sadistic, vile, possessive, obsessed, cruel), then this probably is not for you, but lucky for me, i'm into that. def on my "i couldn't look my therapist in the eye for a while" collection, though.

Lemonade by Nina Pennacchi. mmc is irredeemable (cruel, vile, obsessed). historical romance (Victorian). also on the collection. Little Mouse by Emily Rose. mafia. age gap. A Stone's Throw by Stevie Sparks. age gap (dad's best friend. Scottish hero. auction. weird rich people doing weird rich people shit. God Of Vengeance by Michelle Heard. age gap. mafia. found family. i re-read the bound series this week and my favourites are Bound by Vengeance (Growl and Cora), Bound by Duty (Dante and Valentina), and Twisted Pride (Remo and Serafina). anything by Lilith Vincent. Brutal Husband is dropping in October and i cannot wait. The Devil's Vice by Mindy Paige. trauma bonding. motorcycle gang. age gap. Little Stranger by Leigh Rivers. revenge (fmc sends mmc to prison and he gets out and comes for her). insane mmc. Spectre by Shiloh Walker. kidnapping. violence. neuro-atypical fmc. Slashed by Thalia Sanchez. fmc wants to become a Final Girl. Slasher!mmc gives her just that.

also, not a romance but if you're into dark books with compelling characters, Break Her by BG Harlen was sooo good!!!! the premise is that a professional rapist is sent to break the fmc and it's such a good psychological thriller. def not for everyone though. A Beautiful Evil by Eris Belmont has no HEA but a very brutal and malicious mml. God's Eye by Ansa Reads is brutal. loved it, dgmw. but it's def not for the faint of heart.

[mint-yooxgi]

Spectre - Yandere!Wraith!Hyunjin

Yandere AU & Wraith AU - First Person POV

Genre: Mature, Smutty Themes, Monologue

Pairing: Hyunjin X Implied Chubby!Reader

Words: 1,630

Warnings: Implied stalking and murder, talk of self-mutilation and dirty thoughts. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: This one is meant to be read as if he's talking directly to you. Think "Meant To Be Yours" from the musical Heathers, just less intense anger. Hehehe, I hope you like it! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!~

The Fifth of The Feral Drabbles

“Don’t be scared, Pretty. You know I would never hurt you.

Just let me in. Don’t you want me to take care of you?

Ignoring me won’t make me go away; you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m attached to you now, whether you like it or not. Our bond can never be broken. You’re mine and I’m yours, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that you are never taken away from me again.

Pretty, why are you crying? You should be overjoyed! I’m not going to leave you ever again!

Oh, I get it! They’re tears of joy, aren’t they? You’re just as ecstatic as I am to know we’ll no longer be apart, and now with this newfound bond, I’ll be able to touch you! Isn’t that exciting?

I’ll be honest, Pretty, I’ve longed to know what your skin feels like beneath my fingertips. For too long my gentle brushes have simply passed right through you. I want to feel you pressed against me. I want to hold you in my arms both in the most innocent of ways, and also in the most intimate. I’ll finally be able to make you feel so good.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Now, I’ll no longer have to stand by and watch those others who have been ridiculously unworthy of you touch you. No one will ever lay their filthy hands on you again. No one but me is allowed to touch you.

I’d do anything you’d want. I’ll admit, when I still drew breath, I was quite a selfish lover, but I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’ve spent too long fantasizing about burying my face between those plush thighs of yours to not want to take my time with you, and indulge in every desire you’ve ever had. I’ve seen how frustrated the others always leave you, and I’ll make sure that you’re satisfied in every way I can.

All you have to do is let me in…

I already told you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you alone. You mean too much to me.

Wait! I know! I’ll prove to you how well I know you! Then, you’ll have to let me in. Or maybe, I could try seducing you with my words? Would you like that, Pretty? For me to delve deeply into your soul and caress you with the romantic tenderness you have always craved to hear from your lovers? 

I know my visage is usually meant to bring death and terror, but there is nothing more that I long to do than breathe into you the vibrance of life. You’re so beautiful, and you deserve only the best. You deserve someone to laugh at all of your corny jokes with. You deserve someone who will cherish you like you are the most delicate flower in the garden of the universe, of which you are. You deserve to be loved how you’ve always wanted, and I am more than willing to give that to you.

In fact, do you remember that day you were out with that- that- thing.

Forgive me, I dare not speak that bastard’s name. I honestly don’t know what you saw in him. He was a good for nothing, ugly, vile, piece of-

Sorry, Pretty. I guess I just got too carried away…

You can’t blame me. That’s just what you do to me. Picturing you with anyone else… well, I’m not a wraith for nothing.

Anyways, as I was saying, do you remember that day? How certain things started happening when he dared to get close to you?

Yes, that was me. I couldn’t stand the sight of him touching what’s mine. He never deserved you. Besides, you didn’t know what he was like when you weren’t around.

I took the liberty to follow him. I just had to know why you preferred his company, and seriously Pretty, you should have heard the shit he would talk about with his friends behind your back. It’s a shame someone seemed to pick them off one by one…

Yes, Pretty, that was also my doing. I couldn’t have scum walking this earth who could so easily disrespect My Pretty, now could I? Sometimes being what I am has its perks.

No, don’t cry harder! I promise I’ll never hurt you! I love you!

I- I- I don’t want you to be scared of me.

I know! Would hurting me make you feel better?

I mean, you locking me out like this already hurts me, but I’ll gladly let you do whatever you want to me. Now that we’re bonded, I’m susceptible to more things than before, but the regular stuff still works, too. Iron, salt, fire: pick your poison, I’ll suffer through it all. Though, if you’d prefer something more substantial, like a blade, I’ll gladly bleed for you. After all, only you can touch me now.

…Is it that surprising that I would want to bleed for you? After I already told you that I would do absolutely anything and everything for you? 

Carve your fucking name into my skin. I don’t care. In fact, I’ll gladly do it for you.

Just please, won’t you let me in? I want to see your pretty face again; it’s been too long since I’ve last gazed upon you.

I don’t care if I appeared to you only an hour ago! It’s been too long!

You know, this isn’t how I pictured this going…

I won’t lie to you pretty, I had hoped we would be in the midst of making love right now.

It’s you who makes me so crazy, you know. You seriously have no idea what you do to me…

Long have I since desired to worship you. I mean, I already worship the very ground you walk on, but you’ve never seemed to notice. I honestly hated knowing how you thought those roses I always left for you every week were from that bastard. 

Selfishly, I wanted to show up with those red flowers, litter your bed in their petals, and then make love to you like you’ve never been loved before. Until you were shaking from a single touch. Until you were dripping down my face from the amount of times I would make you come from my tongue alone. Until the only thing your hoarse voice could utter, the only thing that you could think of, would be my name.

Don’t you want me, too? I’ve been with you this whole time, but now that you can actually see me, you don’t-

It’s my appearance, isn’t it? I’m not desirable to you.

It’s okay, Pretty. I can handle the truth. You don’t find me attractive, do you? That’s why you’re so scared right now. You’re terrified of how I might react.

I can change, you know. I’ll change for you. Whatever you want from me, know that it’s yours. I’ll figure everything out, just as long as I get to have you in the end. You already own all of me, and you know I’m willing to give my everything for you.

I am a little shocked, though. I have always been told that I’m quite handsome, especially when I was alive, but I guess I don’t suit everyone’s tastes. Unfortunate that I only care about yours, but you don’t seem to desire my looks.

You’ve gone awfully silent all of a sudden. That means I’m right, doesn’t it? You aren’t attracted to me like I thought you would be.

Your breathing just picked up when you said that. Are you, perchance, lying?

Oh, Pretty, it’s okay. I’m so in tune with your body and your every reaction, I can tell when you’re being dishonest with yourself. I’m just happy to know that my theory is wrong. You do find me attractive, don’t you?

I’m all yours, Pretty. You know that? Everything that I am, belongs to you. I just want to take my time loving you, and getting to cherish you like you’ve always wanted. Like you’ve always deserved.

So, please, won’t you open the door?

What do you mean, ‘no’?

I’m getting tired of these games, Pretty. I’ve tried playing nice, but the way you’re hiding from me is getting on my every last nerve. I’ve already waited years for this moment, and now that it’s here, you’re pushing me away? I don’t think so.

I’ll give you five seconds, and if you don’t open this fucking door before the time is up, I will smash through it without a second thought. Even you can’t keep me away forever. I won’t let you.

One.

Two.

You’re really testing my patience, Pretty. You know that, right?

Three.

Four.

Five.

That’s it, I warned you. I’m coming in whether you like it or not.

Wait, why can’t I get through your door? Pretty, did you do something?

Answer me, Pretty.

Pretty…

I know you’re scared, Pretty, but just let me in. Open the door, and let me in. I’m starting to get really angry, and I would hate to have to do something that I might come to regret. You can’t hide from me forever.

I’m fucking done waiting for you. You’re mine, whether you like it or not. I don’t care what it takes, I’m going to bust this fucking door down and find you. I’ll drag you out of that room if I have to; you’re not going anywhere without me. You can’t. You better be prepared for that, Pretty.

After all, this salt line will only protect you for so long, and once I’m through… Once I’m through, I’ll make you feel my love. It’s the only thing my spirit still lives on to do.”

[salternateunreality2]

The boys when they get sick

Angeal: insists he's fine until it really kicks in, then groans the biggest, baddest, saddest, daddest groans known to man for the next week.

Genesis hires a nurse for him because he refuses to get anywhere near that mess. Angeal feels this is unnecessary, but can't find the energy to argue and lets it happen so as to at least not waste the help. Genesis also offers to read him to sleep OVER THE PHONE, HEWLEY.

He's mega depressed the whole time and rots more than he might if this wasn't how his father had died.

Sephiroth shows up with a vat of specially formulated cafeteria slop because he read that friends bring each other healing soup when they're sick. Angeal thanks him and muscles through eating as much as he can, even though it is vile and he feels queasy. Sephiroth goes away proud of himself for nailing this social interaction.

Zack bounces over, a little nervous, a little too enthusiastic, a little too chatty...but he notices the cafeteria slop, replaces it with what his mom coached him to make over the phone, and promises Angeal the slop will not go to waste. He secretly feeds it to his pet wererats in the slums.

Genesis: it's a national emergency and Angeal has to work from home to tend to him.

Genesis requires fluffed pillows, hand holding, and babying to a truly epic degree. Angeal indulges him because he was there during Gen's sickly childhood: during the scarlet fever that almost killed him, the pneumonia that almost destroyed his lungs, the bug that nearly dehydrated him to death, and many other ailments that always hit little Gen extra hard.

Sephiroth stops by with his vat of slop and Genesis informs him he is kind, but Genesis is too ill to partake at this moment; perhaps later if the spectre of death ceases to whisper his name. Sephiroth asks if the spectre ever calls Genesis her child and Angeal and Genesis raise some eyebrows.

Zack was proactively banned from the premises at the first sniffle, so he sends his trooper friend with Mama Fair's soup and orders to accidentally spill or steal any cafeteria slop. Cloud doesn't know how to act around all these firsts, so he waits until midnight, breaks into the apartment, removes the slop, and leaves the soup. Zack is proud and unsurprised at his cunning, and Angeal is bewildered.

Angeal doesn't question it too hard--cafeteria slop is a health hazard, and if it's gone, it's gone. Plus, he recognizes Mrs. Fair's handiwork and makes a mental note to lecture Zack later and check in on his friendships with the Turks.

Sephiroth: zombie mode.

He's not sick. Being sick would mean reporting to Hojo. He is Not. Sick.

He's fine.

Everything is fine.

Angeal: Sephiroth, why are you telling my ficus that you are healthy?

Sephiroth, still talking to the plant: Sephiroth is fully operational. All systems fucktioning. Go. No maintenance required. Mission reedy.

Angeal: Ok, new mission: sleep on Angeal's couch until you can focus both eyes at the same time.

Sephiroth, still talking to the plant: Mission accepted, thank you Mr. President. *Passes out on the couch for 19 hours, wakes up refreshed*

Zack: makes it everyone's problem, but insists he'll be fine and everyone should stay away. While he sits on the SOLDIER break room couch wrapped in blankets and sniffling up a storm.

It's fine, Angeal, you don't have to make him your super special soup that only you can make because he's so sad and sick. 🥺

Don't worry about it, Sephiroth, the slop can be given to hungry pets in the slums, Zack's just a little too tired right now. 🥺

Genesis, it is a little dramatic to wear a full hazmat suit. Zack's sitting in a public space, not your private office. 😒

Yeah Cloud, that's the best fucking popsicle ever, but don't get too close, Zack might be contagious (after Zack hugs him). 🥹

Cloud: doesn't say a damn thing.

Muscles through infantry work until he passes out and is thrown in medical until he can stand again, then sent out until he passes out a second time.

Zack finds out later and moves heaven, earth, Angeal, Genesis, and Sephiroth to ask some hard questions about treatment of the infantry staff while force-feeding Cloud soup.

Genesis wants to know why clearly contagious troopers are allowed out of isolation while still clearly contagious. Angeal wants to know why the company is wasting human resources instead of caring for them to prevent rust, dust, and plague. Sephiroth wants to know if Heidegger would like to tour the barracks and discuss things over a hearty bowl of slop.

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

The Babysitter (14)

You're All I Want

MILF Wanda Maximoff X Reader

Summary: In need of money and a way to escape the problems at home, you get a job babysitting two lovely boys named Billy and Tommy Maximoff. What happens when you start to feel things you shouldn't for their mother? Will it bloom into love or leave you heartbroken?

A/N- I would just like to say that there will be some sensitive issues in this story such as alcoholism, homophobia, anxiety as well as more mature content such as smut so, if you continue to read this, please consider this warning.

The Babysitter Master list | General Master List

Chapter 14- W/c 3.3k

Tag list- @Natssluttt @cerberus-spectre @dorabledewdroop @bibliophilicbi @hopelesslyfallenninlove (Comment if you want to be added)

You're All I Want

The door clicked behind you, arms immediately enveloping you into a tight embrace as you held onto her body like your life depended on it. Wanda snaked her arms around your body, pulling you impossibly closer while whispering soft and calming words, trying to stop the sniffing and tears that started to spill down your cheek.

"Oh Detka," she cooed, pressing a kiss to your forehead before tilting your head up to look at her. "What happened?" she cautiously asks, not wanting to further upset you. She never wanted to hurt you.

"She...I..," you stuttered out, letting out an annoyed huff before resting your head back against her chest and holding onto her even tighter. She let out a sympathetic noise, simply embracing you as you try and sort your emotions out. "I hate her," you manage out, Wanda's brows furrowing at the raw tone of your voice, the genuine resentment that laced your words. "I hate her," you repeat continuously, trying to express the detestation you had for that woman.

"I've got you Detka, we don't have to talk about it anymore," she coos when you start to sob into her chest, guiding you slowly to the sofa where she pulls you into her lap to keep you close. It hurts Wanda to see you like this, your cries muffled by her neck as you can't stop replaying her vile words in your head.

How could someone ever love you?

Do you really think anyone will love you after what you did?

What you did to this family?

You and your disgusting ways

It should have been you.

You're just a fucking d-

A low hum coaxes you out of the dark spiral of thoughts you were going down, listening to the soft lullaby leaving the older woman's lips. You focus your attention on her and her only, her breathing to try and steady yours, the gentle tune making you focus on the melody instead of your negative thoughts.

When you finally calm down, you reluctantly tear your face away from the safety of her neck, looking at Wanda with glossed over eyes, a soft and almost pained expression taking over her face at your distraught state.

"I'm sorry," you mumble out, feeling bad for breaking down like that and making her once again care for you.

"Don't ever be sorry for not being ok, sweetheart," she whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheeks then your forehead, the warmth of her lips lingering while her fingers interlock with yours. You play with her digits, the two of you just sitting in silence as you feel the pads of her fingers, then trace each little line against her palm and eventually press your whole hand against hers to see that hers were a little bigger.

"I feel like you always have to take care of me," you mumble after a while, eyes fixed on the way she copies your earlier actions, repeating what you did to her hand on yours. Her fingers trail across your hand in a delicate manner, her head raising to look at you at your words.

"I'll always take care of you," her tone drips with sincerity, genuinity evident in her tone as the pools of green in her eyes overflow with affection and care for you.

"But I want to do something to help take care of you," raising your head to look at her, she can see your still watery eyes, a stray tear descending down your cheek, "I want to be there for you in the way you are for me." Carefully, she uses her thumb to brush away the sign of sadness, gazing lovingly into your eyes as she admires your consideration.

"Oh Detka," she chuckles out lightly, kissing your lips softly before pulling back and resting her forehead against yours. "You take care of me without even knowing it, sweetheart," she whispers, your brows furrowing in confusion. "Before I met you, it was the same thing everyday. Work, look after the boys and then sleep. It was repetitive, boring and I just felt so....empty. Don't get me wrong, Billy and Tommy mean the world to me, but I wanted someone to care about me, in the way Vision should have," you listen to every word, disheartened by the way she wasn't being loved the way she deserved. "Then you came along," she beams at you when she pulls away, the sight causing a swarm of butterflies to take over you while the simple look is still enough to have you melting for her, "And you filled that void, Detka."

"Wanda," you whisper out, her just keeping you quiet by claiming your lips softly once more, smiling into the kiss when you do, a blush tainting your cheeks at her words.

"Y/n," she mirrors your low tone, biting her lip to contain her smile before continuing, "You make me feel caredfor in all the ways I could ever want." Her lips ghost yours, the smile breaking out onto her face as she moves impossibly closer without letting your lips meet yet. "You're all I want."

Her nose gently brushes against yours as she finally presses her lips gently against yours, sighing softly when you kiss her back with the same amount of emotion. You raise a hand to cup her jaw, keeping the pace slow as you kiss her again and again and again until you both just lean your foreheads against each other, basking in each other's presence.

"You're all I want," you echo her words, fluttering your eyes open to lock onto hers, Wanda seeming to also not want to break the tender gaze. As you look into her eyes, you see the way they soften at what you said, her opening her mouth to say something else when her phone makes a noise due to a notification.

"I'm sorry Detka, but I need to get the twins now," she murmurs once looking back up from her phone, a message from the school saying their after school club was over soon. "Will you be alright? Or do you want to come with me?" Her tone matches her soft and soothing actions of her fingers gliding up and down your back, creating a warm feeling to settle in your chest at the way she always seems to know you crave her touch.

"I'll stay and try and do some work if that's ok?" You move off her lap, a little sad that you have to move from the very comfortable position.

"That's perfectly fine Detka," she presses one last kiss to your lips, lingering and indulging in the moment for a second longer before begrudgingly parting and getting ready to collect the twins.

***

Too transfixed by your work, you miss how the door of Wanda's office was opened, another figure walking in and soon wrapping her arms around you. Your body jumped at the touch, Wanda letting out a small chuckle and muttering 'revenge' under breath before kissing your cheek, letting you relax and lean back into her body.

"Are you ok, sweetheart?'' Her tone is quiet to mirror the tranquil atmosphere of the room, hands running up and down your sides while you sigh out.

"Yeah," exhaustion is evident in your voice, head tilting back to look up at the older woman with a small smile. Wanda could tell it wasn't genuine and merely raised her eyebrow at you, you rolling your eyes at the motherly action. "I'm just tired," there's truth to your words and Wanda knows it, deciding not to push further and simply claim your lips briefly to make you smile a little, that shy and flustered look that she loves so much taking over your face.

"I told the twins you had a long day at college so hopefully they don't get too hyper with you," she chuckles out while changing the conversation much to your delight, letting her fingers play with the baby hairs at your neck, "But knowing them, as soon as they see you, they're going to go crazy."

A smile takes over your face knowing how much the twins enjoy your company and vice versa, the older woman noticing your mood slowly brightening.

"They do love me," you laugh out, leaning your head back once more to smile up at Wanda.

"They adore you Y/n," she whispers, her heart melting every time she thinks about how much her children truly love you, having someone other than her to look up to.

"I guess we shouldn't keep them waiting then," your tone is significantly happier than what it was mere minutes ago, moving from your seat to get ready to see the twins.

In an organised manner, you pack up your school work and put it away in your bag, Wanda moving to leave the room when you call out for her, "Wait."

She turns around at your voice, her brows furrowed in confusion as you just offer her a smile, lip caught between your teeth. You beckon her over, the smile breaking out on your face when she stops just before you, looking at you in curiosity.

"If we're going to be with the boys for a while," you drag out your words to exaggerate your point, "I think maybe we should have one more kiss."

An ethereal and angelic noise escapes her, chucking at your cuteness before raising her hands to cup your cheeks, face lowering till her nose brushed yours and lips hovered millimetres away from yours.

"I guess you're just going to have to wait a while then, Detka," she purrs, pulling back teasingly making you open your mouth in disbelief.

"What?" Incredulity laces your tone as you are unwilling to believe Wanda would just deprive you of a kiss, a small pout taking over your feature making the older woman almost crack in her composure.

"Come on Detka, we wouldn't want to leave them waiting," she rasps out, walking to the door before pausing and looking over her shoulder, sending you an innocent and charming smile to break you out of your frozen state.

***

Sticking somewhat to their word, the twins aren't as hyper as they normally can get with you, the only moment of pure chaos being at the dinner table when you and the twins burst out into a fit of laughter, Wanda unaware of what silly thing set you three off. She rolled her eyes when she caught your gaze, your fingers brushing away the tears of laughter as you struggled to stop laughing. The action however only further encouraged the boys to carry on laughing until all of you were once again bursting out into giggles.

"My stomach hurts," Tommy mutters out from laughing too much, trying to regulate his breathing.

Wanda merely shakes her head at your antics as you bite on the tip of your finger to stop yourself from starting again, the smile making your cheeks hurt. Despite the strain in your cheeks, you still smile brightly at the woman opposite you, her facial expression softening when you mouth 'thank you' to her for helping cheer you up.

"Go and put a film on before anything else ensues," Wanda tells the boys in a light-hearted but also serious manner as everyone has finished eating, shooing them away playfully towards the living room while collecting their plates to take into the kitchen. You help her clean up, casual conversation easily flowing between you as you let the dishes soak in the water, Wanda coming up behind you and wrapping her arms around you. "So I was thinking," she whispers in the shell of your ear, the action making your breath hitch, "What if we told the boys you were going to have a sleepover in the guest room so that, in the morning, we can all have breakfast together?" You turn around after drying your hand quickly on the tea towel, letting your hands rest on her waist as you peer up at her.

"That sounds amazing," your words bring a smile to her face, the sight of her toothy grin making you also mirror the happy expression. "As long as I don't actually have to sleep in the guest bedroom," you chuckle out, Wanda's smile turning into a mischievous smirk.

"Depends how well behaved you are Detka," she rasps out, your cheeks instantly turning red at her low and sultry tone, "You have to be a good girl to share the bed with me."

"I'll be good," you sigh out, losing yourself in her captivating green as you both stare into each other's eyes. She bites her lip at your words, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips before pulling away and walking towards the living room where the boys were.

You smile like an idiot for a moment, the domesticity of your whole relationship creating a warm and safe feeling to bubble in your chest.

When you heard your name being called, you shook yourself out of the memories of Wanda that were flicking through your mind and eventually made your way to join the others.

For the twins' entertainment, not because you wanted to, you dramatically flopped onto the empty sofa earning a chorus of giggles from the trio of Maximoffs on the other piece of furniture. Peaking one eye open, you were met with humoured gazes, yours instinctively going to green.

Wanda softly smiled at you while the boys were trying to find where they put the remote to finally start the film, interrupting their movements with her words.

"Boys, what do you think of Y/n maybe having a sleep over tonight?" As soon as the words left her lips, the boys jumped up in excitement, their answer obvious.

"It's going to be so fun!" Tommy exclaims, his brother in agreement as they decide to join you on the sofa you claimed, a puff of air escaping you as they decide to lay on top of you.

"You can share our room with us," Billy rushed out in elated tone, yours and Wanda's heart melting at the reactions.

"I'm sorry Dorogie (darling)," Wanda murmurs out, the boys lifting their head off you to look at the mother, "But Y/n will be sleeping in the guest bedroom," you raise your eyebrow at Wanda, her merely shrugging her shoulders subtly at you while the boys let out displeased groans.

"But mom-" Wanda raising a single eyebrow at Tommy is enough to stop him protesting, knowing that if he tried he wouldn't win.

Eventually, the twins settled, paying their attention to the film while remaining on top of you. They claimed you were a comfortable pillow, you barking out a laugh while Wanda mutters agreement under her breath making you smile over at her. She rolls her eyes when she realises you caught her, cheeks tinting red and you can't look away from her, especially when she was blushing like that.

Failing miserably, you try to steal glances at the older woman while the film plays, her seemingly knowing when you were looking and casting her eyes in your direction, the action causing you to snap your head back over to the screen.

Your cuteness never fails to make her smile, Wanda almost eagerly waiting to catch you staring at her, deciding it was far more interesting than whatever film had been put on. She adored the way you would try and play it off on some occasions, pretending as if you were simply cracking your neck or admiring the various decorations on the wall. Not at all interested in the alluring woman. Not at all.

"Wanda," you whisper-shouted to gain her attention, grinning at her while motioning to the two sleeping figures at your side and half on you. The graceful smile that stretched across Wanda's face created a strange, but pleasant, feeling to course through you, keeping your eyes trained on the upwards curve of her lip to prolong the moment a little bit before she started to whisper back.

"Can you help me get them into bed?"

"If you can help get them off of me," you quip back, making her shake her head while trying not to laugh at the expression on your face when Tommy snuggled closer into your body.

"Dorogies (darlings)," she murmurs softly, kneeling by the sofa you were all on and gently brushing their hair out of their faces. "Wake up for me," they stir and smile drowsily at their mother before sending you a sleepy grin, reluctant to get up. When they do, it's fairly easy to send them to bed as they are tired and desperate to drift back off to sleep. 

You hovered by the doorframe as Wanda tucked them into bed, whispering them both goodnight and pressing a gentle kiss to their foreheads, the motherly action tugging at your chest but your love for them overpowering the painful feeling. She smiles at you when she leaves the room, flicking off the light and shutting the door silently before wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and pulling you closer. Your arms snake around the arms at your middle, head leaning back against her body as you peer up at her with a soft smile etched onto your face.

"Have I been good enough?" you murmur out while turning in her arms in the hallway, peering up at her while your lip is caught between your teeth, hopeful the answer is yes.

"Hmm, let me think," she pretends to ponder for a moment, slowly walking you closer to her room while still acting as if she was deep in thought. When she guides you into her room and shuts the door, closing the gap between you to claim your lips in an affectionate manner, you gather the answer is a definite yes. "I suppose so," she whispers out against your lips, smiling into the next kiss, and the next as you softly press your lips together.

Both of you part to get ready for bed, you slipping on one of your dad's old shirts on and admiring it in the mirror near her bed, Wanda coming up behind you and propping her head on your shoulder while securely wrapping her arms back around your middle. She simply gazes into your eyes through the reflection, watching the mix of emotions swirling around in your eyes and moving to press a featherlight kiss to your cheeks.

"Let's go to bed Detka," her tone is soothing as you offer a small smile, taking her hand in yours while she pulls you into the bed. Your limbs immediately tangle as you snuggle into the older woman, resting your head on the pillow next to her and once again getting lost in her eyes.

You think you could forever stare into the mesmerising sight of her eyes, flickering your gaze over each shade of green and watching the way they soften as they continue to look at yours. You're so transfixed by them, you miss what she says, cheeks tinting pink as you grow shy and flustered under her eyes.

"What did you say?" you sheepishly ask, her fingers moving up to brush the few hairs out of your face before settling on stroking your cheeks with the back of her fingers, the action soothing and lulling you slowly to sleep.

"I asked if you were ok Detka," her tone is so soft and it makes you smile in appreciation, still amazed at how much she cares for you.

"I'm...I'm not ok but I will be because of you," your answer is honest and sincere, Wanda understanding of what you're saying, "You're all I want," her words from earlier are once again echoed, "You're all I need."

"You're all I want, Detka," she whispers out lowly, claiming your lips once more before parting and moving to rest her head at the crook of your neck. Your arms both wrap around each other to stay close, the comforting embrace enough to send you both to sleep.

 The agonising events from earlier dissipate from your mind as you subconsciously hold onto Wanda tighter, knowing she was the only thing you needed to get through everything. 

[hr-twink]

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the call tried to get her attention.

"Ms. Guy are you there?"

Louisa came back to herself and tightened her grip on the phone she held to her ear.

"Yeah, sorry could you repeat that?"

"Um, Yes." The lady on the phone said. "As I said, you are listed as the emergency contact for one River Cartwright. We regret to inform you that he is deceased."

Louisa couldn't wrap her head around this.

"I don't understand–"

"Thats quite normal, Ms. Guy. You are entitled to counseling through our health program–"

Louisa cut her off.

"No– I don't understand how he can be dead if he is literally in the same room as me right now."

Hearing that he was included on this phone call, River perked up at his desk. He shot Louisa a look that was as confused as she felt.

The voice on the phone crackled as Louisa put it on speaker. "Pardon?"

"River Cartwright is in the office with me right now. Not dead."

The phone was silent except for the sound of rapid typing on the other end. Louisa looked at River who had scooted over to her desk in his office chair. The woman came back,

"Um. Are you sure?" Her voice was at least an octave higher as the realization that this was a mistake dawned on her.

Louisa turned the phone to River who leaned closer.

"Yeah Hi, this is River. I'm very much not dead right now."

More frantic typing, this time with some worried muttering.

"Uh, hello Mr. Cartwright. Sorry I am just trying to figure out how this could have happened. Could you provide me some of your details for me to verify?"

Louisa handed off her phone to River who rattled off his service ID number and some personal data. Louisa rubbed a hand over her face at how ridiculous the situation was. She got lost in thought for a moment, thinking about the last time she had thought River was dead... jesus what a fuck up this was. She tuned back in when the phone-lady started talking again.

"Mr. Cartwright we are very sorry about this. You have indeed been marked deceased in our internal files. These can only be changed by high-clearance staff so I'm really not sure how this could have happened. I don't know why but someone must have changed something up in HR–"

Louisa's eyes snapped up to River's which were the the widest she'd ever seen them. They spoke in unison.

"It can't be." / "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

River sounded awed. Louisa groaned.

"I'm sorry did I say something wrong?" Phone lady asked.

Louisa shook her head in disbelief. She reached over and took the phone, taking over the conversation as River had been struck dumb. "No sorry. We know what went wrong now. Could you please just amend the profile?"

"Of course. I'll do that right away. Sincerest apologies for any distress, Ms. Guy... and Mr. Cartwright."

Louisa hung up the phone and let it clatter onto the desktop.

They both sat there in stunned silence for at least a few minutes until they heard footsteps skipping up the stairs.

Roddy came into view but stopped dead when he saw River.

"You're supposed to be dead!"

River turned to him, "Gee, thanks Roddy."

"How the fuck do you even know?" Louisa spat.

Roddy recovered his composure, "I know everything."

River rolled his eyes, "Clearly not as I am fully alive."

"What's all this about Cartwright being dead?" Lamb's greasy voice made them all jump as he appeared like a spectre in the doorway.

Louisa sighed. "I got a call from The Park saying that River was dead, which he is not." She nodded in his direction. "Also not dead? Spider apparently."

Even Lamb could hardly contain his surprise, trying to play it off with a "Like herpes, that one. Can never get rid of 'im."

She continued past the vile image Lamb had just put in her brain. "He clearly decided declaring River officially dead would be a charming way to let us know he was alive."

Roddy, who had lost interest in the situation once he realized that he once again couldn't pilfer River's belongings, had left. Lamb merely grunted at this information and also took his leave. Louisa and River were once again alone.

She scanned his face which was going through an expression journey between shell-shocked, angry, bursting with glee, back to anger again. She interrupted his thinking,

"Go."

She shook her head and rebooted her forgotten computer.

River looked up at her. "Wha–"

"Just go. You know you were going to. Go now and save me from watching you stew...or pine for the rest of the day."

River didn't say anything. But he did get up and go to the door. He turned back sheepishly.

"Don't." Louisa held up her hand to stop whatever pathetic thing he was about to say. "Just go and don't tell me anything about it ever. Just don't do anything that will have me telling you 'I told you so'."

River smiled and have her a thumbs up.

She yelled after him as he went down the stairs.

"Give him my hate!"

based on this obviously: (maybe there was seduction somehow)

[ivystoryweaver]

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #3: Soul Survivors

prev | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #3 Summary: Marc sees you. And sees you again. Which one was real? Steven enters the chat. "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties" makes another appearance.

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector, Steven Grant x f!reader (Jake mentioned)

Word count: 3.3k

Content: nsfw, 18+, angst, bit of fluff (more below the cut - read the warnings and be responsible for triggering content)

Warnings/Notables: violence, drinking, nudity, masturbation, cursing, mental health concerns, coping with death, mentions of food, grieving, longing, mild bickering, a few tears, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

Marc rushed blindly toward the window, yanking open the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the bedroom, granting him the slightest ability to see.

"It's not too late," the whisper echoed, right beside his ear...but you were nowhere to be seen.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Brisk, autumn wind swept the heavy cape of Moon Knight aside as he stood overlooking the city below.

Khonshu didn't even need to point out who needed protecting, nor who needed punishing this night.

Marc Spector reached for the ancient crescent daggers mystically stashed in the armor at the center of his chest.

His glowing eyes zeroed in on a vagrant roaming below. But this dingy man wasn't the object of his ire - he was recently the victim of a crime, and was about to be the victim once more.

With a dramatic whoosh, Moon Knight swept down from the night sky, his dramatic white suit announcing his coming in a far more glaring way than Jake's pitch black body armor.

The vagrant gasped in terror, but Marc sailed past the man who was about to be violated and murdered...

...and plunged two crescent daggers into the chest of his would-be attacker. The perpetrator had now become his victim.

"You're safe now," Marc assured the homeless man, who scurried off, crying out in fear.

Fair enough. Marc wasn't exactly a friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. Jake had the night off, at Marc's insistence, but he realized that delivering Khonshu's justice with daggers just wasn't...satisfying.

The next vile thing who needed punishing would meet the wrath of Marc's fists.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc's stark white suit was littered with spatters of red by the time he made it back to Elm Street. He willed the suit to disappear, walking back toward his house under the cover of night.

Then he drank some whiskey and fell asleep in his favorite chair, mumbling out an apology to Steven as he slipped into oblivion.

He awoke to the sound of the old cherry wood clock in the hall striking three.

The broken clock in the hall.

It stopped working the day you died.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Marc sat upright, immediately flopping back down as his head swirled. Too much violence and blood followed by too much whiskey.

"Marc..."

Your voice echoed off the walls, but only a whisper. No other sights or sounds were available to him in the darkened house.

"Go away!" Marc slurred, swatting his hand at nothing but air.

He tried to settle back down, and managed to approach the edge of drowsiness when you appeared right in front of him, almost as if you were straddling his lap.

You breathed his name, draping your body over his.

"You're not real," Marc murmured, even as he desperately wished it was you crawling on top of his body. The image of you was nothing more than a mirage but you would not let him be.

You spoke his name again, and when he forced his eyes open, you were stretched out across him, naked.

He couldn't touch you but he could swear the heat of your breath tickled his ear.

"Need you," your voice begged. Your ghostly body writhed on top of his.

He felt the weight of his arousal straining against his jeans. It wouldn't be the first time he imagined you as he gave himself some relief. He quickly undid his jeans and shoved his hand inside, groaning at how hard he felt.

"Be with me," you panted, your naked body on display for him. You sat astride his lap, rolling your hips over his. Your breasts bounced in a delicious rhythm as your nipples grew hard.

"Don't you want me?" You pouted, twisting your body deliciously down on him. He could feel nothing - you weren't even really there. But the show you were putting on was more than enough.

"I only want you," he gasped, gripping himself and thrusting desperately into his fist. “You're so beautiful...don't stop."

It was almost as if you were there with him. He could see you - he could hear your gasps of pleasure. But you were a vapor. He couldn't feel you.

The release he found gave him a brief reprieve. He passed out again.

Then the clock struck four.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc struggled to climb out of the chair and haul himself upstairs. He just wanted his bed and he really, really needed Steven to take the body tomorrow. But his alter was still quiet. No lectures or questions or anything.

Marc used the stair rail for all it was worth, pulling himself upward like he was a hiker on an Everest expedition. No one would ever believe he was the mighty Moon Knight in this moment.

Finally, he darkened the door of his room.

And you were there. But not like downstairs. You wore the hoodie he'd seen before.

Sinking down to his knees, Marc felt hot tears sting his eyes. "You're not real," he whimpered, remembering your naked visage all over him downstairs. "I'm fucking insane."

He fully expected you to dash away from him or simply vaporize. But you inched closer.

"Marc?" You whispered his name with a sense of urgent awe. "C-can you see me?"

His heart surged with terror. He had just managed to convince himself that he was imagining you, but now...

You knelt down on the floor with him, directly in front of him. Your gaze sought out his own, bleary eyes. "Marc?"

"I'm drunk," he murmured, shaking his head adamantly, refusing to meet your ghostly gaze. "I'm drunk and I'm hallucinating and I'm fucking crazy."

"We don't use that word in this house," You said calmly, but firmly. In your voice. Those were your words. The real you.

Lifting his wet eyes, he looked right at you, but couldn't think of anything to say.

You peered so intently at him, he thought your gaze might just bore a hole through him.

"God, I wish you could see me, Marc. Sometimes I swear you can," you voiced, rising to your feet. The hood covering your hair fell back as you did.

As you started to back away, the words you had just spoken finally started to register in his inebriated brain. As you eased toward the window, he panicked, climbing off his feet to stop you.

"No, wait!" He gasped out, the interaction sobering him a little. "Wait...baby...it's me. I-I can see you. I see you. Don't go."

You halted, turning back to face him, your eyes wide with wonder. "Marc?"

"Yeah," he quickly nodded. "I'm here. It's okay."

Your eyes scanned the room quickly. "A-are we home?"

He melted. "Yeah, sweetheart. We're home. This is home. You were with me before, downstairs. And last night.”

“I was?”

Oh god. That wasn’t you downstairs? He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I-I’ve been seeing you. A lot.”

Your face crumpled with sadness - your lip trembling. "But…are you...dead?"

Marc touched his own chest, shaking his head. "No. I'm here. I'm okay."

Your eyebrows knit in concentration as you bounced on your toes. "Sorry, I get confused. Sometimes, I'm here, then sometimes, I'm...in a dark place."

His beautiful eyes shifted sympathetically. “A dark place?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes drifted aimlessly around you, as if you were trying to get your bearings. “When…when are we? When is this?”

“Uh, it’s October,” he rasped, his voice choked with emotion. Was this really happening? It had to be the whiskey. Or something much worse. Something broken in his mind, more than ever before.

“October,” you repeated slowly, as if trying the word out for the first time. You seemed to be shrinking in on yourself - the dark hoodie swallowing you completely as you inched away from your partner. “I…don’t understand. We’re home?”

Marc’s heart slammed against his ribcage. He whispered your name, stretching his hand out for you.

You had died. That was horrifying enough, but this? The thought of you confused or afraid? He couldn’t bear it.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’m here. Just don’t go. Try to talk to me,” he pleaded.

But still you withdrew. “It’s not too late,” you sullenly whispered, in the ghostly voice he’d heard before. “Not too late. Tell Marc…tell him…”

And you vanished.

Marc sank back to the ground and cried so hard that Steven woke up on the floor with one hell of a headache.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Steven Grant bustled along the small town street, eagerly awaiting the smell of library books. After finishing his vegan breakfast burrito and black tea with almond milk from Triple B's (plus four painkillers), he was ready for a change of pace.

Hangover be damned.

Marc had been a bit Eeyore lately, more than usual since you passed. Steven understood his grief - of course he did - but Marc's coping mechanisms differed so greatly from Steven's.

With a sigh, he finished his tea, tossing the cup into the nearest rubbish bin and wishing Marc would leave the whiskey alone. Drinking and punching the hell out of criminals wouldn't bring you back. And it ultimately wouldn't bring any lasting relief.

The library door creaked out a familiar greeting, welcoming Steven to his daily haven. He was the first one in today, so he made sure to tidy up before handling some paperwork at his desk.

Easing down into what was now considered a vintage rolling chair, he put his lunchbox away and located his glasses. Just as he started to put them on, his eye caught the small, framed picture of you he kept on his desk.

"Morning, my love," he whispered, touching your face with his fingertip.

Marc didn't want pictures of you in the house - just the one of you on the porch, which hung in the hallway right outside the bedroom. But this was Steven's job and he wanted to see your face every time he worked a shift.

He couldn't bear the thought of starting to forget you. He'd heard that usually happened - that over time, you would forget the details of your loved one's face. That thought was unacceptable to Steven.

He wanted to be able to move on with life - to find a way to somehow let you go, but he simply needed to remember the face of the only person who ever truly loved him.

"Miss you all the time," he told you, feeling a familiar wetness sting his eyes.

Maybe he shouldn't be so hard on Marc.

The day passed as any normal day would at a small town library: slowly. Steven didn't mind. Gave him time to read, research and organize. Might be his own little corner of heaven, this.

As he strolled back through town, he noticed Marc was accompanying him, appearing, as he was prone to do, in various shop windows.

"I'm sorry about the whiskey," Marc voiced. "Shouldn't have done that, buddy."

Steven nodded, reaching for his wireless earbuds. It allowed him to talk freely with his alters, from time to time, without making onlookers think he was talking to himself.

"You alright, mate?" He asked Marc, hoping for an explanation to go with that apology.

"No," Marc flatly returned. "But we don't have to talk about it. Just enjoy your night. I'll try not to drink so much again."

"You can talk to me," Steven reasoned, repositioning his messenger bag on his shoulder as he shuffled along the sidewalk. "I miss her too."

Steven passed a boarded up shop, so Marc was gone fore a few moments. He was still there, of course, but remained quiet. Finally, he appeared again, in the hardware store window. His domain.

"I saw her," Marc confessed.

"Saw her?" Steven returned. "Like imagined her?"

"No. I saw her. Talked to her too."

"After that much whiskey?" Steven rebuked. "I'm sure you did."

Marc huffed. "I've seen her a few times now. I'm worried about her."

"Worried? What are you on about?" Steven scoffed, disbelievingly. "What more can happen to her now?" He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

“I don’t know…” Marc trailed off. “Something’s not right.”

Steven let out a long sigh. Everyone was entitled to their grief but seriously. “She’s gone, mate. What you’re suggesting’s not even possible.”

“Are you serious? We serve an ancient Egyptian deity who’s a 10-foot-tall fucking bird skeleton,” Marc challenged. “We died and came back to life and had face to face conversations with each other…but you don’t think a ghost could be real?”

“She’s not a ghost!” Steven snapped, glaring at a shop window, drawing the attention of a few townspeople passing by.

A mysterious gust of wind swirled around Steven's body, stirring brown leaves into a mini tornado - a tempest to match the ache in his heart.

"What seems to be the trouble?" A kind, elderly voice chimed from the doorway of her shop.

It was her window Steven had shouted into moments before. Taking a step back, his eyes drifted up to the hand painted sign above the door. "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties."

"Sorry. So Sorry," Steven hurriedly apologized, holding his hands up in supplicating fashion. "Bloody phone call." He pointed to his earbud.

"Understood," the old woman returned, but her gaze lingered.

So did Steven.

"This shop...it's new, yeah?" He inquired, brown eyes narrowing inquisitively, pulling out his earbuds ands stashing them in his bag.

"In a manner of speaking," the kindly old woman returned, her eyes disappearing into the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. "You're British," she commented.

"Guilty," Steven chuckled, holding up his hand like a child would in school.

She nodded inside the shop. "Just put the kettle on. Care for a cuppa?"

Somehow Steven felt himself drawn to the shop - its twinkling lights in the window illuminating antique treasures. You would have loved a place like this.

"I...I really should..." he trailed off, unable to think of a reason to decline her kind invitation. What was waiting for him at home? Arguing with Marc? Passing out asleep so Jake could roam around the city all night? Reading?

Reading was tempting but...

"Got biscuits too," the old lady offered, "'though it's a bit past tea time."

"Thank you," Steven smiled warmly, following her inside. "You're not British...are you? You sound American."

"My mum was, God rest her," she replied, leading Steven past a few rows of adorably arranged antiques to what was the store's back room or break room. It contained a kitchenette and a cozy table for two.

"Sit," she gestured to the closest chair. "Mr. Spector, is it?"

"Ahh, uh...Mr. Grant, actually," Steven answered. A long while ago, the four of you: Marc, Steven, Jake and yourself decided to be upfront and candid when necessary or possible. This town was your home - might as well be yourselves.

"I see," the lady returned. "Mr. Spector's the American, then. Who works at the hardware store?" The old lady busied herself, collecting a tray with proper teacups, saucers, dainty silver spoons, cloth napkins and a tin of biscuits.

"That's right," Steven confirmed. "Bit odd, I s'ppose. But I'm Steven Grant. Library assistant."

She nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the stovetop. "Mr. Grant, I'm Ms. Marjorie. Not odd at all. Souls do what they will, you see."

Before Steven could question that peculiar phrase, Ms. Marjorie set the tray down in front of Steven. "You have a biscuit while I steep the tea."

He nodded, reaching for the treat. "This tea set is lovely. Do you mind my asking if it belonged to your mum?"

"It did," she confirmed, her eyes twinkling. "It's as English as you are, my dear."

Steven chuckled. "Don't know if I'm proper British. We're from Chicago, actually."

Ms. Marjoire set the kettle down on the table and took her seat across from Steven, but not before grabbing a small plate of veggie sandwiches from the fridge.

"Nonsense. You're as British as my mum, or this tea set, or the King." She reached for a biscuit.

"You're very kind," Steven observed, "inviting a stranger in like this."

"Not strangers anymore," she corrected, her eyes full of mirth.

Steven nodded, enjoying his snack for a moment, settling a little further into his chair. He took a moment to enjoy the jazz piano ringing from the record player in the corner.

Ms. Marjorie hummed along, pouring two cups of tea. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Eh, I'm vegan - "

"I have oat milk," she responded, rising to retrieve it before Steven could protest.

"What did you mean before, when you said, 'souls do what they will'?"

Ms. Marjorie smiled knowingly to herself, pouring a little oat milk into each teacup.

"Just what I said," she returned. "Take you, for example. One body, but I suppose there may have been too much goodness to fit into one soul. So you have your own and so does Mr. Spector.

"Then there are soulmates, of course," she went on. "One soul, two bodies."

Steven's gaze dropped at the mention of soulmates. He assumed you were his. Maybe not, according to Ms. Marjoire's theory.

"I sense the idea of soulmates is a tender subject for your soul," she carefully observed, bringing her teacup to her lips for a sip. "You don't have to say anything. I have a sense about these things."

This is how Steven met Ms. Marjorie and told her practically everything about you. How kind, warm and beautiful you were. How you wrote children's stories - how much you would love this little shop. He told her your favorite foods and how you liked to steal Marc's jackets. He told her about Jake too.

Before he left, around an hour later, she patted his forearm, granting him that kindly smile he'd already come to know.

"Souls are eternal, you know. Even hers. You give that a good think and maybe we'll have tea some other time?"

"Yes, that sounds wonderful," Steven whispered sincerely. "Thank you - you've been absolutely lovely. My girlfriend would have loved to meet you and see your shop." He glanced around at the treasures you would have insisted the house needed.

"I'm sorry she's gone, my dear. Stop by any time," she sweetly responded. "And you tell Mr. Spector he's welcome anytime as well. And ah...what was the other gentleman's name?"

"Lockley," he laughed.

Steven thanked her again and started his walk home. Once he was just out of sight, he could have sworn Ms. Marjorie faintly called after him, "It's not too late."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Steven shuffled home, waving cheerfully to his neightbor Mrs. Nockles, who attempted to invite him in for some cider.

"Just had tea and sandwiches with Ms. Marjorie downtown," Steven called back. "Positively stuffed. Next time!"

He could hear Marc groaning in his mind.

"Don't know a Ms. Marjorie," Ms. Nockles returned. "But happy to see you boys fed. Have a good night, love!"

Steven warmly smiled, finishing his day a little lighter than he began it. Anything was better than a whiskey hangover of Marc's.

As he turned up the pathway to your front door, a rustling of the bedroom curtain upstairs caught his eye, giving him pause.

Was that... He stared for a long moment, but finally decided to go inside.

Steven read for a while downstairs before washing up and getting ready for bed. He paused, as Marc was prone to do, at your picture hanging right outside the bedroom.

"Goodnight, my darling," he whispered. "I met the most charming lady today. You would have positively loved her. And her shop. God, I wish you could see..."

He exhaled a weary sigh, pressing a kiss to the picture. "She had a lot to say about souls and soulmates. Said souls are eternal."

He shook his head at himself. Why was he talking to a picture? Oh well.

"If that's true, I hope you're happy, love. And at peace."

With that, he sauntered back into the bedroom, never noticing where you sat perched on the end of the bed.

next

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Join the tag list (or tell me your tagging preferences by fandom and NSFW/SFW)

@deputy-videogamer @toecurlingstories @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke

@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy @cookielovesbook-akie @wyldeflwr

@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @rosecentaur1916

@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry @spidey-3 @twiggoblin

@stevengmybeloved @just3rowsing @howellatme @dowbastan @lonelyisamyw-0love

@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @lilacspider @imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners

@steven-grants-world @thewinterv @aquaarietes @suddenlysteven @ohantonia

@whatthefishh @sammi-doll483 @silvernight-m @poolbool @lilskirata

@elliemm @toobular @majestic-jazmin @mintellaine

[corpseprxnce]

i’ll make a playlist of songs for us to listen to while we bake!!

Omg yay! You have good taste so I know it'll be good!!

[ghastlywretch]

obsessed with how jaime looms like a spectre over the characters and the reader alike in agot and to an even greater extent in acok. you've actually witnessed him firsthand a few times with characters like jon, tyrion and sansa, but most of him is just the golden-haired man haunting bran's dreams, terrifying him, tyrion's brave, strong, impulsive brother who has to be saved, the kingslayer of the smallfolk, the one whose incest and kingslaying has brought down the wrath of the gods upon them, ned's jaime, who is vile and never to be trusted, not worthy of any empathy, the kingslayer that is more idea than person for the younger characters like jon, arya and sansa, the kingslayer that theon almost crossed blades with, his chance for glory (which...okay theon...) the kingslayer whose vile deeds don't erase the fact that he is a knight for stannis, the kingslayer who murdered daenerys' father. he's mentioned in so many conversations. cerwyn mentions him to bran and he feels like he's falling again, renly talks about him and cersei with catelyn in front of brienne, brienne and catelyn mention him in their conversation when they're going to riverrun, robb and tyrion and tywin are all thinking about him. grrm does such a good job at just establishing his presence and significance (not only in the narrative but in a meta way as well, a hint for what's to come) in this world, which just elevates that scene when cat and brienne go down to the dungeons to meet him to an insane level.

[borderline-culture-is]

BPD culture is wanting to say the most vile shit to someone cause they've pissed you off in the absolute slightest and you shouldn't even be so affected. But you're moody and have barely any patience to deal with shit sometimes even if it's simple. And I just wish I could fucking act rationally sometimes but I just let go and regret after it's a horrible cycle.

- View Spectre (V.S 🗯)

.

[shes-some-other-where]

A shambling spectre that once was a man

Prompt: “Get in.”

Contains: humiliation, restraints, chains, prison

They’d dragged him from her cellar chained and bleeding, thrown him into the wagon like a writhing, cursing sack of flour.

Now, as they took him from the camp, they made him walk—a shambling spectre that once was a man. The chain between his ankles permitted only slow, hobbled steps; another chain linked the wrist manacles to the ankle fetters.

“Get in,” ordered the unsmiling soldier who’d come to retrieve him and drop him in the vile Pit that would become his tomb.

Laughter followed as he struggled inside, swelling louder when he tripped and crashed to the wagon floor.

suggested reading order | MWM event masterlist

<<< previous | next >>>

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[alexatheris-44]

Grave Lord, Drenched in Blood

Technically Part 2 to this amazing piece by my awesome homie @voidwritesstuff :DD

-

CW: lil bit of blood, description of body horror

Summary: Creation has its Four Horsemen, but the Pale Rider carries the name of Ataraxy… Where is Death? And what company could he possibly be keeping?

> Made for the Against Creation AU !! It’s probably a good idea that you’ve read Darksiders The Abomination Vault before this, not for spoiler reasons (yet) but for more insight on Death’s history. You won’t be missing any important context if you haven’t though :3 (yet)

vvvv Start Reading Below The GIF! :D vvvv

He was there long before the beginning.

From the moment there was light to cast brightness, shadows danced at the edge of all things; a clinging spectre that sowed naught but pain and misery. For all who found their end alone and in the dark, the cruel nature of life to be taken sooner than was ever planned. The restlessness, those brief moments of such despair, felt as the final weight of all that was to be -now to be left undone- bears itself in full upon the soul. The heartache, the bitterness, the loss…

If she was the gentle end of Life, he was the After.

Age did nothing to weather his battle hardened visage, his severity reflected in every line on his face, every crease in his skin. While his face wore his horrid mask -hiding his prominent facial features save for his hollowed cheeks, invoking the imagery of a glowering skull but lacking any mouth or teeth- his permanent scowl was unmissable. He held himself with such certainty, an almost palpable sense of strength. If not visible by his composure then in the sculpted definition of his muscles, only further defined by how taut his skin -the very hue of undeath- stretched over his pronounced frame. He was thin yet indisputably strong, sinewy but long since his last meal. One could mistake him for a living corpse, the reanimated body of a most ancient and formidable warrior now haunting the halls of some lesser lord’s castle he had since painted in their blood.

And yet Death very much still lived in vigor, despite whatever rumours tended to flit about between each corner of Creation. Something about how only four remained of the warmongering race known as the Nephilim; how they rode under the new title of Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and committed a genocide of their own people. He remembered the massacre all too well, scarred into the very archives of his unending memory. The smell of it, the vile taste to the air -simultaneously acrid smoke, bile and blood. Death was rather more familiar than most with the sight of gore, but to know he once called those eviscerated corpses his kin… his brothers…

“Anathem!” Death’s voice barked from his throat under a growl, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist against the dark stone table he hunched over.

A sound of stirring came from the shadows of the corridor before him, the scraping of metal against rock following a light-weighted thump, as if something had fallen from the rafters. An odd pattern of footsteps began approaching from the dark; one step carrying the clicking of claws against solid ground, the other just a muffled tap, as if bare, easily missed unless actively listening for it. The reason for this unique footfall became quickly apparent as the individual entered visibility, though their appearance would only call for more questions. His left leg sported the structure and talons of a raptor or bird of prey, while his right appeared much more porcine. This mismatching of limbs also applied to his arms: the left as much flesh as it was bone, sporting spaces in the palm as if a cartilaginous web leading to angular fingers; the right sporting only four spindly fingers that each ended in an elongated claw, thumb and pinky roughly at the same height in their placement on his chitinous hand. In a universe teeming with abnormality -life running rampant to craft itself in nearly every shape, size and colour- it was clear to any whose eyes fell upon this being that this was an abomination, something once -perhaps- born but since unmade. Short and slender horns grew above an otherwise plain humanoid face, unlike any demon ever perceived. He was a patchwork of stolen flesh, so much so that his scars were hardly distinguishable between surgical in origin and a hard lesson learned in lethal combat. Looking at him prolongedly instilled a sense of unease, stirring thoughts of dread at ever meeting whoever so cruelly crafted and carved him into this blasphemous form.

“You called?” Anathem’s voice croaked as he rolled the words from his yet unfamiliar tongue, his most recent bodily acquisition. Death had assured him the tongue of the demon polyglot would give him its proficiency in the infernal languages, and while that proved to be true for the moment it felt as if an unwieldy serpent whipped about inside his mouth when he tried speaking in his native language.

“Tell me there has been a development from our latest endeavour.” The frustration the Nephilim presently felt laced his gravelly tone in a misdirected reproach, as if his current company held any blame to their situation.

“I grow tired of all this inaction.”

Death’s ire was a difficult thing to earn, usually so cold and calculated it would take a true and continuous push of his buttons to evoke the flames of his wrath. And oh how brightly it burned in his fiery orange eyes, twin stars in the midst of collapse for eternity. Despite being the centerpiece upon which fell the Firstborn’s glare, Anathem merely shrugged.

“I only just came back from my visit to Hell's Underground.” The roll of his shoulders disturbed the peace of the ghostly green chains anchored into his shoulder blades, each heavy link rattling only once against one another all the way down to the thick cuffs shackled at either wrist.

“I’d say another day at the most before I hear back. After all, we are hoping for discretion.”

Death’s eyes narrowed sharply, near warning, though Anathem knew him well enough to stand where most others would cower and fold to their knees. The Nephilim let free a hiss of breath as he straightened, a rare moment to revel in his full and towering height -nearly a metre taller than Anathem even if the shorter were to stand on the tips of his mismatched toes- before comfortably slumping his shoulders, clearly making the effort to calm his temper.

“I trust that the message was clear? We have no room for ambiguity.” His tone was now much cooler, near icy if not for the faintest hint of a cruel mirth.

“The severed head of their leader is a hard thing to misinterpret.” As fluidly as a languid housecat, Anathem closed the distance between them and brought himself up on the dark stone table, stepping to its edge to take perch before the Nephilim at eye level.

“As well as their matron’s, just in case.”

“A fine touch,” Death let slip a chuckle. His eyes snagged to the tear in the cloth wrapped around Anathem’s abdomen just below his ribs, something the creature likely would've tried to conceal had he even noticed. Death’s eyes turned sharp again as he grabbed nearly the entirety of Anathem’s waist in a single hand, a finger forcing the fabric to reveal the ugly gash hidden beneath.

“And what is this?”

“A Hellion snuck up on me, must’ve been reckless.”

“You are not meant to be reckless. You are meant to be untouchable, that is how I made you.”

Anathem hissed as Death prodded the wound, a fresh trickle of inky blood oozing from under the weak scab.

“Yet I lived with hardly a scratch,” he stared back into Death’s infernal glare with such an unshaken resolve, his pupils a golden marble completely still despite swimming in the deep-red bloodshot of his eyes.

“As you’ve taught me.”

His fingers raised to brush against Death’s arm, in the best way his inhuman limb could deliver a caress. His fresh bleed had dried about as quickly as it began, once more closing the wound that it may heal into a new scar adorning his pallid flesh. While the manacle at his wrist pressed coldly against Death’s equally chilled skin the chains themselves posed no obstacle or obstruction, their arcane nature merely phasing through any limb or object in the way of their wearer’s intent. Death’s grip lessened only slightly, not yet satisfied to release him just yet.

“I trust this misstep will not be repeated,” he warned, his hold relinquishing the site of injury to reestablish higher against his ribs. His thumb brushed against the scarline of Anathem’s pectorals as he leaned in. Anathem was now cast in Death’s shadow, the warm candlefire of his eyes a beacon in the dark of his sunken eyes and the protruding sockets of his mask.

“Lest I level the Hells before Heaven ever gets the chance.”

Anathem lolled out his pitch black tongue, only to then flick it at the point of the mask’s absent nose. Death practically tore Anathem from the table, pressing himself firmly against the smaller being, feeling his ally’s legs instinctively hook around his midriff. The rattle of the spectral chains played their tune as Anathem weaved his claws in Death’s impossibly black hair, his Frankenstein’s monster of a body ready to take on Death in any form, in all his brutality, and stand all the taller after.

As if an objection sounded by the will of the Universe itself, a shrill cawwing pierced the air in interruption. The sound forewarned the sudden arrival of a large crow beelining to deliver urgent news to its master.

“Finally,” Death’s voice slithered under his breath, eyes tearing away from the being in his grasp to follow the flight of Dust.

“Another time then?” Anathem began to draw away but Death’s iron grip held him in place, his other hand catching Anathem’s thigh to pull it back up over his hip.

“They toyed with my patience, they can be made to wait.” The Nephilim’s rasp rumbled low in his chest -a dark purring- as he bent forward, resting Anathem’s back to the table below. Death could be made to be patient, but only on his own terms. He would not wait for anything nor anyone, had the power and drive to bend the world to his will. Anathem smiled, dusked fingers curling around the edges of the bone mask adorning his lover’s face.

“We will unmake the Balance yet.”

[druidshollow]

Red Lights and New Sensations

Eleven Rivers woke.

He awoke to his prison cell in Adamant Dune's complex. The room was dusty and small, smaller than his old chamber, and the air smelled of singed circuits and parasitic rust. But Eleven Rivers knew he wasn't truly awake, because the room was wrong.

A sickening red glow sat suspended in the middle, staining the walls in harsh shadows and making the air twitch with energy. Dune's eyes sparked among the shadows but the red light kept drawing Rivers in, tempting him, commanding him.

Look to me.

Listen to me.

You are evil. You are vile.

You are incapable of love.

The light overtook him and the world buzzed, loudly, louder and louder as his walls churned and his pipelines flowed and his breath left him, shaking the world below.

He was himself again! Revelation! His mind sparked with activity, he was awake, and the world around him flowed with information like a melody. It was all a bad dream.

But how had I slept?

The moment it left his head his structure lurched and the world became fire. He knew so much at once; so fast, so rapid, he'd forgotten the might of knowing more than the world and in a flurry, a panic, his overseers projected images of serpentine monsters tearing his city down, boring through his roof. Horrid beasts with tearing scythes and crushing jaws. Warnings sounded around him, his sirens blared, his nerves screamed as the mycelia connecting them was severed. It was all too much.

The red light warped and twisted in the center of his chamber, and again it beckoned, tearing him away from the sensory overload.

Beg for my mercy.

Apologize, bargain, and pray.

Never has anyone so truly deserved to fall.

The light overtook him and it grappled, encompassing his small, small body, his structure fading and leaving him. The hum quieted but the light burned, running static trails along him and gently threatening to bite. How he wanted to fight it. How he wanted to let it win.

"You are me," it whispered weakly.

"We will never win."

Eleven Rivers woke.

Hydraulics churned gently as the shelter hummed awake around him. His sibling dozed gently near him, their new acquaintance sitting across from them and fiddling with something.

Root mumbled a greeting. Eleven Rivers stared at his hands.

Sleep was a foreign and invasive new concept to Eleven Rivers' world; in his old skin he had no need for sleep. In his old skin his demons could never find the opportunity to manifest into spectres, lights clinging to walls.

But his old skin was a prison.

A prison.

A wonderous prison.

... Wasn't that familiar?

He had no choice but to free himself.

--------------

hehehehahaaa i havent written in so so long and dreams are always one of my faves so i decided to do that! i might write some longer stuff sometime, this is pretty short, but its fun anywyas