#antique display tables
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Toronto Library Family Room
Family room library idea with beige walls, no fireplace, and a tv stand in a mid-sized eclectic enclosed room with medium-tone wood flooring.
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Library - Family Room
Family room library - mid-sized eclectic enclosed medium tone wood floor and beige floor family room library idea with beige walls, no fireplace and a tv stand
#suede loveseats#cinnamon walls#book cases#antique display tables#display end tables#classic design#floor to ceiling window
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Antiques at Home, 1989
#vintage#vintage interior#1980s#80s#interior design#home decor#vignette#display#mirror#antique#candleholder#cherub#baroque#dressing table#dressing room#feather#floral#style#home#architecture
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I'm so deep in my Marjorie feels tonight. I'm looking through the inventory of stuff at my (now deceased) grandparents place and my Grandma (who I never knew very well because we were an 8hr car ride away, and by the time I was a teen she was battling a horrible disease that slowly took away her ability to move or speak) prepared for this moment. She wrote little blurbs for the antiques and other items of sentimental value. And I know she wrote them for this very purpose because one of the blurbs mentions that her handwriting has gotten so bad she couldn't fill something out. She wrote every single blurb because she wanted us all to know what was important and why and she knew she knew she had to write it down so we would remember.
#I feel like I'm reading little missives from the past#like she probably wasn't explicitly thinking about ME reading them#but she was thinking about US reading them and I'm just#I wish I had a house to take every antique on this list that no one else wants#her grandparents made furniture!! She played under one of the tables as a kid!!#her mom HATED that picture that they've moved with them to like 12 different houses and displayed every time
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Rustic Elegance: Arizona Farmhouse Design with Eclectic Shabby Chic Vintage Furniture
Nestled in the rugged beauty of Arizona’s landscape lies a farmhouse that epitomizes rustic elegance and vintage charm. This haven of design seamlessly blends eclectic shabby chic vintage furniture with traditional elements, creating a space that is both inviting and captivating.
Visit Our Online Store:-ETSY MOGULGALLERY
As you step into this farmhouse, you’re greeted by the warm embrace of…
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#accent table#Antique Style Home Furnishings#Antique Wood Craftsmanship#antique wooden furniture#Artisanal StudioDoor#carved barndoor#Classic Furniture Pieces#Collectible Antiques#console table#Custom Door#custom doors#Custom Sliding Door#display table#door table#Elegant Heritage Furniture#entryway table#hall table#interior designer#long console table#Old World Charm Furniture#Period Furniture#reclaimed wood#Reclaimed wood door#Retro Home Décor#rustic farmhouse#sliding barn door#sliding barn doors#table for TV#Timeless Antique Furnishings#Traditional Vintage Décor
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so i complain a lot about low build quality of modern durable goods, but i do think there's a lot of freedom in having durable goods that (while they meet or exceed a minimum level of functionality) you aren't tempted to Keep Nice.
i don't care if my cat sharpens her claws on the couch because it's an ikea couch i got for free off a friend who was moving away. i don't care if my car gets scratched because it's already dinged up and it doesn't make it any less drivable. i don't care if my desk chair upholstery gets stained; it was cheap and who gives a shit if my chair is grungy. in many cases i actively disprefer the Nice version of the thing (like, say, a fancy expensive car) because it's emotionally a lot harder to blow off incidental damage.
this is also a thing that's really nice about DIYing/thrift flipping furniture and shit: i don't care that much if i scratch up the finish on my desk because -- well, it's a desk. who cares if a desk is scratched?? but also, i built the damn thing, so i can just sand it and refinish it with the exact same varnish. i could reupholster the various cat-scratched furniture, if for some reason i wanted to do that. i CAN, in fact, Fix Him.
i grew up in a house with a bunch of Nice Furniture, including (most frustratingly) antiques where you absolutely could not leave anything wet on them ever. a couple times, in the course of lighting birthday candles, the kitchen table accidentally got match-scorched, and my mom STILL tisks over those burn marks every time she remembers they exist. and i have to say, constantly Being Careful of the Furniture did and still does drive me up the wall. it's exhausting. like -- you don't have to spend mental energy on that!! you can refinish the dang table! you can, idk, lasercut some clear acrylic sheets to put on top of the antique dresser set! you can also decide to just not care about your stuff displaying the ordinary signs of wear and tear from being lived with, instead of trying to make a home a furniture showplace. every time i look at the scorch marks on my parents' kitchen table, i remember eating birthday cake.
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vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k
story summary; you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.
story warnings; bloodplay, extreme dubcon, explicit noncon, cigarette burns, wounds inflicted on mc, implied masochism, extreme sexual sadism, hypnotism, graphic violence, gun violence, body gore, graphic details, heavy prose, unreliable narrator, religious themes, exploration of morality, obsessive + possessive behaviors, implied stalking, choking, murder, graphic depictions of crime scenes, manipulation/emotional manipulation, this entire oneshot is an allegory.
read the warnings! mdni under any circumstances! the events within this one-shot are not indicative of my personal viewpoints
thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.
this is a repost from my deleted blog, cardeneiv. please reblog/interact with this piece!
Another internet search bore fruit.
The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.
That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.
Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.
You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.
There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.
Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.
"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."
"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."
Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.
"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."
You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"
"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."
Again, odd, but it was his house.
"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"
He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."
"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."
The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"
"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."
With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.
You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"
"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."
What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.
"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."
He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."
Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.
"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"
Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."
Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.
Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.
The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!
Why did he act so much differently with them than you?
He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.
You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.
Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.
You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.
Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.
Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.
"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.
She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.
A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.
You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.
Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.
The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.
Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."
You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.
The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.
You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.
"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."
Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.
"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."
The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."
"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."
His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."
You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.
"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.
"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."
He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.
"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."
"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.
He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"
"The police," you said.
Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"
Your nod was weak.
"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"
You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."
"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.
"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."
You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow.
No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.
"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."
The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.
He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."
You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."
༺ ♰ ༻
A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.
The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.
You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight.
Montague had moved her body but to where?
For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.
Where did he take her?
Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.
You weren't sure you could stomach it.
As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.
You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.
To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.
By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.
"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."
"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.
You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.
He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.
"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."
"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.
Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”
But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."
You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.
It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”
Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."
Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.
"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."
"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."
༺ ♰ ༻
Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.
Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.
One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.
"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.
You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.
Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood.
An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.
It wasn't fucking fair.
Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.
"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.
"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”
"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."
As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.
It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.
"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.
He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."
"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.
He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"
You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.
Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.
"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.
"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."
Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."
These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach.
A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.
You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"
The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.
His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."
Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.
You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.
His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.
And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.
An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.
It didn't sound like you.
It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body.
The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.
"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.
Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.
His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.
The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.
He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.
"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.
Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.
The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.
"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"
You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.
༺ ♰ ༻
Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.
Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.
The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.
Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom.
These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?
Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?
What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?
That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.
"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."
It was a normal joke.
You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.
The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.
"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"
From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.
"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."
"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."
T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."
For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.
༺ ♰ ༻
It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself.
Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.
Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"
"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air.
The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.
Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.
In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.
You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."
Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do.
He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.
To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.
"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.
Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.
It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.
You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.
Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself.
A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.
All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.
Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.
"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."
And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering.
"Clean it up."
You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.
Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.
He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.
"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon.
Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him.
"A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."
He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.
"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."
There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.
"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"
"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes.
Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.
He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway.
You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.
There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.
"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you.
The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.
Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.
Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough.
It wasn't loud enough.
He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.
"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."
His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips.
All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.
"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.
He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.
"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that.
"Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."
Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.
"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe.
You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.
Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.
"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."
He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.
Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.
"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.
"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"
"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."
Oh, now you were begging.
This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."
The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.
Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.
For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.
"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."
You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.
If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.
He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.
The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.
It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."
He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.
"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."
All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.
This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.
Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."
He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.
"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"
Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.
"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"
You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"
A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.
"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.
You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.
But you still felt everything he was doing.
His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.
At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"
"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."
His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.
And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.
To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.
"I don't think you should go to work today."
You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.
༺ ♰ ༻
A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.
It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.
"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."
"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."
"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."
The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.
It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.
But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.
You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.
And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.
"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."
He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.
"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."
"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.
The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.
"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."
"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."
He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."
"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."
"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."
You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—
And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.
"Ignore it." you said.
"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."
Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.
I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.
You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.
But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—
The air exploded.
Just once.
A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.
Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.
"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."
You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.
This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.
"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."
You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"
Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"
"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"
He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."
"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."
Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."
Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."
He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."
"He doesn't mean that."
Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in.
The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."
Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.
Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.
Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.
"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"
The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.
And then, you saw bodies.
Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light.
A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.
You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.
"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead.
The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"
Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.
The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.
"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."
That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.
"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."
You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."
"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."
Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"
Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.
"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."
You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"
Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."
"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."
Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"
You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.
The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.
It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.
"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"
He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."
You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—
Just like Montague said you would be.
And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.
It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.
You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.
The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.
Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.
And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.
You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"
No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.
"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"
It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.
The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.
"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.
There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.
You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.
Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.
You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.
"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."
The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.
You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.
You regretted all of it.
The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.
Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.
You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.
"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."
He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.
a/n; I hope this scratched some awful itch for you. onto the story notes:
on montague: what he is exactly is open to interpretation. tell me your theories! his character has been around in my arsenal for a very long time, but as a human cannibal in those days. he's been resurrected into something worse imo. he exists in my vampire universe more as a side-character, and, surprisingly, is not the central antagonist. he is meant to more or less be the embodiment of depravity and the consequence of a being without internal moral compass.
on mc: represents the fallacy of man and how unreliable the narrative of morality actually is, and how we as people have tendencies to twist and turn the meaning of it for our own benefit. mc in this story is not meant to be a good person, but did they deserve condemnation to a personal purgatory?
so, while this is a monster story, I wanted to parallel the treatment mc endures + mindset to the horrors of trying to escape abuse. I wanted to explore this through the lens of a monster story, though. if you suspect you are in an abusive relationship, please reach out to people to help get you out.
what's funny is that this story was originally supposed to be a dark comedy that moved towards something a little darker, and eventually turned into this. montague was initially going to just be a nuisance to mc by inserting himself into friend hangouts because "it's my house".
divider by; @/anlian-aishang
dc divider by; @/benkei-bear
if you read and enjoyed it, please share your thoughts and reblog!!
#vampire#vampire romance#vampire story#vampire x reader#vampire x you#vampire x human#monster x reader#monster fiction#monster fic#monster x human#monster story#tw monsterfucking#monsterfkr#monster fucker#eldrich horror#origonal character#original writing#original work#2k writes#monsterfucking nsft#monster romance
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→ Hush Hush Behind The Shield.
gif credit.
pairing: soldier boy/ben x wife!reader.
rating: explicit.
warnings: vought's ungodly shenanigans, mentions of cheating, couple fighting, angst, misogyny, antiquated mentality, dub-con, power imbalance, fingering, forced orgasms, angry sex, cock riding...
word count: 3.4k
summary: being america's greatest hero's wife has its perks, but they don't come for free...
taglist: @zepskies, @deansbbyx, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deans-spinster-witch, @venus-haze, @thebiggerbear...
A/N: I'd like to thank my two pretty moots, @kaleldobrev who's been always there for me, listening to mental blurbs and chaotic spews of unhinged ideas and continuous mind dump ❤️ and @zepskies who bares my energy, which can be a bit much, each time I spam her dms with life cringing memes and awaful reacts ❤️
Kneeling down on one knee, your mitted hands hoisted the oven door close as you hummed a melody to yourself. Turning on your heels, you stood up and gave the dining table a once-over before allowing a proud grin slip on your lips.
“Perfect.”
Then your eyes glanced at your watch. It was half an hour past seven in the evening. Perfect. There'd be enough time to pamper yourself in a relaxing shower and spruce up with no rush before your husband was home.
You gave the dining room another glimpse to make sure everything was in place before you headed to the bathroom upstairs, walking through the living room where the T.V. displayed a Soldier Boy anti-drugs commercial.
A snore escaped your nose upon hearing the phrase: “Just say no.” Remembering how your husband threw a fit behind the scenes at how stupid it was, to the point of getting Stan Edgar himself on the line for him to find an alternative to it. Because no way he was saying that shit.
“God, I sounded like a fucking douchebag,” He'd told you in his dressing room, a smouldering reefer hanging between his lips — the irony, after they wrapped filming up.
You'd giggled, playfully plucking it from his lips to take a drag of your own, “No, baby, you did just fine.” You purred, and his mouth curled up into a small grin, “The public needs that y'know…” You tipped his chin up, your polished, long nails grazed lightly to his skin, “You're America's golden son, right? You're the man everyone should look up to.”
“Damn sure they should.” He'd chuckled, leaning down for a kiss which you gladly welcomed.
Being Soldier Boy's wife came with many many perks, but it also had its downsides, one of which was to have to deal with his short temper. But what could you say? You loved the man. Ardently so; you literally fought the world to have him all for yourself despite Vought's disapproval of your nuptial.
You savoured the victory when you married Ben in a small ceremony without Vought's blessing. It was like a slap to them when Ben imparted upon them the happy news, he delivered them a severe black eye, especially the vainglorious bastard Edgar. Who had once told you that you and Ben wouldn't work out, for it was simply "inconvenient" for a superhero like Soldier Boy to be involved in a serious relationship with a mere… human; it'd be a "disappointment" in the public eye, as he put it. Like he had a say in the matter.
But here you were, with a ring on your left hand to swagger about, and happily married to America's first hero, Edgar and Vought could say hello to your middle finger.
To nobody's surprise, you resented Vought, and held such abhorrence against them for not letting you and your husband live the life you wanted for yourselves. Despite your personal efforts, your proclaimed triumph was soon cut short because Vought declined to go public and endorse your marriage. Not that you and your husband gave two shits about their approval, but the rules were rules. And their lawyers affirmed that a public exposure of your marriage might damage Soldier Boy's rep, therefore, Vought's; given the fact that you were more than thirty years younger than him. They couldn't have it said that the hero of heroes was a creep even though they'd tried to conceal his age when he and Phoebe Cates starred in Love And War because it started to seem fishy. It was expected, though. But what you didn't see coming was Ben's response, or lack of response as to put it.
Despite being even more obdurate about this marriage than yourself. You felt terribly abjured by your husband. You'd thought he'd fight for you, for what you both had, and he'd want to let the world know about you. It'd broken your heart when it dawned upon you that Ben wouldn't risk his fame and glory for anyone, for you. Reluctantly, you bit the bullet, you had to, for him, because you loved him, and would do anything to keep this marriage intact. If you had to compromise for it, then so be it. You didn't care.
To your solace, Ben never changed after the frustrating incident; he was still the man you fell in love with. He might be smug, crass, and insufferable to everyone but you could still perceive the tender side he had though he'd never actually admit it, and you never pushed him too much. You were subtle enough to know when to stroke his ego and when to tease it. He was a man, after all. But it was obvious; he was a doting husband who cherished you in his own way. He showered you with gifts, and pampered you when he could. And he was eager to have babies with you. He never ceased to express how rapturous he would be if he were to have a son. A child with you.
Sure, you had your own qualms about that particular day, and there was more than a time you wanted to have a conversation with him about it. But you couldn't bring yourself to screw it up with stupid doubts. If Ben hadn't truly loved you, he wouldn't have treated you the way he did, he wouldn't have brought you to his workplace to have you at his side — and to poke Vought's eye every single time. He wouldn't have let you in and told you about his family and his dad, about his fucked-up childhood and how he became a hero.
No, your bond was bigger than any fleeting thoughts of incredulity.
You crooned softly as you wrapped a towel around your body after you finished your shower. Stepping out, you rubbed your hair with another towel and made your way down towards the kitchen to check on the pie.
Oh, Ben liked pies. You found it amusing how he'd swallow a whole pie alone and wouldn't affect him one bit; a supe sure required a lot of calories. Sometimes, you wished you had his great metabolism.
The moreish scent of baked dough and chocolate told you it was ready. You opened the oven door with a protected hand and placed the delicious pie by the window to let it cool down while you dressed up.
On your way back to your bedroom, you padded through the living room again. Your eyes glanced fleetingly at the screen only to stop abruptly in your tracks. A slight frown made it to your face as you saw a picture of Ben and Crimson Countess together. You never liked Countess. Something about her always disturbed you, and your guts were right.
Your eyes roamed the headline over and over, dilating in stupor.
Breaking News: Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess are officially together, Vought announced.
You shook your head in disbelief, hand grasping the remote control from the couch, shivering fingers shuffling through the channels.
Soldier Boy finally found the one!
Your heart paced up with each press.
A long awaited power couple is now here!
Vought just shocked the world by—
And here's Soldier Boy and Countess's statement…
It was hard to quell your simmering anger when you saw your husband smiling face with that bitch between his arms. Camera flashes and clicks swarmed around them with an entourage of reporters and interviewers.
“Hey, Soldier Boy, now you're together, what can you tell us about the first time you saw Countess? Was it love at first?” A reporter asked.
Ben scratched his beard with his gloved hand, drawling “First time I met Tess was when Vought concocted a hero collab years ago, remember that honey?”
You did remember that event very clearly. You were still Ben's secret girlfriend at the time, and it was exclusive to superheroes, yet Ben brought you there as his date.
Ben grinned as if dreamily reminiscing about the memory as he continued, “And lemme tell ya one thing, this one is a firecracker.”
Countess giggled playfully, gazing up at your husband in the most flirtatious way, it made you gag with disgust.
You scoffed bitterly at the blatant lies spurting right in your face. That specific night, Ben had childishly grumbled and complained about how much he wanted to be out of there. And to spice things up, he playfully dragged you from the pristine hall the event took place in, and fucked you raw against one of the wall of some other hall, keeping your panties as a souvenir for the rest of the soirée. He kept teasing you through the entire night, riling and messing you up. At the time, it was thrilling and venturous. Now, however, it knotted at the tip of your stomach. His focus that day was solely on you. He wasn't even aware of the bitch's presence for all you care.
“And when I first saw her… knew she was the one….”
You couldn't comprehend what Ben said after that point as a deafening buzz bolted through your ears. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and soon they were streaming from your eyes as you stood numb on your spot. Your tears splattered on the ground along with your heart.
“Honey, I'm home.” Ben announced once he stepped in the house. He sighed, putting his shield down and making his way to the kitchen where you usually would be, making his dinner. He didn't take his boots off though he knew you'd throw a fit about it, but let's just say that teasing and screwing with you was his favourite hobby. His anticipating grin soon dropped and a small scowl knitted his brows when an odd mixture of scents wafted into his nose. His eyes dilated at the unusual messy scene in the kitchen; the table was flipped over, glass splints scattered all over the floor, freshly-cooked food covering the carpet beneath the dining table, and a chocolate pie was squashed into the wall.
With a pacing heart, Ben cried your name, and hurriedly climbed up the stairs. His feet darted to the bedroom when he heard you sniffling and weeping.
An audible sigh of relief flouted out of chest when he saw you. Your hair was wet and a damp towel wrapped around your body, but his eyebrow quirked up when he noticed you packing a bag on the bed. The fuck?
“(Y/N), the fuck is going here?” You scared the shit outta me. He wanted to say, after the shitty day he had, he just wanted to have you in his arms and play with your hair.
You startled for a moment when you heard his southern accent. You used to be fond of it, but today you were certainly not.
“I'm leaving.” Your answer came out curt, your hands tugging your bag zippers close.
You heard his footsteps getting closer until you felt his hand on your bare shoulder, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
You pulled yourself away from his hold, hissing, “Don't you fucking touch me!”
He didn't seem to heed your warning as he reached a hand to your face. Gritting your teeth, you spun around with your hand ready to deliver a slap to his cheek. However, and no matter how fast and pissed you were, he was always quicker and alerter. Fucking supe.
“You don't get to touch me ever again you asshole!” You shrieked, yanking your wrist from his grasp, your wet hair stuck to your face, chest heaving with each breath.
“The fuck is wrong with you, woman?!” He growled with a deep scowl, “Just left you all happy and giggling in the morning, is it here? Your time of the month again?”
“Fuck you!” You spat, clenched hands rising up to his chest, “You're my fucking problem,” You jabbed a fist to chest, though he didn't move an inch, but damn didn't it feel good! You blew another punch to his stupidly firm chest again and again.
“Fucking Christ!” He grumbled, and with one strong arm, Ben wrangled your back against his chest and caged you in his steel hold, one hand securing both of your wrists above your head, “Calm the fuck down!”
Legs kicking and hands tugging, you tried to wriggle out of his arms but to no avail, you felt so helpless against his raw strength. Your anger and frustration poured out of your mouth in a wailing, broken voice, “Leave. Me. Alone!” You bellowed, “Go to your fucking Crimson Bitch!” Two rivulets of tears drizzled from your eyes again, “Go to your fucking Tess and let her fire-crack your nuts, you fucking pussy!”
“Christ on a cross, do you hear yourself talk, woman?!”
His eyes widened before his eyebrows scrunched deeply. He took you off guard when he brought you down to the floor as he crouched on one knee. Your towel unwrapped at the sudden movement and you were naked beneath his eyes. His hands were still holding you in place.
Two green eyes regarded you softly, “You really took that marketing shit for real?” He thumbed your lower lip, and his free hand trailed down your naked form. “Fucking hell, thought you were way smarter than that, sweetheart.” You shivered from both the cold and his touch, his sinful reaching your mound, “You really think I'd fucking leave you for her?”
You couldn't suppress the moan when he stroked your throbbing clit. A shot of arousal seeped out of your opening much to Ben's satisfaction. Anger made the colour of your face rise, “Fuck you! Fuck your bitch! Fuck Vought!” You spat, your eyes burning holes into his as he proceeded toying with your flesh until your voice broke, “Y-You want me to buy your shit — Ah!” Two of his thick and expert digits entered your slit, massaging your love spots thoroughly. “After you didn't stand up for our marriage?!” You groaned, hips rolling to the rhythm of his fingers.
“Is that so?” His brow quirked up amusedly. Was this funny to this bastard? Was your marriage some kind of a joke to him?
You gasped as he deliberately hit your weak spot; sweet, delightful coils fluttered at the tip of your stomach, “I was under the fucking impression that you had your pretty, little head wrapped around how this fucking business worked!” He snarled.
“Fuck you! I hate you!” Your body snapped as you came abundantly on his fingers which made him grin slyly down at you.
You felt his grip on your wrists loosen, so you took your window and jerked yourself free. He was shocked when you pushed him down on the floor and straddled his hips, your dripping cunt was drenching his pants with your cum. He raised a playful brow at you but soon was replaced by a shocked frown when you slapped his irritatingly handsome face.
“Fucking hell, you fucking little ballbuster—”
You shushed him with a finger on his lips, “You're fucking mine, Benjamin, you hear me! You're fucking mine!” You hissed, having no idea where your vigour came from as you tore his shirt off of his chest. His length poked you when you gazed with searing fire in your eyes at his, “You. Belong. To. Me.” You furiously tucked his pants and boxers down, his cock springing out with life.
A wanton moan came off your lips as you sunk yourself down his cock, whereas he grumbled in pleasure as you hugged him tightly with your wet and warm insides.
You snapped your hips harshly and he growled, “Fuck, doll—!”
Another snap, your voice was laboured, “I own you. You're married not to that whore, not to Vought, but to me!”
Your skin slammed against his meat vehemently as you gritted your teeth when another orgasm was spiralling in your body. You paced up your movement, a hand banging demandingly on his chest, “Say it! You're fucking mine!”
“Holy shit!” You watched his eyes roll backwards as he rasped, “Yours, babe,”
“Holy fuck, Ben! Ben, I'm coming again!”
That was his cue to take control again. He sat up, cradling you in his warm hold, “Cum to me, babe, fucking soak my cock.” You wabled his name, clinging to his shoulders as your climax stormed out of your body like a mad hurricane. You whimpered pathetically when his two large hands on your hips kept making you ride him through your high.
“Fucking stupid girl,” He growled, shooting his seed up your insides.
With laboured breaths, you glared at each other. You felt his cock softening inside of you, “Fucking idiot man.” You scoffed.
He chuckled with a boyish grin on his sweaty face, “That was fucking hot, think I like this wild side of you, darlin'”
You snickered, “You bet, wait until you see what I'm gonna do with that little fuck, Edgar.”
Ben rumbled a deep chortle, much to your annoyance, would this man ever take you seriously? “I swear to fucking Christ, Ben, if they—you don't break off that stupid shit with Countess and go public about us, I'll fucking burn that fucking tower to the fucking ground, because I'm fucking done with this—mhmmm!”
He cut you off with a scorching kiss and its heat made you thaw against his lips. His cock twitched inside of you.
“Jealousy looks pretty on you though, sweetheart” He teased, his lips brushing to yours.
God, damn this man and his endless ego! “Ben!” You nudged him playfully.
“Can't wait to see you wanting to snatch some ladies' heads off when we go to balls together.”
You smiled at him, biting on your bottom lip. The idea of finally being acknowledged as Ben's wife warmed your heart, and his willingness to do so made your heart race. However, disturbing thoughts loomed in your head again, “Think Vought will let us be?” You asked with hesitation. Fuck, that shit really got too deep into you.
He rolled his eyes, “Try not to work your pretty head hard 'bout this, doll,” He tucked a tress of your hair behind your ear, “The man who fucking beat the Nazis can handle some sweaty fucknuts at Vought.” There was something warmly reassuring about his smugness.
“See? All that shit wouldn't happen if you didn't stay silent while they fucking tried to play their fucking game!”
Ben chuckled, “Well, the fucking was totally worth it.”
You groaned in frustration, “Ben… I thought you abandoned me.”
Your husband furrowed his brows at you, “You women hardly think sometimes, don't you?” You scowled at his remark but he sighed, cradling your cheeks in his warm hands, “I fucking fought to make you my wife. I fucking put my whole career and name at risk for you.” You blinked at him, “The day before we tied our knot, I fucking told the boardroom that I was marrying you, that I'd fucking walk off if they tried anything funny… they didn't, till fucking today.” He sighed, “They fucking announced that bullshit before I was even told.”
“Assholes,” You whispered.
“After that pathetic act, I fucking stormed to Edgar like I stormed Normandy. Let's say that he and I did a little bit of chatting,” He gave you a conceited smirk, giving you no detail of how he got scared shitless when he saw the mess in the kitchen. He thought Vought dared to fucking do something to you. And when he heard you cry he feared the worst. But of course, he wouldn't tell you anything about that. Because he was the fucking man of this house; if his feelings of fear appeared, the sense of security he provided to this house, to you, would crumble. And he wouldn't have that. Ever.
You, on the other hand, had a weird combination of pride and happiness sprouted within your chest.
“I'm so sorry, Ben…” You said, cupping his face in your hands, “I-I don't know what came over me when I saw you with her,” You couldn't even say her name.
“Couldn't have your man stolen away, could you?” He teased you.
“Never.” You answered, “And I'm sorry for what happened, husband.”
“I mean you did make it up for me, wife,” He flashed you a cheeky grin, “Though, I don't feel particularly in a forgiving mood… yet.”
Head tilting to the side, your raised an eyebrow, rolling your hips teasingly on his cock, “Don't push your luck…”
“Try me.”
#soldier boy#soldier boy fanfiction#soldier boy smut#soldier boy x female reader#soldier boy x reader#soldier boy x you#soldier boy x y/n#the boys imagine#the boys fanfic#the boys#the boys amazon#soldier boy/ben
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opposite occupations
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summary: all the 141 boys have different plans while on leave, each having their own idea of how to spend the time. but when they run into a lovely civilian, they realize that all the long hours, deployments, and trainings worth it.
pairing: 141 x civvie!fem!Reader
warnings: swearing, all fluff :)
a/n: I love me a good little meet cute
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price - florist
Everyone knew that the minute Price went home, he would be making the trek to his favorite cigar shop. It had been one he frequented for years, the familiar sign welcoming him home. Most shops on the street stayed the same. He liked the constancy, the familiarity.
As he rounded the street corner, he noticed a new shop had filled the unoccupied next door. The pale pink awning and rose-tinted glass were a new sight to see. "Sentiments of Carnations" he read as he walked past. He could see through the window that the shop had not yet been opened, noting the smell of fresh paint and empty displays. He wondered what grandma had put their retirement money into this florist shop.
He continued, opening the cigar shops store and smelling the musk of smoke and tobacco. "Ah John, I have your regulars set aside," the old shop owner said with a smile. "Back again for long?" he asked upon his return with a dark oak box. "Just waiting for another phone call from his majesty," he joked and slid over the usual bank notes. "I'll be seeing you," Price said as he opened the door and exited with the familiar chime of the bell.
As he embraced the warmth of the summer England weather, he pulled out one of his fresh purchases, excellently wrapped and balanced. He flipped open his lighter from his pocket and sat down to have his first smoke at home. He closed his eyes and savored the notes of espresso and hickory. As he sat in his small nirvana, he heard the florist's doors open.
He turned as he saw you, a flower behind your ear and a pink apron that perfectly matched the outside of the shop. You were not the grandma he had expected and instead were beautiful, the sun catching your lovely features. You had placed an antique table outside, along with a bucket of a colorful array of flowers adorned with a handwritten tag. You hung a small sign on the table that read, "Take one for a friend, family member, or loved one." You smiled at yourself, proud of the little display. You turned your head and noticed the mature man enjoying his smoke only a meter away from you. You picked out a scarlet carnation and walked over to the man, handing it to him.
"Here, you go," you said as his calloused fingers held the flower delicately. "A flower to brighten someone's day," you said with a smile. "Thank you, although I am not a man for flowers," he replied and extinguished his cigar. "Well, flowers can be for a variety of reasons, a friendly gesture, a gift for someone you fancy, or even something to brighten up your flat."
You ended with a sweet smile and he could feel himself melt on the spot. Something about the floral aroma emanating from the flower behind your ear along with your soft voice and pleasantries added to his current state of nirvana. You were so radiant in this light and he appreciated the kind gesture, especially upon his return home.
"No one to give a romantic gesture to, but thank you," he replied. "Well if that ever changes, my shop opens later this week! The shop's number is on the tag" you said before giving him a small wave and wink. He could hear the shop's door close as you began to set up your display and paint a mural on one of the walls. As he twisted the carnation in his hand, he knew he would be adding your shop to his routine becoming your most frequent customer.
soap - tattoo artist
Soap looked at his phone, making sure he was in the right place. His favorite tattoo shop near his Scottish home had closed and he was taking a recommendation from Ghost.
"She's got an attitude but her work is amazing," Ghost had said before Soap's deployment. He couldn't deny the craftsmanship of her work on Ghost's arm. He marveled at the attention to detail as Ghost proudly shoved off his ornate sleeve.
Soap had an appointment for today, previously approving of the artist's rendition of his vision. A black-and-white thistle, a charm his mother had said. It was commonly known to keep its owner away from danger and bad acquaintances. Something Soap needed on the battlefield.
He pushed the maroon door open, admiring the many gold frames with what he assumed were some of the artists' work. He let out a light chuckle as he noticed a framed sketch of Ghost's sleeve. He was just about to snap a picture when a voice called out, "Hey Mohawk, this isn't a museum."
He turned around to see a woman, a gorgeous one at that. You were wearing a tank top that showed off a collage of various tattoos in different styles. You had been taking a break and relaxed, sitting behind a desk, feet propped up.
"Actually, lass, I'm here with an appointment," he said, walking over to you. "Name's John MacTavish." he finished with a cheeky smile.
"Ah MacTavish, one of Riley's military boys I'm guessing. How's that masterpiece of mine doing?" you joked, Soap didn't know what to say. Were you and Ghost a thing?
You laughed at his pause, "My tattoo, Mohawk. There's no way I'd be shagging his Halloween-looking-arse." Soap appreciated the heads up about your attitude and knew this was gonna be a fun session.
"Looks gorgeous, Sweetheart. Just like yourself," he poked back and you let out a loud laugh, almost doubling over. "Don't flatter yourself, you can go make yourself comfortable in my station over there. Looks like you're only getting a bicep tat, so I better not see your shirtless arse back there."
Soap made his way to where you motioned, sitting down in the black velvet chair. You came in a few minutes later with your sketch and supplies. You closed the scarlet curtains behind you before walking over to prep his arm.
As you sat in relative silence, Soap asked, "So what do the tattoos mean, Lass?" You finished your prep work and were working on the correct tattoo placement. "Travels from around the world. I took it upon myself to get a tattoo in every new country."
With that, you offered him a mirror so he could approve of the sketch and placement. The tattoo rested on his right bicep and he made sure to look at it at every angle and made sure to flex for your enjoyment.
"Alright, muscle man, this should only take a few hours as long as you don't pass out on me," you said and began to tattoo your next masterpiece. During the next two hours, you made conversation about the tattoos meaning, his life in Scotland, and you even shared more intimate details about your travels.
The hours flew by like minutes to Soap as you let him know you were finished. He admired the detailed flower and you handed him some care instructions with some cream. "And your buddy paid for you ahead of time, so you're all set, Mohawk" you replied and Soap got off of the chair.
"See you around, my world-class woman," he joked as he exited the door. You slightly cringed, wondering if writing your number on the tube of aftercare cream was a good idea or not.
gaz - primary school teacher
Gaz looked at himself in his flat's mirror. He brushed a hand over his freshly cut hair and evened out his dress shirt. "Just a favor for a friend," he said to himself as he walked to catch the next tram. Two days ago, an old colleague during his days working with the metro police force had reached out to him. They called in a favor, "Kyle c'mon it's just a couple of primary students, all you need to do is give a little talk about stranger danger." Knowing he had nothing else better to do, Gaz agreed.
As he signaled the tram to stop, Gaz looked at the brown brick building reminding him of his younger days. Gaz walked in, checking in with the receptionist who directed him to the classroom where he'd be giving his talk. He was early, the school had not yet opened but he was asked to have the presentation at the beginning of class before the children's lessons. He admired the walls filled with the artwork of the students, silly attempts at drawing their families. He finally reached your classroom, noting the smiling sunflower on your opened door. He knocked softly and he saw you lift your head to greet him. If he had known you would be so beautiful, he would have not needed his friend's encouragement.
"Ah you must be Sgt. Garrick," you said, beginning to get up from your desk to greet him. You smoothed out your skirt and placed your glasses down. "It's just Kyle," he said and returned your friendly smile and warm handshake.
"Well Kyle, the children should be arriving in a few minutes. I'll get them settled and introduce you for your small talk today," you said with a grateful nod. You motioned for him to sit at your desk as you stood at your door to greet your excited second-year students.
Gaz played on his phone and smiled as he heard you return the children's happy good mornings with a similar high-energy one. The students began to file in, placing their bags in their cubbies, and sitting with their friends. You heard small whispers from the children, wondering what you were doing at their teacher's desk. He let out a chuckle when he heard one boy whisper, "Is that Miss Y/N's husband? He's sitting in her chair."
Finally, with all the children in their seats, you walked to the front of the classroom and greeted your students warmly. "Good morning everyone, today we have a very special guest with us. This is our friend, Kyle, and he's here today to tell you all a little something before we start our lessons."
Kyle knew this was his cue, he rose from your desk and swapped places with you at the front of the room. "Hi everyone, today I'm going to teach you smart kids about something called 'Stranger Danger'." The children oohed in response as Kyle waved his hands in a fake menacing manner. You smiled as he was a natural. The children were attentive, writing down the information as he spoke and working together with their classmates to fill out the worksheet answers. Kyle ended his talk and asked if anyone had any questions. One child raised her hand and Kyle called on her. "Is Miss Y/N a stranger? I'm confused."
"I'm your teacher, Amelia. Teachers that you know aren't strangers," you responded and Kyle nodded in agreement. Another kid raised their hand and asked, "But you aren't Kyle's teacher, so you're a stranger to him."
Before either one of you could respond, his friend boasted, "It's because they're married, your Mum and Dad aren't strangers to each other." Both you and Kyle shared a look and he saw the soft blush rise to your face. "Ah we're just friends," he said and saved you the embarrassment.
Little did Kyle know, his email would chime that night with a thankful message from you along with your number at the bottom asking him to breakfast that weekend.
ghost - veterinarian
Unlike most people, Ghost loved the quiet ambiance of London's rainfall. The streets were empty and peaceful as people were cozying up in their homes with a blanket. Enjoying the evening air and cold, he walked with an umbrella in one hand and a warm cup in the other. His boots resounded on the cobblestone street as he sipped his Earl Grey tea. His chest was warm from the bold citrus and bergamot liquid. This was, in his opinion, an ideal leave well spent.
The rhythmic rain fell and his walking was interrupted by a soft mewing. Simon hurried down the street to find the source of the noise. In front of a grocer's, he noticed a small cardboard box being drenched by the unrelenting rain. He placed his cup down and gently lifted the box. Underneath was a small grey cat, cuddled into a ball to experience some semblance of warmth. Simon placed his umbrella to shield the box and lifted the tiny meowing animal into his hands.
As he cradled the cat to his chest, he heard a click of heeled boots behind him. He turned his now-drenched head to notice you walking up with a bright orange umbrella adorned with cat paws. "Excuse me, Sir, but is he yours?" you asked gesturing to the ball of grey that laid meowing in his arms. "Uh he's not, I found this little fella underneath this box here."
"Ah a Good Samaritan, I see. Well, I own the veterinarian shop down the way, I can take him off your hands if you'd like and make sure this little lad gets the care he needs," you said and offered a hand to hold the kitten. You noticed his slight hesitation and said, "If you'd like, I'll give you my card so you can take the little one home when he's all better."
"That would be nice," he smiled underneath his black face mask. Simon loved animals, never being permitted to have one as a child. As you held the kitten in your arm, you handed him your umbrella. He initially tried to refuse but you insisted saying, "You're soaked, I'll be alright." You ended with a small giggle which made Ghost warmer than his now cold cup of tea.
"The least I can do is walk you back to your shop," he replied a little too quickly. He instantly realized the surprising force he had said that with and followed up with, "You know, just so you and Earl Grey can make it there in this weather.
"Earl Grey, I like that. That's my favorite order, especially on days like this." Simon moved slightly behind you, holding the umbrella to shield the three of you on your walk. The air was filled with the familiar scent of rain and the notes of your floral perfume. "I'm Dr. L/N by the way, but most people just call me, Y/N," you said as you continued on your way. "I'm Simon, a pleasure to meet you doc."
Three weeks later Simon's house was filled with all the necessities for a new cat father. As he grabbed his coat, he pulled out a water-stained business card with the vet's office address and your number written on the back. He smiled to himself as he traced his fingers over the small handwriting saying, "To Earl Grey's owner, fancy a cup of tea with me?"
#task force 141 x reader#task force 141#cod x reader#call of duty modern warfare#cod mwii#modern warfare 2#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#call of duty#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#gaz x reader#soap x reader#price x reader#kyle garrick x reader#john price x reader#Johnny mactavish x reader#mw2 imagine#madebyizzie#mw2#izzie is writing#civilian! series
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A Kiss Is All I Need
Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Chapter Two
Summary: 2 months ago, Alys, the love of his life, broke up with him. Their relationship of five years gone by a simple farewell note that she left on their, well now his, penthouse. 2 months crying and feeling like shit but that all stopped when he meet you on that dreadful clothing store.
Warnings: Nothing much yet, just little fluff.
Words: 1,167
Masterlist / Series Masterlist
Taglist: @zenka69 @cryptid-l0ver @saelwen-shy-elf @aemondsdelight @shari-berri @kckt88 @watercolorskyy @dae7tina @saturnssrings @dixie-elocin @arabis-world @tulips2715 @reedmurdock @ladythornofrivia @tssf-imagines @eeeeeevesstuff @venmondiese @bellaisasleep @darylandbethfanforever9 @snh96 @liv-cole
Aemond took a deep breath as he stood in front of your bakery. ‘The Faun Cottage’ was the name of your store. The display window was decorated with beautiful green leaves and antique books which served to hold cakes and baskets of bread.
He was dressed in a light white shirt with a leather jacket, black jeans, and super comfortable Doctor Martens, which he wears almost every day. His long hair was tied in a low ponytail.
Looking down at the watch on his wrists, he saw it was 2 pm already. “Here goes nothing,” he murmurs as he walks into the bakery. “You better be right, Aegon.”
The scent of fresh bread and coffee along with a sweet herbal smell hit his nose like a train. Inside the shop, it was warm and cozy. Green vines are climbing the walls into the ceiling and some ancient runes are painted on the stone walls which looks like a mix of cottage core with Celtic/Viking vibe. A faint medieval music played in the background. It looks like something from an ancient era.
There are some people seated eating their food, others reading or working while drinking their tea or coffee.
“Mommy! Mommy! My Prince is here!” Emily’s voice echoed through the shop, grabbing his attention. This time she was dressed in a simple brown dress with some hand-painted runes on it. Her black hair was braided, and two small antlers rested on her head.
Aemond smiles down at her and kneels to shake her tiny hand. “Hello, Emily.” He greets her gently. “And what do you suppose to be today?”
She gives him a little twirl and grins. “I’m a druid! I talk to animals and cure people's booboos with my magic!” The girl grabs his hand and pulls him towards the door behind the counter, saying a quick hello to the guy who was attending to a client.
Aemond chuckles and lets the girl guide him. “Hmm, I see.”
Emily opens the door and leads him inside. It was an office by the looks and by the desk full of papers and a laptop, stood a very stressed woman.
“Mommy! Look who’s here!” Emily chirps happily.
You looked up from your papers and gave him a tired smile. “Aemond... I’m happy to see you. Please take a seat.” You try to make your office table more presentable, putting all the paperwork in cases. “Sorry for the mess. It’s been a busy day. Maria needed the day off so I took over her work and... it didn’t go well.”
Aemond sat on the wooden chair in front of you while Emily went to the corner to play with her plush animals. “It’s no problem... Here’s my papers, all the training I did.” He gives you the case. “By the way, you have a lovely bakery. Very creative.”
The grin you gave him made Aemond’s heart almost burst out of his chest. Your eyes brightened at his compliment and how the dimples on your cheeks made you look so cute and innocent.
“Thank you! It was a lot of work to make it the way I imagined but it was worth it.” You say taking a seat on your chair. “So, shall we start with the interview?”
Aemond nods.
“Okay! So, your brother said you had experience with children. Your nephews, right?” Aemond nods again.
“Yes, my sister's children. Twins, a girl, Jaehaera, and a boy, Jaehaerys, of 8 years old, and toddler of 2 years old, Maelor.” Aemond smiled gently at the thought of his nephews.
You took notice of his gentleness as he talked about his nephews, which made you feel more relaxed with the idea of him taking care of Emily.
“They all have beautiful names.” You speak. “I’m not going to lie but it seems you are perfect for Emily. You have basic first aid training and CPR certifications.” You look down and read his papers. “Also, it seems Emily is already attached to you.”
You nod towards your daughter, who has her gaze fixed on Aemond while she plays. Aemond grinned at her which made the girl giggle and run towards him, showing him her favorite plush animal.
You pull up the documents for him to sign and put them in front of him. “It seems you got the job! You can read the agreement and then sign down here.” You smile. “I drive her to her school every morning. So, 3 pm you can go pick her up and she is all yours until 7 pm when I get home.”
Aemond nods and signs the paper. Opening the drawer beside you, you take a small notebook along with a key.
“Here.” You give him the book and key. “In here you will find all her allergies, her school, and our apartment address. That’s the key to our home.”
Aemond takes the book and the key from you, his pale fingers brushing gently against yours. “Thank you, Y/n.”
The way your name rolled through his tongue made your loins curl in a familiar feeling. You cough and look down to your laptop, a faint blush adorns your cheeks. Get a grip, Y/n!
There’s a small pregnant silence between you too. Aemond admires the way your face flushes so easily. Even tired, you look beautiful.
“Huh... Well! Ready for your first day?” You stand up and smile, trying to end the awkward silence.
Aemond also stood up, looking down at a very excited Emily. “Ready as I can be.” He gently grabs the girl's hand while putting her backpack on his shoulder and walks out of the office with you following close behind.
You kneel and give a big kiss on your daughter's cheek, making her giggle excitedly. “Have fun and behave.”
“Yes, mommy.” She grins and kisses your nose.
As you stand up, Aemond quickly pulls his wallet out and takes his business card. “I completely forgot to you give my card.” He says with an apologetic gaze. “My phone number is there in case you need something.”
You nod and take his business card. Emily pulls Aemond’s hand and jumps up and down. “Can I have an ice cream on our way home? Pretty please?”
Aemond looks in panic at you to which you laugh. “Yes, but only this time. Alright?”
“Yippe!” Your daughter squeals happily and pulls Aemond’s hand again. “C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go!” Aemond chuckles and lets the girl guide him while waving a small goodbye at you.
You waved back and watched them turn around the block, disappearing out of sight. You feel tears stinging in the corner of your eyes, the feeling of your daughter's absence drives you to panic.
“Deep breath, Y/n.” You whisper to yourself. “She’s going to be okay.”
Taking a deep breath, you look down at the business card in your hand. Your eyes widen as you see a familiar red logo. A three-headed dragon.
“Wait! He’s THE Aemond Targaryen??!!”
I hope you guys like this chapter!! Feel free to like, comment or reblog!
#modern aemond#aemond x reader#hotd#hotd aemond#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#house of the dragon#aemond fanfiction#aemond imagine#hotd fanfic#hotd aegon#modern au#masterlist#aemond smut#aemond fluff#fluff#aemond#hotd fandom#george rr martin#aemond x you#aemond x fem!reader
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Fleur bedroom
A two sets of furniture and decor for decorating bedrooms in Farmhouse style.
BASE GAME, LOW POLY
Pt.I - bed double, bedskirt, mirror, wood bench, bench pillows, end table, table lamp, ceiling fan.
DOWNLOAD TSR
Pt.II - Wall clock, 2 wood boards, Antique board, Store board, sandric, wood arrow, bracket (display func).
DOWNLOAD TSR
#ts4#sims4#sims4cc#ts4cc#ts4 download#ts4 furniture#severinka#ts4 objects#ts4 custom content#tsr#thesimsresource#ts4 farmhouse#ts4 vintage
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Antiques at Home, 1989
#vintage#vintage interior#1980s#80s#interior design#home decor#living room#round table#vignette#display#glass#lamp#antique#accessories#handpainted#folding screen#traditional#classical#style
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#Photography#April 2018#Indoors#Historic House#Museum#Antiques#Display#Mourning Dress#Mourning Veil#Fake Flowers#Mannequins#Ribbons#Sleeves#Tablecloth#Needleworks#Wicker#Sewing Table#Sewing Machine#Miniatures#Dolls#Toys#Dust#Sunlight#Wooden Chair#Wooden Table#Wooden Floor#Woodworks#Windows#Cracks#Wooden Furniture
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some (semi)crack-treated-seriously for @magnusbae, featuring Hob (accidentally) rescuing Dream, the awkwardness of summoning your naked crush into your living room, and Hob being absolutely ride or die and ready to kill people at a moment's notice
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It was pure luck that brought Hob to the antiquities sale. Later, he would wonder if perhaps Fortune herself was also an entity, and had been looking out for the Dreams which so often brought her to fruition.
Hob found the poster for the thing by chance when he stumbled over a curb on his way home and nearly faceplanted into a lamppost. And it was similarly by chance that Hob was available that night. By chance, it was not far from his home. So many moments of happenstance stacking up into a bit of luck he’d be grateful for for the rest of his life.
Hob was always interested in any supposed magical artifacts. He knew that magic of some kind existed – no matter that his Stranger refused to tell him anything about himself, Hob was well-aware that he was not human and held powers of some kind – but it could be hard to discern real from fake. Hence, his habit of attending whatever strange auctions might pop up – more for curiosity’s sake than for the need to buy anything.
This sale was different.
This sale had something Hob recognized.
He froze in front of the display case, grip going tight around his glass of wine. Behind the glass panels of the case, a familiar ruby pendant glimmered. It caught the light strangely, reflecting prismatic bursts of rainbow in obliquely wrong directions, and that alone would have immediately alerted Hob to its not being a normal ruby even if he hadn’t been intimately familiar with its proper owner.
Where the hell was his Stranger?
Hob had only seen the man—being—six times, and therefore couldn’t make a wholesale judgment that he never went anywhere without the ruby, but he knew for sure the Stranger wouldn’t have let it wind up here, about to be delivered into the hands of any asshole with enough money.
So where was he?
Disturbed, Hob returned to his seat, waiting for the sale to start. He was tempted to simply break the glass and take the gem, but getting arrested wasn’t particularly on his list of fun things to do on a night out. So he’d have to do things the legal way.
One benefit of being extremely old: Hob had a lot of money to throw around. And while something in him rankled at having to buy something that was clearly stolen from his friend, he had bigger concerns.
Concerns that rattled around his mind as he walked home, ruby tucked safely in his pocket. Concerns whose screaming rose to a fever pitch as he sat down at his kitchen table, looking at his Stranger’s gem under the lemony kitchen lights.
It felt warm in his hands, the cut edges of the gemstone surprisingly smooth. The crimson at the heart of the jewel’s many faces was full-bodied as an old wine and deep as the sea; easy to get lost in.
Hob tore his attention away, looking instead at the empty apartment. The pendant chain pressed into his hands as he held it tighter, the jewel growing ever-warmer between his palms.
“Where are you, Stranger?” he murmured to himself. Hob had no way to contact him, and there were forty years yet before they were meant to meet – if his Stranger even decided to show up. “I hope you’re alright; I hope this”—he squeezed the gem—“doesn’t mean something horrible’s happened.”
He sighed. “If only you were here.”
The room shifted around him, like Hob had taken two steps backward in time and changed direction. Hob might not have even noticed if he hadn’t been staring absently in the direction of the living room at the precise moment that his Stranger appeared on the couch.
Hob jumped so high he banged his knee on the underside of the table. His Stranger seemed equally baffled, looking at his own hands, touching the fabric of the couch as if unsure it was real, then finally looking up at Hob with wide eyes.
Hob stared back at him, breath quickening. Somehow—he could only assume—the magic ruby had fulfilled his wish and summoned his Stranger here, but why was he naked? Oh God, this was Hob’s fault for having one too many… uh… dreams—
“Hob Gadling,” murmured his Stranger, voice hoarse but with wonder in it. “You have rescued me.”
“How?” This was all a lot to take in, but Hob went over to him anyway, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around his bare shoulders. It was unnerving to see him so… unrefined. Disheveled. Hair a mess and body unprotected. “Wait, rescued from what?”
His Stranger’s gaze zeroed in on the ruby, still lying on the kitchen table. Hob wondered if he might be angry, but he just tilted his head in curiosity. “Now, just where did you come across that?”
“Um.” Hob forcibly tore his attention from the narrow line of his Stranger’s neck and shoulders – had he always been that thin under all those fine clothes? Had he eaten at all recently? Rescued from where? – and back to the gemstone. “Bought it. Just a few hours ago. No idea where it was before that. Knew it was yours, though. But no way to get it back to you.” Shit, he was rambling.
“And you used its power to summon me.”
Hob rubbed at the back of his neck. “That… wasn’t intentional. Though, I mean, probably would’ve been if I’d known you needed summoning.”
His Stranger stood, walking on wobbling legs – again, Hob wondered with deepening concern, rescued from where – blanket wrapped around him like a cape, to pick up the ruby from the table. A shudder ran through him as soon as he touched it and he seemed to stand straighter, taller. “How did you use it?”
“Just— just wished you were here so I could make sure nothing horrible had happened.”
His Stranger’s mouth tipped up into that tiny, fond smile Hob had seen so rarely but missed so dearly. “So you could make sure nothing horrible had happened?”
“Hey, you yourself just said you were rescued. Was I wrong?”
“No.” His voice was resigned now. He turned back to Hob, still holding the ruby. It looked far more fitting in his elegant hands than in Hob’s. “You have pulled me from an unjust imprisonment, and recovered one of my tools. I owe you a great debt.”
“You owe me nothing, friend.” Hob cringed internally as the word slipped out, but his Stranger didn’t deny him this time. “I would do it again. Though I’m still not entirely sure what I did.”
His Stranger sat down at the kitchen table. He must have been exhausted, mustn’t he? Who knew how long he’d been imprisoned. God.
Feeling restless at the thought, Hob busied himself making tea, as his Stranger explained, “The ruby contains some of my power. In the hands of humans, it can… bend certain happenings. I am grateful it was not in your possession for longer; it has the tendency to drive men mad.”
Great, Hob thought, of course it does. Kind of like you, my friend. Not that Hob had ever claimed not to be mad, from the start. “Does it usually summon whole beings, though?”
“No. It is curious… I will have to explore this more at a later time.”
Hob placed two cups of tea on the table, nudging one towards his stranger until he, reluctantly, took it. Though as soon as his skin touched the warm ceramic, he wrapped his fingers tightly around it.
“Are you alright though, my friend?” Hob asked, sipping on his own tea. He kept his tone low, casual, gentle, anything not to scare him off. But could he be scared off? Could he actually do whatever sort of quick, magical departure he usually did to disappear before Hob could possibly follow him out of the White Horse? The thought that he might not have the power for it made Hob a little sick to his stomach. “I don’t know the circumstances of this… imprisonment… but I would like to know if you’re alright.”
“I am… alright,” said his Stranger, in a tone Hob did not believe whatsoever, “but I am yet to be truly free. Your use of the ruby sprung me from Burgess’s glass prison, and restored some of my powers, but the binding circle remains intact. Without breaking it, I am bound here.”
Hob gripped his mug so hard it started to burn his fingers. Fuck whoever this Burgess guy was. And he knew, just knew, that his Stranger was downplaying by several orders of magnitude how awful it had been. What gave this guy the gall to capture a being like his Stranger, a being so beyond their mortal plane?
A being so… exquisite. So independent. So free.
“So you have to head back to break it, is what you’re saying?” Hob asked, shaking himself.
“Yes.”
“Well, alright, then,” said Hob, taking a fortifying gulp of his tea. “Then I’m coming with you.”
His Stranger looked—to the extent he ever made such an expression—alarmed. “No.”
“Yes. I’m not letting you walk back into a place you were imprisoned with no backup.” Hob crossed his arms. “As you may know, I’m a fair hand with all manner of weaponry.”
The stubbornness settling on his Stranger’s face ceded into amusement. “I am sure.”
“So that’s settled, then.”
His Stranger didn’t protest again. Hob wondered when the last time was that anybody had tried to help him. How long had he been in there?
“If you come along, you may not like what you see,” cautioned his Stranger.
“Are you saying you’re going to wreak horrible vengeance on them? Cause yeah, I’d hope so. You better save one for me, though.”
Again, his Stranger looked startled, but Hob just grinned.
“So, are we going now, or do you want a fortifying supper first?”
His Stranger was starting to look as whiplashed as Hob had felt when he’d suddenly appeared. “You would… feed me… supper?”
“Can’t go around killing people on an empty stomach.” Besides, Hob thought, more tenderly, you look like you need some care.
But his Stranger shook his head, coming back to himself. “We must not tarry. I do not know how my realm has fared in my absence.”
“We’ll grab a meal later, then,” Hob said easily, and was rewarded with a tiny nod and smile.
He stood, and offered his Stranger a hand up. Their gazes met, and Hob caught a glimpse of that same wonder he’d seen briefly before, when his friend had just been summoned. Confusion and hope at having a hand held out to him. Hob just smiled at him in return.
After a moment, the Stranger took Hob’s hand, pulling himself to his feet with a strength Hob hadn’t expected after such an imprisonment. He clasped the ruby pendant around his neck, and it lay gleaming against his bare sternum. Hob suddenly had to look away.
“We should, ah.” He had to pause to cough, and could just see his Stranger smirking out of the corner of his eye, the devil. “We should probably get you some trousers first.”
#the sandman#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#my writing#listen magnusbae and i have a lot of insane crack headcanons and this is nowhere NEAR the worst#not even close
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on leather wings - papa emeritus iv x f!reader
copia surprises you with a spooky weekend getaway, culminating in some winged bedroom time
a/n: it's finally here! 2.7k words. fucking, fingering, rough sex kind of, copia being adorable, etc. etc. mdni! 18+! hoping to get myself out of writer's block with this one :') ao3 link! and yes... i named this after an ep of btas
You step out of the car, a ghoul quick to take your bag from you, and you are met with a black Victorian home with an impeccably nurtured lawn. It looks warm and inviting, like there’s a hot cup of tea waiting for you inside. You make your way down the short gravel path to the front door, entering the code you had been texted not long ago. The latch clicks and you twist the knob, pushing the door open and stepping into the dark foyer. A chandelier hangs in the center of the room, dimly lighting the intricate black and red wallpaper and the antique mahogany display case that is filled with witchy decor. A small smile flickers across your face as another ghoul enters the room and whisks you away down a hallway.
At the end of it is a grand dining room with a lush fireplace heating the room. You immediately see him, standing behind the chair at the head of the table, dressed in his usual tattered suit and blue cravat.
“Ah, amore, you made it! I hope the instructions, eh, weren’t too… confusing. I was quite a bit excited when I wrote them.” Papa clasps his hands together in delight. He saunters over to you, his lips pulled into a wide grin. You are quick to meet him, his hands reaching to hold onto your arms and stroke along the backs of your elbows. “How are you? How was the drive, eh?”
“I’m good and it all went smoothly but, Copia, what is all this? Is something going on?” You are excited of course but you can’t help but feel concern. Something about this – the instructions, the ghouls, the dining room table lined with delicious food – has a last night on Earth vibe. The broad smile on his face helps ease the feelings though.
“Nothing to worry about, amore.” Copia can sense your unease, his words light and even. “This is a treat for you and I, something different… something nice, something just for us.” He gives you a knowing look. Copia was never one to complain about his duties even when he was at the brink of exhaustion but it pained him to let it affect your relationship. There’s been less time for you in his schedule and while you understand that his role is extremely important to the Clergy there were times you felt a bit overlooked.
“I was thinking about dinner and then maybe a movie, eh? A classic date.” He is adorable and you can’t get over it. There’s something about Copia in this setting that makes your heart race and your cheeks red. Your eyes flicker around the dining room again, thinking that maybe the two of you would have ended up in a home like this if they lived drastically different lives.
“That sounds… perfetto.” Copia’s face lights up at your poor sounding Italian. He pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, intimate embrace. His breath tickles your ear and he gives it a soft nip before pulling away and squeezes your arms once again.
A movie night that won’t get interrupted by Sister Imperator or one of her secretaries? Your face lights up. It’s been so long since the two of you were able to enjoy each other’s company without some kind of interruption.
Dinner truly is perfect. He made you your favorite: seafood fra diavolo and he makes sure to give you extra shrimps since they are your favorite. Copia has your wine glass filled every time it goes below halfway and he is constantly asking how the food is and if you need anything, anything at all. Copia’s gaze hardly leaves you, he spends most of the dinner holding your hand, playing with your fingers, that you end up almost yelling at him to actually eat between small giggles.
Having him to yourself like this is almost overwhelming. Gradually, after you’ve finished forcing Copia to enjoy his own food, the two of you make your way to the cozy, witchy den and onto the couch.
“What movie? I’m sure you already have one picked out.” You shift closer to him on the couch, your knees touching now. Copia takes the blanket beside him and opens it, draping it across the two of you before he leans against you, resting his head on your shoulder.
“Ovviamente.” He breathes against the shell of your ear. “Bram Stoker’s Dracula, if you are still in a, eh, spooky mood.” You can feel him smile into your neck and you suck in a sharp breath, snuggling even further against him under the blanket.
“That’s perfect.” Your voice drops to a whisper. Copia’s arms curl around your waist, pulling you in even closer to him and nestling you against his chest before starting the movie. It feels almost magical that you’re able to sit here with your love in comfortable silence while watching one of your favorite movies. There’s never any silence at the abbey, not until the later hours of the evening when you’re finally able to see Copia after a long day of his duties. The only interruption comes close to the end of the movie when his lips press to your neck, sending a thrill down your spine.
“I have a surprise for you. Una piccola sorpresa.” Copia murmurs against your hair, feeling his breath huff against you. “Meet me upstairs, per favore? Give me like, eh… ten minutes?” You tilt your head up to look at him, taking in the soft smile on his face and you give a small nod. He presses a kiss to your forehead and gets up from the couch, leaving you alone in the den.
This all feels so special. More special than anything he’s ever done for you in the past. You know why it had to be a secret. You would have told him to get some rest instead of planning an elaborate weekend for the two of you. He deserved to have time to himself, to relax after touring the world with the ghouls. But it was just like him to want to spend that time doing something nice for you. This is the first time the two of you have been able to get away from the abbey since you started seeing each other.
And it’s perfect. Your eyes sweep over the den, the spooky decor and interior making you feel right at home. You’re already buzzed from the Papastrello and you feel cozy under the blankets. The grandfather clock in the room ticks away, your eyes fixated on the time, mindfully counting down until ten minutes had passed. You can’t keep your Papa waiting.
After the minutes go by, you start to head up the stairs, anticipation in your steps. The door to the bedroom is slightly open and you try to get a peek into the dim room but you don’t see Copia. You push the door open with a small creak and you immediately hear Copia groan from the bathroom, which stops you in your tracks. You’re sure you’re not too early… but you don’t want to disturb him even though it sounds like he could use some help. You push the door open a bit more, slowly and step inside.
“Amore? Is that you?” Copia asks in a hushed whisper, stress hanging in his voice. For a moment you’re too anxious to answer but you manage to squeak out a response.
“It is.”
“Oh, bene bene.” He sighs, his relief evident in his voice. “I am, ugh, having some trouble with the surprise.”
“How can I help?” You are quick to make your way to the bathroom door, trying to listen in to what’s happening on the other side.
“Fuck. It’ll ruin la sorpresa.” He grumbles to himself “I-I’m sorry you couldn’t see me, eh, completely done.” Before you’re able to tell him not to be sorry at all he emerges from the bathroom and your mind goes completely blank. Even in the lowlight you can see the blush creeping up his freckled shoulders and cheeks. Copia is wearing nothing but a small pair of black briefs, his black gloves with skeleton details and half of his batwing harness, having secured it through one of his arms but not the other. “I, heh, usually have some help getting these on.”
Your mouth opens but you can’t manage words, making an embarrassing grunt as you nod and move in to help him. The leather straps to the harness are smooth in your hands and you work to make sure the other wing is secure before moving to his chest. A breath catches in your throat as your fingers brush along his chest, nails lightly scratching at his chest hair while you pull the leather straps through their buckles. Your cheeks are already burning and you hear your heart thunder in your ears. A groan leaves his lips, his hot breath grazing your forehead which makes your eyes flicker up to his.
Copia’s eyes are dark with devilish lust, his lips parted as he sucks in a sharp breath the second your eyes meet his. His securely fastened arm reaches for you, fingertips slipping underneath the hem of your top to tug you in closer to him by the waist. By the time you finish the last buckle, he has you pressed to his chest with your arms trapped between the two of you. He lifts his other hand to grip you by the chin and tilts your head up to look at him. Your noses are almost touching as your eyes drop to look at his lips.
“Do you like it, amore?” Copia murmurs huskily, his lips hovering so close. You want to tell him that this means the world to you but the way he is looking at you makes it hard to speak. Your lips graze his painted ones so lightly, eyes flickering up to meet his hungry gaze before they squeeze shut as you finally kiss him. The air leaves your lungs when his tongue slips into your mouth, the taste of him enough to take your breath away. Your hands curl around the leather straps to hold onto him as he backs you into an antique desk.
He already has your pants almost off, his hand slipping down the front of your underwear and wasting no time feeling your slick. You moan from his touch, a finger pushing inside of you with ease. Copia shudders and presses his hips to your thigh, his cock throbbing through his tight briefs. He buries his face in your neck as he starts to desperately grind against your thigh while he fingers you, sharp gasps and groans muffled against you. You’re almost light headed by how quickly things have escalated but that doesn’t stop you from slipping your hand between the two of you.
“Do you feel how wet you make me, Papa?” You breathe and he answers with a whine. You push down his briefs, his cock springing free and you take it in your hand, giving it long, languid strokes. Copia shivers, his entire body pausing to take in how good your fingers feel wrapped tightly around him. He lifts his head slowly and your gaze meets his, his pupils blown so wide with lust that they are nearly completely black. You stroke him a few more times before letting go and leaning back on the desk. He huffs at the loss but ends up sucking in a sharp breath as you start to remove your blouse. You take your time, putting on a show for him, making him wait to see you fully. The blouse finally falls from your shoulders and he immediately grabs you, his mouth crushing against yours as his cock presses close to your entrance.
You moan deeply into his mouth and your hands find the leather straps of his harness again, holding onto them tightly. Copia drives his cock into you with a lewd grunt, one hand gripping your shoulder while the other digs into your hip as he fucks into you. It’s rough and possessive, his thighs slapping into yours with each desperate thrust. The desk beneath the two of you rattles with each violent jerk of his hips and you can’t help but hold onto him for dear life. You feel your climax growing inside of you, your abdomen tightening and your legs starting to tense up. He hooks one of his arms beneath your knee and raises your leg up, allowing him to push even deeper inside of you.
You throw your head back and cry out, the new sensation of his cock massaging your deepest, most sensitive spots making your walls flex around him. Copia is panting heavily between whines and growls, his head lowering even further to mouth and lick at your breasts. He groans into your chest and you feel the vibration throughout your body. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge when his full lips find one of your nipples and he sucks it into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. You come undone then and there, shockwaves gripping your body and your walls clenching around his throbbing cock. A growl catches in his throat as he spills inside of you, his hips jerking wildly before slowly coming to a stop. His heavy breathes fill your ear, your hands still firmly holding his harness as he finally lifts his head and takes a step back to give you some space.
“I, eh, got a little carried away.” Copia sighs and runs a hand over his face, his paints already smeared. “You are just too irresistible, amore.” You can see a light blush on his cheeks just underneath his paints as your fingers start to trace along his full lips.
“Oh, hush.” You smile before chewing on your lower lip. “Sit on the bed. I want to admire your wings.” You gently start to push him toward the bed and he lets you, allowing you to guide him until he reaches the edge. He sits and you push him further so that his back is against the headboard. You slip into his lap and your hands immediately go back to his harness, fingertips grazing where the leather straps and his chest meet. Copia gives a low purr as he leans his head back against the headboard, his eyes falling shut as he basks in your touch.
You’re finally able to get a good look at him now, your eyes taking in how the harness shapes his strong chest. He always looked good in it on stage but this is so much more intimate. The dark straps of the harness stand stark against his bare skin framing his broad chest and extenuating his bulging pecs. Touring had been good to him building softly toned muscle underneath his soft curves that never failed to drive you wild. Now you had him beneath you you couldn't keep your hands off him, tracing where the straps sat snug against his skin, his fluffy body hair tickling your fingertips. They drift over his 666 tattoo while your other hand moves down one of his arms, touching at the strap at his wrist and the tips of his leather wings. He huffs and starts to run his hand up and down your back, his wing brushing against it as his gloved fingers glide down your spine.
“I love you.” The words tumble from your lips once your eyes meet. He makes the smallest, sweetest sound of affection, as the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile before nuzzling into your neck. You feel him squirm beneath you, trying to allow you to continue touching him but his fingers twitch until he finally gives up. Copia’s arms curl against you, pulling you against his chest. His wings press into your bareback, wrapping around your naked body in a way that feels so safe. He holds you there, safe in his embrace, and you don’t dare let him go. Copia raises his lips to your ear.
“Ti ameró per sempre. I am with you always, amore.”
#papa emeritus x reader#papa emeritus iv x reader#copia x reader#dracopia x reader#cardinal copia x reader#papa emeritus#papa emeritus iv#copia#popia#cardinal copia#ghost fanfic#ghost fanfics#ghost fanfiction#ghost band fanfic
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A (late) piece for dmcweek2024 day 4! I was buzzing to put forward something for the week. Prompt was alt universe.
AU where Eva survived the fire and had to figure out a way forward, believing the twins dead. She becomes an RPG shopkeeper selling wares ranging from antique books to magical goods (Devil May Scry). She's also out for Mundus' blood.
Image descriptions are the same as in alt.
[ID: 7 Digital illustrations and sketches.
1: Coloured illustration of a bookshop at sunset. Eva, a pale blonde middle aged woman mans the bright patterned counter. She wears a turtleneck and red shawl, has shoulder length hair, and diagonal facial burn scar and scarring on her left hand. Light rays illuminate her gently smiling face. Besides packed books, on the shelves are potion bottles, statuettes, succulents, and a displayed katana. Roses and plants decorate the shop. On the counter are a thick hardback, bookscanner, and crystal ball. Cards are displayed inside the counter. On the wall hangs a price sign, featuring doodled vital stars (large star drawn with sunglasses), holy water and fortunes. Beneath it is a rose wreathed divinity statue display, with 2 red orb offerings in a dish.
2: Eva from behind, sitting hunched alone at a table where a birthday cake sits untouched. It's a two flavour cake. By her clenched hand are crumpled tissues. Caption: 'Vergil...Dante...happy birthday...'
3: Eva bracing the Devil Sword Sparda across her shoulders, aimed at the ground. She wears a bell sleeved, ruffled funeral/wedding dress with a slit for leg movement. A veil trails behind her like a ribbon. Close ups of her show the headpiece design; a pacifier made of a long bird skill, feather, rose, and four skeletal 'legs'.
4 & 5: Trish taking on teen Dante's image: a tan teen in black, with chin length white hair, a halter neck tank top, leather pants, kneelength boots and black polish. Her leather jacket collar resembles lightning bolts. She leans against an invisible wall, one leg bent to brace her foot against it. She looks askance with arched brows, lifting shades from her face. The 2nd image is a 3/4 profile with shades perched on her forehead and popped collar.
6: Helmetless portraits of Dante and Vergil in armour, expressionless. Dante's hair is shoulder length and falls across his face.
7: Full body of 2 somewhat lanky demonic knights. One (Nelo Angelo) in black and blue with droopy horns rests his palms atop his blue broadsword's pommel, the sword upright against the ground. He stands straight, staring ahead. The other in white and red and curled horns has a palm clapped on Nelo Angelo's shoulder, other hand at his hips. Somehow the eyes on his helmet express playfulness. At his back is the hilt to a flail, the spiked ball resting on the ground by his armoured heels. They're labelled '~16' . End ID.]
Read more for some wordy backstory and sketches. TW for mentions of torture, abuse and solitary confinement surrounding the twins.
I had...so many more ideas that I'm leaving out to keep this short. It's fun to think how she'd mesh with the cast.
Like! her and Lady. Mother that lost her kid and kid that lost her mother. It writes itself how much unwitting projection can go wrong. And pretty much everything about her, the twins, and Trish :)
In terms of backstory:
After the fire she's alone. Her birth family disowned her long ago. She thinks about revamping the mansion but the idea of staying in that empty space with only memories for company is too much. So she eventually opens a small store.
Starts off paranoid and distant. Still is distant but gets entangled with the local community overtime. Greets people by name and they'll chat about how life has been going. This includes demon hunters and demons and supernatural beings living peacefully; her shop becomes a small safe haven to exchange information to stay safe.
Gets very good at forging protective charms. Haunted by the memory of the enchanted closet, smashed in and empty.
A regular is a schoolgirl who originally came to pick up reserved books for her father but stuck around because hey, this place is quiet and interesting, and the owner serves stellar teacakes. Great place to study. To Mary, Eva's kind, though odd, secretive and a little lonely.
I got inspired by Eva's association with the bangle/bracelet of time and the amulets for her fighting style. It's based around item crafting, like an RPG character slapping on every stat boosting item.
She stitches together different outfits for different needs Cardcaptor style. They're all exceedingly dramatic. It's not clear here but I wanted a bird motif to eventually come through. Phoenix motif, really.
[ID: Rough sketches:
A magician esque outfit with vest, feathered tophat and cape.
A longcoat with long skirt and long scarf at her back like a cape.
The cape is tagged with 'spells stitched into fabric'. Close ups on the coat lapel show two pins (strawberry and wing), labelled 'charm lapel pins.' Close up of the shoes show sharp heals and ankle bracelets.
Eva leaping in a black bodysuit and leotard, with feathery collar, quill behind her ear, and ballet shoes with a claw at the heel.
Eva making a triangular 2 hand sign in a hooded cloak and longskirt. Around her shoulders are claws. At her hips is an hourglass. Above her heeded head is a clocklike halo. Beside her is a sketch of a woman with a lionhead mask.
A funeral and wedding dress inspired outfit. Eva crouches, wielding the Devil Sword Sparda in scythe form. Her face is covered by a tattered veil. She wears a knee length ruffled dress, black gloves, and a long, ruffled cape. Close up of her left hand shows a ring and finger claws
Rough comic. Chibi lady talks to chibi Eva. Lady holds up a black body suit with billowing sleeves and a cleavage window.
Lady: "Eva what is this"
Eva (smiling cheerfully): "Oh - that old thing!"
Eva: "My old hunting outfit. Gosh I'd almost forgotten about it. Not the most comfortable thing - so skin tight..."
However Lady fixates on 'my old hunting outfit'. The words go in one ear and come out as a younger Eva in a catsuit, pointing a gun with a serious expression, wind blowing through her hair. Lady stares into the distance, bewildered, and slightly blushing.
End ID]
Meanwhile the twins are having a terrible time but they have each other, even if they don't remember they're brothers. I think it'd be sweet if they have a bond anyway. Everyone else thinks they're rivals at best.
(Nelo is Mundus' favourite to toy with as the proud, eldest son. But when he gets rough, Bianco butts in and acts up for Mundus' attention. This gets him sent to solitary confinement; Mundus figured out Bianco hates small spaces and designed an iron maiden for him. Others think Bianco is a brute who acts out for a fight. But that's ok. It means Bianco can keep buying Nelo time.) (When lucid, Nelo despises his own weakness when this happens.)
[ID: 2 Images. Nelo and Bianco Angelo in fisticuffs in a cartoony dustcloud, glaring at each other as they fight. They're captioned 'Mundus' most competent generals'. Additional text: 'silent, obedient, crushing force when apart. Perfect soldiers. ... until they're put together. Complement each other's battle style OR clash terribly.
Nelo Angelo staring off, arms crossed and furrowed eyes somehow expressing being completely fed up. Behind him, Bianco and Griffin talk at each other. Griffin's glaring. Bianco has a hand up to gesture. End ID]
#dmc#dmcweek2024#devil may cry#dmc eva#eva sparda#dante sparda#dmc dante#vergil#nelo angelo#dmc vergil
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