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mamayan · 6 months

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🎃 Happy Halloween 🎃

Shigaraki Tomura x Fem! Reader

Good girls should just stay home, lest something goes bump in the night.

cw: NSFW • Implied Murder • Implied Serial Killer • Consensual Non-Consent turned Non-Consensual • Noncon • Dubcon • Abuse • Fingering (F) • Oral (M) • Deep Throating • Rough Sex • Attempted Murder • Hair Pulling • Degradation/Slight Humiliation • Dacryphilia • Yandere Themes • Kidnapping • a little OOC • This story possessed me and basically wrote itself • Barely proof read tbh

wc: 7k+

Something must be wrong with you.

Or at least, that’s what you imagine the world would think if anyone knew what you were doing.

The room was dark aside from the blue glow of your computer screen. The black web browser with red lettering almost ominous as your eyes scanned the consent form again. It was a consent form just to access the full website, on the surface serving only as a dating type of situation for the BDSM community. Beneath it though were layers deeper than what the simple description actually provided. You only found out about it through a deep dive into multiple sub-threads of Reddit. It was a basket case of crazy, the majority of information or advice, but you managed to dig up one reliable looking source.

This website you were currently on. L@ce&R0pe.com happened to provide a wide variety of goodies, from sex toys to actual published books on shibari, there wasn’t much you couldn’t find. Except like all websites not swallowed up by the deep web, there was never any section like the one you wanted so desperately.

Except this one, because your mouse didn’t hesitate to shift and hover over the drop down section for MEET, where you could link up with real people for whatever your heart desired really. You trailed down to NEW FRIEND, and clicked. A new tab opened, this one themed differently than the main website. It was light blue and pink, almost like a baby shower, except the only thing on the page was a single drop down menu, and clicking it made your head ache. There were thousands of options, but thankfully it was organized alphabetically, so you could easily scroll mindlessly until you hit the C section.

You found what you wanted, clicking it as your chosen option and hitting GO.

The screen changed, this time it looked similar to a dating profile fillable. You worked quickly, efficiently even, as you typed all your information in.

Not your name or address, nothing silly like that. Just your measurements, your favorite foods or beverages, the color of your eyes, your hair color, your height, and even the style of your nails. It asked if you liked to brush your hair everyday, how often you showered, what shampoo or body wash you like. You answered them all, as invasive as they soon became, you never wavered. What brand of deodorant do you use? How often do you clip or file your nails? To what length? Do you shave your pubic area? How often? What style? How many sexual partners have you had? Where have you had sex? Which hole do you prefer? Are you a crier or a screamer? Does blood turn you on? Do you like physical or mental pain more? Have you ever been raped before?

They got more personal and physiological as you answered. You felt hot and stuffy despite the window being open and the cool autumn air blowing in. You kept answering even as your throat got tighter and unease nestled into your clavicle.

Do you want to know who your new friend will be?

This time you do hesitate. Knowing would make it feel safer. Knowing would give you some semblance of control. Knowing would be the smart choice.

You clicked “no” and submitted the form, sealing your fate as your hands shook and adrenaline pumped through your veins.

You set the date for October 31st. Now all you had to do was wait and show up.

A notification hit his phone, lighting up the screen as cigarette smoke billowed around him in the back alley. A quick glance was all he needed to unlock and fully see the entire screen. The leather of his jacket rubbed against the brick he leaned against.

Halloween was probably the best time for such fun, crime rates skyrocketing and parties being loud and wild really left a big gaping hole for any type of heinous activity to occur. He grinned as the information poured onto his screen. His dick already becoming painfully hard as he read all your supplied information. You liked breath play, having someone spit in your mouth, even being slapped around. He was always amazed by the lack of shortage for sick freaks like you, but then again, he was one of them too. Licking his top lip, tongue piercing flicking out to rub against his cupid’s bow, he clicked “ACCEPT” on the notification. He had all your information, the when and where, and your adorable little comment of “Please don’t degrade me.” What more could he ask for? His smile is sinister in the low light off the neon sign of the bar, casting a purplish hue on his skin as he chuckles and shoves his phone away. Flicking his cigarette butt onto the dirty ground, he cracked his neck and knuckles before going back inside to finish his beer and round of pool with his friends.

He’ll see you on Halloween. He might even dress up a little for the occasion.

It’s cold.

It’s nearly November so you hadn’t expected warm weather necessarily, but it seemed chillier than usual despite your fairly insulated dress.

You dressed up as an angel, the irony not lost on you at all but it felt fitting almost for the occasion. The pristine white looked off in your surroundings. It was nearly midnight, but despite that the sidewalk of the park was filled with a fairly regular crowd of people passing through, on to the next party or home to sleep off all the alcohol. Really, you weren’t too out of place, in your white stockings and black heeled boots, the fluffy ruffled white babydoll dress that barely covered your ass or tits and the wings which were strapped around your shoulders and jutted out behind you. On your head was a slim clip which was attached to a white shiny halo that seemed to float above you, only a thin wire keeping it up. You’d at first felt a little exposed passing children going home for the night after trick or treating, eyes of judgemental families which you ignored boring into you, but now it was time for the adults to have fun. You’d already passed a plethora of college students or older dressed even more scantily than you, making you feel better, safer, out in the park you’d chosen. You’d chosen 0300 as your designated meetup time, but specified you’d be early in case they wanted to start sooner. So here you stood, under a streetlamp that illuminated you in a yellow glow, making you seem even more angelic despite the ominous darkness surrounding you. You were busy playing on your phone, scrolling mindlessly and trying not to appear too excited. Or scared. You figured it was a combination of both, the arousal and fear bleeding into one very specific but unnamed emotion. Tapping your boot to a rhythm only you could hear, the night drew on and another hour passed. The droves of people passing didn’t dwindle, but it was always a group, never a single individual which you hoped was your new friend. It was almost 0130 when you felt watched, goosebumps rising on your skin as you realized someone must be looking at you. A quick glance around showed no one though, and after ten minutes your hope dissolved into disappointment. It seemed your friend wasn’t an early bird.

“Hey,” a raspy, deep voice speaking almost directly into your ear, startling you enough to elicit a yelp. You turned, eyes landing on a dark clothed chest and trailing up to a hooded face you could barely make out through a mess of blue hair. His lips look a bit chapped, a small scar decorating a corner, but his teeth are white and straight as he smiles a grin that causes shivers to shoot down your spine.

…maybe your friend was an early bird, just not as much as you.

You take a step back, stuttering stupidly due to your overactive nerves and the earlier shock of his sudden appearance. “H-hi…um,” the stranger tilts his head, eyes still not visible, dark hoodie baggy on his frame. He looks a bit thin, like he wouldn’t have a lot of strength, his jeans having some strange splattering of fake blood or something on them. You lick your lips, heart ready to leap from your chest but not quite ready for the events to unfold.

Or maybe you were very ready.

“You’ve been standing here for hours,” he comments nonchalantly, hands moving to shove inside the large inner pocket on his hoodie, “Aren’t ya tired of waiting for your boyfriend?” His question is a bit confusing, and when you glance around you, it dawns that there’s no one out right now. When had the crowds dwindled to nothing? “I don’t… have a boyfriend…” you had clearly stated that online too, so he already knew the answer to your relationship status. Was he just teasing? Keeping this as realistic as possible? It made you a bit pleased. You fiddled with the ends of your cute frilly dress, exposing a small portion of your skin and garter belt which kept your thigh high socks up. His eyes tracked the motion, lips pulling up even higher making his smile menacing. Dangerous. “That so?” He asks, but it doesn’t seem like he’s too interested in a reply as he steps closer, his beat up sneakers so silent on the ground it’s a little unnerving. Since he’s playing along so much, it feels wrong for you to not reciprocate.

“What do you think you’re doing, creep? Stay back,” You hope he’s not offended by the name, figuring it wasn’t too mean or odd of a thing to call him. Your firm stance and defiant gaze make him pause, head tilting again but he’s quick to recover and laugh. It’s less of a sexy and deep chuckle like you expected, and more pitched and giggly. It’s almost creepy to hear from a grown man. Like a child from a horror movie laughing. “Creep? Yeah? Guess I am, but you know what?” His head lifts, and since he’s more centered under the tall street lamp, when he looks straight at you, two red eyes flash. “I’m a lot fucking worse than your average dumbass creep,” you jolt when he lunges at you, hand outstretched to grab you. It’s instinctive how quickly you turn and run, adrenaline helping you shoot off into the park where no light but the moon shined down. This is what you wanted, you chant to yourself to stay level headed enough to not truly panic. This was staged and as safe as possible. He’s not actually going to hurt you. You’d be fine, albeit maybe a little sore tomorrow morning. You shut your mind off and focus on running, though your speed wasn’t great in such cheap and unstable boots, roots and random objects on the ground constantly tripping you up.

You looked like the dumb girl in the horror movies, tits practically out of your low cut revealing white dress, strapless white bra damn useless and more for show than any real support or push-up. You huffed, digging in your heels when you heard a few twigs snap behind you, feet carrying you faster as you realized he was gaining on you quickly. He didn’t shout and you didn’t scream. The chase was exhilarating, your mind becoming fuzzy as your lungs burned for more oxygen. You hadn’t planned a chase, really leaving it all up to fate and your new friend, but this was perfect.

Until fingers tangled tight in your hair and yanked you completely off your feet, your shoes and legs going out in front of you as you landed gracelessly on your ass. Then an intense burning in your scalp erupts, a hiss of pain and a whine escaping as you slide over cool damp foliage, senseless grumbling coming from the stranger as he drags you into a deeper more secluded section of the park, away from any and all prying eyes. Not like anyone gave a damn. “I-it hurts!” You feel childish for crying, tears pricking your eyes but the burn was worse than you imagined truly, soft hands coming up to try and pry his fingers off.

He has a grip of iron apparently, not the least bit phased as he sighs, hauling you up and tossing you in front of him. You land weirdly on your left shoulder, a shock of pain numbing your mind as you heave for air and roll over. When you open your eyes, you’re face to face with him. His hood pulled off, shoulder length blue hair now tied back and up into a little bun while some stray pieces frame his face and forehead. Your eyes adjust to the darkness as they take him in.

He’s young, maybe early twenties, with pale skin and dark bags hugging beneath his scarlet eyes. He’s got a beauty mark just below his lip on the right side, the scar you saw earlier on the other. He’s not hard on the eyes, cute even, but the strange air around him makes the close proximity fill you with anxiety. His eyebrows are thin and sparse, but he cocks one with a smirk. “Not gonna scream for help, crybaby?” The nickname makes you realize tears are streaming down your cheeks, you blink them away quickly, shaking your head and trying to find your words again. “I—uh, do you want me to?” Wouldn't screaming just make it more likely for someone to call the police? You figured a little noise was fine, but screaming seemed counter productive.

His eyes widened a bit, confusion painting his features as he crouched down more comfortably on his haunches to get a better look at you.

He’d been watching you since you got to the park. A single party in this sort of place always sticks out like a sore thumb. You looked more ready for a porno than a costume party, from behind the view of your ass indescribably arousing in your short little dress. It was both a slutty and innocent look you pulled off well, at least enough to make him riled up, cock twitching in agreement within his pants. He shamelessly rubbed it through his jeans, caressing the hardening length and letting you watch with glee. Your face made him snort, amusement evident as he chuckles and squints. “You like this, little freak?” You looked like you did, he notes. Your wide pretty eyes, still a little teary and red at the ends, showed your blown out pupils. You looked to be more star struck, not terrified like any normal girl chased through a park and dragged into a little corner between some trees to be out of sight. He watches you swallow hard, lips parting before closing as if you aren’t sure what to say to that question. “Fuck, you’re cute,” he grins, “a cute little slut who stood out at night all alone as if begging for someone to come along and do something nasty.” You release a tiny yelp as he meanly shoves you back, straddling your upper chest with his thighs as he hunches over you, looming ominously above with wild eyes screaming for chaos. “Good thing that I came along, huh? Make all your nasty little fantasies come true.” He watches you gasp as he presses his fingers against your lips, confusion evident on your face but you aren’t really putting up much of a fight as you open and let him slide two in. “Nasty fucking girl, look at you, when you don’t even fucking know me.” He chuckles, and while he’s teasing you mostly, he is amazed. You looked erotic as hell right now, little angel costume all wrinkled and a bit dirty from the earth below, pretty face a bit stained with mascara that had run a little from your earlier tears. You weren’t wearing the waterproof kind it seemed. Lips bitten and chewed on, plump and glossy from whatever glittery shit you swiped on them earlier now wrapped around his digits as he dug around in your warm wet mouth. “Suck on them, slut,” he orders, his smile dropping and face becoming more serious as you hurry to obey, a strange trepidation building in your gut. He groans as he feels your tongue wiggle and swirl, pumping his fingers a bit now and enjoying the little bleats you release when he chokes you a bit with them. “Wonder if you’re soaked down here~” he hums, leaning back a bit and yanking his fingers from your lips, wiping the excess saliva across your cheek and huffing a laugh as your features wrinkle in distaste. His hand moves behind him, easy access to your cunt due to the frilly dress hiked up almost around your waist, revealing cute soaked white cotton panties he growls at the sight of. “You really suck at putting up a fight, crybaby, but I think I heard somewhere that girls get wet when scared too…” those red eyes flick back to your own, "You scared?” He asks, almost softly. He watches you breathe, chest struggling a bit under his weight but your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, not pushing him away. “A little…?” Is your shaky response, and he wonders silently if you’re an idiot or just a pervert. You might be both, because when he lets his thumb dig into where your pussy lay poorly hidden, you moan for him and spread your legs wider. You make it even easier to search for his desired location, your swollen bundle of nerves. “O-oh—!” Your head falls back, little halo becoming a bit misshapen as it gets flattened to the ground, he tsks, fixing it with his free hand as he thumbs your little clit and watches you mewl and writhe beneath him, pleasure clearly visible on your face. Your hips buck and wiggle, body pinned beneath his and unable to get away or closer like you desperately want for more friction than he’s providing. “P-please,” you can’t help but beg, hoping your new friend is merciful enough to make you cum and not simply edge you all night.

It’s the pouty expression which makes him nearly feral, his grin spreading wide again as he keeps working his finger on your clit but his face closes the distance between your own. His lips just barely graze yours, and you are all too happy to part your lips and give him a sloppy kiss back, his own tongue finally slipping into your mouth where you suck. The smooth muscle in your mouth and the saliva dripping from it drive you wild, hands now dragging him closer and trying to make him do more for you. The heat spreads slowly however, his pace not changing, and despite his slim build he’s much stronger than you. You aren’t able to take any more than what is given, huffing in exasperation and groaning when he places more force before easing off. “S-stop teasing…” you whine against his lips, which were much softer than they look. He smirks, airy chuckle felt more than heard as he shakes with a silent laugh, “how can I not, you’re such a rare find, I plan to take my time with you.” He kisses you hard to silence whatever whines you planned to release to make him give you more. Instead he forces you into a slow building orgasm that leaves him having to pin your wrists above your head lest your clawing rip his skin open. He works you gently and cruelly into it, loving how you gasp and choke for him, eyes rolling back while you shake almost like you’re possessed and soak through your panties. “There you go, heh, normally I wouldn’t bother to take my time with whiny bitches, but you’re more obedient and sweet than I first assumed.” He whispers into your ear as you come down from the mind blowing high, body limp and pliant like dough now. The insult from him brings out a little whine of protest, teary eyes looking at him with almost something akin to betrayal.

“I-I don’t like being called mean names…I said so online too,” he pulls up finally, the chill of the night attacking full force on your now exposed cunt as he brings your panties up to his nose to inhale. His eyes narrow, almost into slits as he pulls them back and shoves them into his hoodie pocket. “Oh yeah? You post that shit on your social media or something? Sorry, I don’t really use those trash platforms. I have a Twitch stream though,” he acts like this is the time for a regular conversation, even as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, yanking them down his hips to pull his cock free. Your eyes go wide, mind a bit blank and missing something, in favor of looking at him pump his length lazily. A trail of blue curls like on his head travel from his navel to his groin where it spreads out a little, the color a bit darker as it goes lower. He’s not one to shave it seems, but your eyes focus on his cock, average in length but girthy with a tip that curves up almost perfectly. It looks like a cock someone would sell as a dildo at a sex store. It was pretty, admittedly, as a few pearls of pre-cum dotted the tip and spilled over as he slowly worked it above you. “Hungry?” He jokes, but when you nod he grits his teeth and bites back a moan, the night truly more unexpected than he thought. “Open up then, crybaby.” He thankfully didn’t call you a bitch again, crybaby the less of the evils and more acceptable of a petname for your preference as you open your lips and awkwardly lean your head forward. “No need to lean up,” he mumbles, shifting until his knees now rested by your shoulders, tip just in your mouth and his forearms on the earth above your head. He’s looking down at you, and you lay back down as he works his cock in your mouth. He’s going to fuck your mouth, you realize a bit late, the position so easy for him to hit balls deep in your throat and prevent you from running just from his weight alone. You’re pinned to earth, the scent of crisp autumn becoming mingled with the musky masculine odor the stranger had clinging to him. Something smelled of iron too, but it was fainter and didn’t bother you too much, not when he seemed determined to suffocate you with his cock. You jerk a little, teeth accidentally grazing his cock and his hiss of pain alerts you that you’ve hurt him. He pulls up and out of your mouth, glaring ferociously as he looks down at you with contemplation. “Sorry—! I’m not used—,” the words leaving you mouth go unfinished as you’re suddenly looking away and down, confusion wracking your mind before white hot pain erupts across your face and you cry out in agony.

He watches with a cool nonchalance as you whimper and cry, holding your inflamed cheek and looking at him with teary eyes filled with questions. The sight doesn’t help his hardness, your face swelling a bit from the force of the blow already, but it was still arousing how you cried for him so easily. “Don’t bite my fucking dick and I won’t hit you, clear?” He’s grabbing you roughly by the hair again, yanking you up and no longer in the mood for that awkward position as he stands and pulls you to your knees. This position at least gives him a good eye full of your tits, shaking from your little trembling as you’re made to look up at him. His angry reddened cock next to your injured cheek is a sight for him, his hand gripping his shaft and slapping you lightly on the cheek with it, his hand in your hair preventing you from turning away even as you whimper in pain. “Okay, we’ll try this again, crybaby. Open.” You do, even as tears run like waterfalls down your face, mascara smeared and making a pathetic sight for sore eyes of you, you let his cock enter your mouth once more.

Because you’ve never been more aroused.

Your stranger isn’t nice, pushing hard and deep into your throat immediately and gagging you. You’re careful with your teeth, jaw already burning and aching as he locks his arm and hand, strands of hair tearing out as he works his hips into your face at an uneven pace. “Stop fucking moving,” he growls, stepping even closer, blocking any and all exits and forcing you to take it. His cock didn’t seem so scary when he’d pulled it out, but in your throat it was a plug to your oxygen and felt too big for your poor mouth. It hurt, feeling him go too deep and leaving you coughing and sputtering and even still he wouldn’t pull out, groaning and pressing impossibly deep like he truly means to suffocate you. “You got a good little mouth pussy, crybaby. Fuck—take my cock, just like that.” He moans, watching as you struggle on his dick to breathe or swallow, slobber and tears coating his cock as he makes a mess of your pretty face. He doesn’t care that your eyes are starting to roll back, hands which had previously been clawing at his legs going limp at your sides. You acted more like a hole for him to fuck when you were limp like this, and it drove him wild as he grunted like an animal and rutted into your mouth like he held a grudge against you. Both hands dug into your hair, hands pulling you back onto his cock when his hips bucked you away. “Never fucked a—holy shit—ah, mouth so damn good before—, ah fuck, fuck,” he’s getting breathier as time ticks by, his own eyes rolling back as his balls draw up tight. “I’m going to cum, ready for me crybaby? Want it in your tummy or on your face?” He’s being condescending on purpose, but it’s a bit useless considering he’s rendered you nearly unconscious on his dick. He shrugs your lack of response off, pumping his cock down your throat until he sees stars and yanks himself free just before the first spurt misses and hits the grass below, he grips the base, pumping and shooting his next shot right onto your face. He yanks your head against his thigh, delirious face dazed and coughing softly as he finishes on your glitter and mascara run cheeks, using the tip to smear it well into your ruined makeup as he sneers at you from above.

“Hah…” he catches his breath, sucking in oxygen along with you as his gaze turns calculated.

“Wake up, I’m not done with you yet.” He’s more gentle now that he's cum at least once, tapping your uninjured cheek with two fingers as your eyes roll around before opening and looking at him.

He swears, your face making him hard again instantly, blood pooling to his groin at the messy sight of you in your white ruined angel costume. “You really are unlucky I was out tonight, I don’t think I’m gonna let you go.” His dead serious comment caused something cold to hit your veins, chills running through you as you gape in shock.

“W-what…?” He reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulling out what looked like a foot long serrated hunting blade. He snickers at the blank look of shock on your features.

“What’s wrong, crybaby? No tears for me right now?” You’re shaking, getting paler by the second as you realize no, it’s not a costume, and yes, there is still dried blood on the blade. There’s dried blood all over him, his spree tonight ridiculously fruitful and his body still high on the thrill. Imagine his luck finding you. “T-this wasn’t in my profile, wh-what are you doing?” Now you look alert, now you act like a regular civilian, he notes cooly. “I only con-consented to the sex and stuff, I said I didn’t like—like blades or blood play.” Your eyes are wide as saucers and you have a cold sweat now forming and dotting your skin, shaky like on too much caffeine as your body dumped chemicals to help you run.

His head tilts, a few more strands of hair coming loose from his tie as those red eyes watch you without any emotion in their depths.

“Ah~ I get it now. Are you some kind of freak who links up with people online for this kind of shit?” He laughs, eyes not matching the manic toothy grin. “Sorry to disappoint slut, I ain’t your tinder or whatever match. Did you do it anonymously?” He’s beyond amused, thrilled by the horror dawning on your face as reality sets in. “You’re a fucking idiot.” He sneers, but he’s joyful when you book it, heeled boots caked in mud as they dig into the ground and you take off for real. True intent to get away now because he’s not your new friend, he’s a real stranger and his energy is nothing but malevolent.

You’re going to die.

It’s a sick thought that twists inside you as you push the hardest you’ve ever, scream bubbling up and out as you cry for help now. “HELP! Please! Someone! Anyone!” It’s more broken and hoarse than you want, his earlier abuse to your throat having taken a number on your ability to vocalize.

It’s empty. This damn park is empty.

Not a soul around and you can’t hear him coming for you anymore, and it only makes the tears fall harder as you drive your body to a breaking point. If no one is around you can at least aim for your car, your phone will take too much time to look at and dial the police, you’d be too open and that would mean—

Something—someone—smashes into you, your body thrown sideways by the brute force and flung roughly to the ground where you roll several feet.

It hurts—!

Your body and mind scream as pain lights up your shoulder, a previously dull ache now hounding for your attention so much it left you lightheaded. You twisted your ankle too or maybe broke it, already so regretful for the evening and your life choices that your shoes hardly broke the bank. It all hurt, and yet you still tried to crawl to get away, still eager for another deep breath of air in your lungs even if it hurt to do that too.

“Hck, please, please—help—!,” you’re a sobbing pathetic mess, and he couldn’t be more turned on by the sight. He dusts himself off like he hadn’t tackled you like a linebacker for a major league football team, his lanky form sinewy with muscle and his agility nothing to scoff at. He swirls the enormous daunting blade with a whistle, smiling more genuinely as he strolls towards your shaking form crawling away.

“Where do you think you’re going, crybaby? I said I wasn’t done with you,” he lands a solid hit to your middle, dirty sneaker smearing mud on your cute little dress, looking less and less white as the night wears on. The blow is not hard enough to damage anything, he’s sure, but you act as if you’ve been disemboweled by how you howl and heave. He rolls his eyes at the dramatics, settling one foot between your shoulder blades and pressing down until you’re left immobilized.

Your vision is blurry, going in and out of focus as you try, and try, and try to get away, cute nail polish chipped and ruined as you claw at the dirt floor for leverage.

He admires your tenacity. “You think you can get away? That anyone is coming to save you?” He brushes a few stray hairs out of his face as he laughs, the urge to gut you strong as he savors your useless little struggle. “Crybaby, look around! No one is coming! I said look,” he grinds out, dropping to one knee while his other leg remains planted on your back, his hand gripping your hair and yanking your head up to see what he meant.

There’s a fence. A metal chain link fence, and it had a sign your vision was too blurry to read through your tears.

“You ran yourself straight into the worst possible area, this is sort of your game over,” He leans down to look at you, yanking your head back and forcing you into an uncomfortable arch. He raises up the blade, fully intending to slit your pretty throat and watch your eyes as the light fades, but you blubber out a sentence which halts him.

“Y-you didn’t finish! E-earlier, hck, earlier you didn’t finish—!” Your eyes squeeze closed in pain as he yanks your head to the side. Confusion burned in him, and curiosity kept you breathing for now.

“Didn’t finish what, crybaby? Fairly certain I finished all over your face, if I remember correctly.” He has a sharp edge in his tone, something metallic fills your mouth and you realize you’ve bitten through your tongue in your panic. A few drops spill past your lips, catching his attention.

“S-shouldn’t you also f-fuck me too? I-it’s why I came out tonight, wh-why I, ah, d-did this,” it’s a long shot by any means, and he’s no fool, but you did make a good point.

He was still hard.

“Smart little crybaby, aren’t you?” He mutters darkly, setting aside his blade in favor of smashing your face into the dirt, keeping your head down as he presses against your back and yanks your hips up. Your knees are skinned from the rough handling, socks torn open and stained with blood and dirt while his calloused hands slip beneath your dress. Your breath hitches. You needed to think of some way out of this, some kind of plan to escape or incapacitate him.

He’s busied himself with your still dripping cunt. Two fingers roughly filling your hole and uncaringly stretching your tight entrance. “You really are a freak, wet even though you’re going to die, crybaby.” He felt a bit strange as you whimper and mewl below, hand slowing as he tried to place the feeling.

He shrugs it off, instead easily yanking down his jeans which were still unbuttoned and pulling out his cock once more, stroking his shaft a few times before he lined himself up with your puffy lips. “Fuck—,” he swears, eyes seeing stars as he pushes just his tip past the tight ring of muscle at your entrance, mouth opening as licks his lips and stares down at you. “Never had pussy so good…” he giggles darkly, cracking his neck as he pushes each inch inside of you, stretching you out deliciously until you’re speared on his cock with his hips flush with your ass. “Who knew you’d be the best, crybaby.” He muses, fingers digging into the fat of your hips, your little dress flipped up and over your ass so he can watch it bounce as he leans back on his knees to fuck you deeper. You need to think straight but it’s difficult with how good your body feels, the pain from earlier seeming to go away with a numb buzz as he fills your pussy, hitting perfectly against a spot that has you arching harder for more.

You really are a freak like he says.

You can’t help relaxing further, eyes dumbly looking to the side where your head rests as he pounds into you from behind, the coil in your gut growing tighter by the minute.

The clouds blocking the moon seem to part just for you, the full moon’s light no longer blocked and illuminating the little patch of grass he’d tackled you into. Something gleams, in perfect reach too as your eyes widen.

His knife.

He’d already proven you can’t outrun him, but what if he was injured? There’s a major artery in the thigh, if you hit that, wouldn’t you be able to get away?

He yanks back roughly, moaning as he feels you squeeze even tighter around him, velvet walls massaging his dick while he tries to fuck himself as deep as possible inside of you.

It hit you despite all your intentions not to, because this wasn’t safe and he wants to end your life and everything is wrong, but your body doesn’t listen. You cum with a shaky cry, and with an awkward turn of your head you watch as his head goes back and he moans, eyes closed in bliss as you coat his cock in even more slick.

You’re louder than you intended to be, but your fingers close around the hilt nonetheless, trembling with the heavy weight in your grasp, you use every ounce of energy inside you to swing it back into his thigh.

“Cute,” you scream as he catches your wrist, hand clenching so tight you feel your bones grind together as the knife falls from your grip. He twists your arm around and pins your wrist behind your back, holding it in place while his other hand remains at your hip.

“So fucking cute, crybaby. Did you cum just to distract me or was that because you couldn’t help yourself?” He’s getting a high from this, from fucking you and turning you into nothing but a toy as he bounces you on his cock, hips still but arms pulling you back and forth with ease. Scarlet eyes drink you in with undisguised sick glee, and he’s finally able to place the feeling from earlier.

“A pretty little slut trying to get her rocks off and getting shown why she should’ve been a good girl and stayed home,” he grunts, releasing you and leaning over, pinning you with his weight and nearly knocking the air from your lungs how deeply he hits you inside from this angle. Dirt fills the underbelly of your nails, your fingers digging into the earth just for some semblance of stability.

You had none. It was a sick and horrifying realization. You have no control. You can do nothing to stop this. As deeply as it made your gut sink, another odd emotion rose to the surface.

A bubbly sensation that tore through you as your tears became less from fear and more from overstimulation.

His hips piston in and out of you, bullying your cervix in this position as he ruts into you like a hound, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he moans and grunts.

You break again, spasm and cinch down on his cock like a vice while you wail as if in mourning. Maybe you are, for yourself at least. ��Oh fuck—! s’too much—, please, I can’t—, f-feels good, hah,” your nearly incoherent babbling sends him over the edge along with you, his own dull nails finally drawing blood as he holds you for dear life as he releases deep inside you, tip kissing right up against you womb as he cums. You can feel it too, his cock twitching inside as the night seems to still for a moment.

He holds you for a while. Breathing you in, nuzzling his face into your neck and licking you. He holds you until his cock fully softens and it hurt to be gripped so tightly inside your wet heat, regrettably pulling away.

He stands, putting his sticky limp cock away inside his underwear and pulling up his pants, looking down at your ruined figure that had slumped over to the side.

“Y’know, crybaby… you really resemble an angel now,” he smiles, red eyes almost glowing as the moon blankets his back and shadows his face. His hair seems almost white like this, your tired eyes note. You don’t move or even flinch as he grabs his knife and yanks your limp figure up by your hair. Even now you’re still crying, face lax despite the rivers flowing down your dirty swollen cheeks. You make no effort to stop him, having given up completely.

He crouches down again, mostly eye level now as he makes you look at him.

“You got any last words?” He’s being dead serious. He feels strange looking at the almost glazed over look in your eyes.

“W-what…” your voice is barely a whisper, but the night is so quiet he catches it, “what’s your…name?”

An unexpected question.

His eyes gleam, smile ravenous as he puts his lips against your ear and whispers it.

“Tomura, what’s your name, crybaby?” He asks, gently, almost like he’s actually interested.

You hoarsely whisper it, your last time ever saying it after tonight. He hums, like it pleases him, before he brings down the knife swiftly.

Your vision goes dark, the strike mercifully painless. Your last thoughts blur as you drift into soft nothingness.

He releases your hair, grabbing your limp figure up in his arms as he chuckles and sheaths his knife properly on his hip. “Dumb crybaby” his voice almost singing the words as he whistles and walks away, the park dead silent but even if someone had seen you in his arms, he could just play the good boyfriend taking his sweetheart home safely. It’s not entirely a lie either, his eyes glancing down at your unconscious form, pretty neck unmarred but a bruise would likely form on the back where he struck you tomorrow. Tomura had never felt compelled to allow a victim to live, but then again he’s never fucked a victim either, so you’re the first for a lot. He supposed it made you quite special, his legs carrying him in the direction of his car in the parking lot about a mile south. Obsession and possessiveness swirled in those red depths as they looked at your figure.

“Good girls should just stay home…” he continues his sardonic little tune, his smile gruesome and foreboding.

Vibrant blue orbs check his surroundings again, noting once again his friend was a no show. Rolling his eyes, he knew it was too good to be true. Your profile screamed inexperienced and cautious, despite you clicking that you’d like him to remain anonymous beforehand. It didn’t matter, he’d just go enjoy some sorority girl pussy instead, figuring at 0330 that most parties would be winding down. Drunk girls dressed like sluts were his second favorite.

Dabi clicks the notify option on his app, letting the website staff know you never showed up.

Though, he muses if something did happen, the police wouldn’t be notified until it was too late. Halloween weekend after all meant you could be missing for quite a while before anyone noticed.

Not his problem though.

Post dividers/@cafekitsune

#tw:noncon #kinktober #Shiggy fuckers come get y’all juice #kinktober 2023 #my only one lol #shigaraki tomura smut #shigaraki tomura #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki mha #shigaraki x reader #mha tomura #tomura x reader #boku no hero academia tomura #yandere tomura #yandere shigaraki tomura #yandere tomura smut #yandere shigaraki tomura smut #yandere tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader smut

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kyutushi · 3 months

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GN!READER X ALASTOR HCS

a/n; it’s been a while since i’ve last written hcs for anything so i hope these will suffice !! LOL

ENJOY!!

— he’s definitely a gentleman! opens doors for you and helps you with anything you need, just call for him and he’ll be there instantly!

— finds himself staring at you time to time just wondering how he was even able to pull you

— there’s an area in the parlor somewhere with a piano, you often organize things in there so he’ll play piano for you while u work <3 ; yt link for song

— you’re not in a contract with him he could never do that to u

— whether you’re also an overlord or just a regular demon he has you by his side during meetings, whispering gossip to you bc let’s be real he def has some shit to say abt the others

— sleeping next to him is the best, the quiet radio static when he’s sleeping is the most comforting thing ever

— “y/n, love! you look as ravishing as ever” he would say even if you just woke up lookin like shit

— angel dust n husk def ur besties bc HELLO they are the best (he is confused with your friend choice.)

— secretly tries to keep charlie away from you.. he really doesn’t want you to leave him for heaven. he wouldn’t know what to do without you by his side.

— only lets u see his tail; you and angel dust were in a giggling fit in his bedroom while talking sweet gossip about others. angel always has something to say about ANYONE, how does he know this stuff? no idea but TEA IS TEA. “HA, ya know toots when valentino talks every now and then he squeaks like a moth! it takes so much to not burst out laughing on set” he giggled and covered his mouth. “oh my god, don’t tell ANYONE i told you this but..” angel leaned in slightly to hear you better, “alastor actually does have a tail… he tucks it away and gets so embarrassed about it!” you quietly snickered as angel tried not to laugh. suddenly he tenses up and looks behind you, pointing at the dark figure behind you.

“hmmm, what was that love? care to speak up a bit? i couldn’t quiet hear what you had to say to your friend here!” upon hearing this all so familiar threatening cheery voice

you sweat dropped, “oh it was nothing dearest please— why don’t we talk in the parlor!” you forced a suspicious smile to which he squinted at you. “hmm alright then!” he drops his watchful stare and hooks his arm with yours, ushering to the parlor.

he sits you down on the sofa and sits beside you, you rest your head against his chest. “your heart is racing darling, why would this be?” he smirked. you bite your lip anxiously before speaking up, looking up to him. “i mayyy have said something secret to angel… it was harmless i swear dear!” he finger found its way to your jaw, tilting your head ever so slightly up so he can look into your eyes. “if you were anyone else i’d have you murdered on the spot, but i could never harm you love! consider this a punishment!” — “consider wha—“ he presses a sweet short kiss to your lips, suddenly pulling away and walking away with a small smirk. you sat there in total shock as that was the last thing to expect.

long story short; that was the only kiss for the day (of course you had to beg him for at least one more goodnight kiss, and of course he eventually gave in. how could he say no to his darling?)

#alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #alastor hcs #hazbin hcs

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reno-korino · 7 months

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A complete analysis of Cazador Szarr, his palace, and spawn

A week ago, I posted a Reddit thread analyzing everything to do with Cazador Szarr. I wanted to bring it here! THIS IS A VERY LONG POST, THIS IS YOUR WARNING BEFORE CLICKING. Here is the Reddit link.

Who is Cazador Szarr?

According to the Forgotten Realms wiki for Cazador Szarr, The Szarr family was a family of Baldur's Gate who were once wealthy merchants and farmers.

I couldn’t find any information on what year the actual Szarr family was attacked, but the information I do have is, “Long before the 15th century DR, the land that would encompass Tumbledown held a grand estate that belonged to the mercantile Szarr family. Unfortunately, every member of the Szarrs was murdered by a rival house, and their holdings were burnt to the ground.” It was unknown how Cazador survived. Maybe he organized this? After the tragic incident, Tumbledown was filled with fog. In addition, the Outer City expanded over the area, and it would become a large cemetery.

Decades prior to 1482 DR, a portion of the cliffs that surrounded the area fell away. Because of this, part of the family crypts were revealed; graverobbers seized the opportunity to plunder the tombs.

Cazador is known as Cazador Szarr 'The Avid', according to a scroll titled “Vampires before Vellioth” From this information, we can see that Cazador turned from Vampire spawn, to Vampire Lord the year 1276, and about 20 years later give or take, is when he turns Astarion into a vampire spawn. Considering the game is set in 1492, this means Cazador has been a vampire lord in Baldur Gate for about 216 years. One of Cazador's slaves, Astarion reported that he was turned into a vampire spawn almost two centuries prior to 1492 DR(1292).

Cazador is the patriarch of the Szarr family, (The head of the family) he apparently didn’t want military or political power, He likes power over people. So when he speaks, Astarion (or vampire spawn) body has to react. He apparently made vampire spawn torture themselves and each other for fun. You can interact with a bust in his palace which reads to be 'Mordic SeLanmere', the most powerful vampire king. It suggests that this might be Cazador's ancestor?

After talking/killing the Gur Gandrel, Tav can talk about the night Astarion met Cazador, and you’re able to call out that it was convenient Cazador just happened to find him. Astarion will deflect and claim he probably was found because of the smell of blood. When you do ask Astarion if you should be worried about Cazador hunting you down, he says you should always be aware, but Cazador was never one to actually leave the city ever. (get a life, Cazador.)

Astarion only assumes Gandral works for Cazador, which is false. If you give Astarion up, he'll be held at the Gur camp, where everyone will be slaughtered in Act 3 by Cazador, and Astarion will go back to the Palace as a zombie.

If you don't kill the Gur Gandrel, you actually find out that his two children were part of the 7,000 spawn trapped by Cazador. Sparing Gandrel, and the rest of the 7,000 spawn will let you briefly talk to him, and his two now vampire spawn children,

Cazador has some beef with the Gur (Obviously since he steals their children) because the werewolves that fight you are ‘Fallen Gur Hunters’. At the party, we can also see the werewolves that fight you are from the Hhune family. There’s a ‘Chatterteeth’ that fights alongside Cazador, who is, like Godey, a pair of bones. I’m not sure what Cazadors affinity is for werewolves, maybe its his twilight fantasy of Edward x Jacob?

On Astarion Ancunín

Astarion's age of death is 39, rather young for elves. His grave reads: 229 - 268 DR 498 DR. This Reddit thread gives good information.

Astarion was turned into a vampire by Cazador Szarr in the year 1292DR. Before he was a vampire, Astarion was a magistrate. A magistrate judge is a judicial officer of the district court and is appointed by majority vote of the active district judges of the court. A group of vagrants, a group called the Gur beat Astarion to deaths door when they took issue of a ruling Astarion made. It is there Cazador 'saved' him with the choice of 'life' or 'bleeding to death in the street'.

It isn’t said if Cazador made/let/stopped Astarion from continuing to be a magistrate. Since Cazador saved Astarion from the Gur, he ‘chased them off’ and turned Astarion into a vampire. I think it would be interesting if there was some sort of political move since a large opinion is that Cazador organized the attack. Perhaps there was an issue with Cazador's status?

-- My theory about Astarions family

In another comment, someone suggested Astarion might be from elsewhere instead of being born in the city. The idea he came to Baldur Gate because he wanted to pursue bigger things and become a Magistrate seems in character without having to add in his family, but you'd think he'd be concerned about his family and vise versa? Unless Astarion had bad blood with them.

At the end of the day, for his main 7 spawn, it doesn't make complete sense to have them be born and raised in Baldur Gate with a full family, since that's way too many connections. Too many distractions when they're out getting marks, and too many opportunities for Cazador to be exposed. Since there are 7,000 spawn created by Cazador, but only 7 that he 'keeps', so there has to be some sort of reason.

Were they the most beautiful? Alluring in his eyes? Or perhaps, the most charismatic, or did they have the least amount of connections that could come back to bite him? Surely, there has to have been one incident. Wouldn't that be interesting if there was at least one spawn we don't know, that used to be of the original 7, but was 'taken out' because a family kept asking too many questions?

*-- *

Cazador, on making Astarion vampire, also made him crawl out of his own grave.

“Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there. I had to punch a hole in the coffin and clew my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up first and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting.”

It's unclear if Cazador gave all the spawns the same treatment, but my opinion is he did this to send a direct message to Astarion. Astarions grave is in the Thorass alphabet, Showing that his last name is Ancunín. The only way to get to this grave is during a dialogue scene at the end of "The Pale Elf" quest, widely considered the 'good ending' in which the player does not let Astarion ascend. Asended Astarion will not bring you to the grave, and can not be found when in the cemetery in the city.

Astarion also mentions when talking about being turned into a vampire about how painful it was, saying, "I remember how it hurt when I turned into a vampire. My body writhed and warped while I was utterly helpless, the grip of death owned my heart as it beat its last."

In earlier patches, Astarion mentions how he begged Cazador to be turned instead. This is old though, so I wouldn’t say this is reliable.

Astarion does also say in a voiceline that:

"The mindflayers weren't my first kidnapping. A long time ago, I crossed Cazador, a powerful man in Baldur's Gate."

Astarion would bring the people for Cazador, he’d tease Astarion by asking him if he’d like to dine with him, and if Astarion said yes, he’d get a rat(girl dinner). If he said no, he’d have Astarin flayed.

There is also Astarions worst memory, when he was sealed, buried alive for a year. If you ask him about it in Act 3, he talks about how in his first decade, he found a darling boy that he couldn’t bring back to Cazador. So Astarion ran and disobeyed. Cazador caught him and sealed him up, starved him inside a dusty tomb for a year. He claims,

“A year of silence. Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out. More months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death.”

Astarions Brothers and Sisters, the Seven Spawn

It seems Cazador has his main seven spawn, Astarions ‘brothers and sisters’. Seems like Cazador had a real, manager-in retail type mentality and claimed they were ‘all a family’ even while he was carving scars into their flesh. To note, I’m not sure why the only scars Astarion DOES have are the ones on his back. Apparently, Astarion was ‘one of his firsts’ which signals that Astarion might be the second spawn? The rest came years later, but took a special interest in Astarion for his ‘sweet sounds’. Astartion does seem to have some sort of survivor's guilt for them. It isn't ever specified who came first, or who was the most recent.

The respective spawn names are: Leon, Aureila, Yousen, Violet, Dalyria and Pale Petras

They all have the same stats. The demographic is:

Female (3/7) - 43 %

Male (4/7) - 57 %

With 1 Tiefling(Aurelia), 1 Halfling(Yousen), 3 elves(Violet, Astarion,Dalyria), and 2 humans(Pale Petras, Leon) - This is based on observation, I could be wrong!

Their eyes will be glowing red, which means they are under the influence of Cazador. This applies to all the spawn. Once Cazador is dead, their eyes stop glowing.

When Leon and Aurelia confront you at the inn (and attack you), Aurelia claims Cazador knew where Astarion was the entire time, likely watching us from the shadows.

Cazador apparently promised the 6 vampire spawn that he’d set them free. You can learn more about Pale Petras, where he wants to bring back one more person so when he is ‘free’, he will have someone to drink dry right off the bat. Dalyria doesn’t seem to humor the idea and instead wants to leave in fear of angering Cazador by being late, BUT interestingly enough, the vampire spawn are out in the day in a tavern, which means they are hunting day AND night? Considering how Astarion talks to Pale Petras, it's clear that they don’t really get along too well.

When you meet the spawn slave, after succeeding on a perception check, you notice on all 7,000 spawns, "Beneath the first and blood, you notice that every prisoner has a rune carved into their flesh." What is interesting, is it only looks like Sebastian is the only one with these marks. I looked at all the other spawn NPCS and couldn't find anything visible. The runes marked into Sebastian also look kind of fresh, so this perhaps was a recent thing? Unless I'm reading the scars wrong, but from how Astarion talked about his scars, it doesn't sound like he was given them as soon as he was turned into a vampire spawn.

As for the appearance of the other spawn, I can chalk it up to the models not being completely finished with the runes, I suppose… Either that or Tav can see under people's clothes…. kinda weird!

More on Cazador and Baldur Gate

According to Astarion, Cazador is just another ordinary noble in Baldur City. He says that Cazador is a little reclusive perhaps, but just another ‘the great and good’ of Baldur’s Gate. He apparently has a grand palace on the hills of the Gate, where he hosts the city’s high society. This makes me wonder, since there is a ballroom in Cazador’s palace if he hosts all these large high society balls. Astarion wonders if Cazador would risk exposure by doing it at the palace, signaling that Cazador at least, does care for his image.

When your character is a Baldurian, you can ask, “That giant gothic monstrosity has been inhabited by vampires this entire time?” So at least the citizens of Baldur Gate can see how out of place it is.

The Szarr Palace has a palace south tower and ramparts. He has city guards charmed guarding the entrance. It also has a garden and beautiful architecture. The Szarr palace colors are teal and red. My analysis of the building is linked.

The dialogue from Astarions origin character playthrough when he has a nightmare about Cazador:

Spoken like a true old bitch:

“First, thou shelf not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.”

“Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.”

“Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

“Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.”

Cazador keeps all the spawn underground in cages. When meeting Sebastion in the cages, you tell Sebastion he’d been down there for “One hundred and seventy years. You were one of my first, too.” This means either the “200” years is more 175 years, or he might not have gone out to get spawn for around ~15 years. It could also mean Astarion sees the 15 years as a short period of time, which would make sense.

Astarion thinks that Cazador hired the Gur to find Astarion in Act 1, and the Gur does not know what Cazador really is. If you give Astarion up and go to Cazador in the future, he will ask you if you’re the one who “took my poor Astarion under your wing, only to abandon him so cruelly?”

What’s really interesting, if you interact with Astarion in the ritual, he’s a zombie, unlike his other spawn. Could this be because he was tortured by Cazador, flayed?

When you read Cazadors mind after killing him without Astarion, it seems Cazador has nightmares of “The boy I was, the man I became, the monster that will not end. I sleep, but cannot rest, I live, but cannot die. I am eternal, and I grieve.” I say shut the fuck up, Cazador.

Obviously, Astarion meeting Cazador in the current up to date patch(9/7/2023) , he’s very demeaning. Man rolls his r’s like he’s still in the fucking renaissance. He claims Astarion is still his even if he can resist his words. He waves around his stupid little staff, but his magic is still strong enough to grab Astarion into the ascension ritual even if you roll a nat 20 to resist.

On talking to Astarion about coming home :

Cazador seems to have mortal servants walking around the palace. The Servants aren’t charmed, but they are ‘fanatics’ as Astarion claims, “Here of their own free will, and utterly devoted to Cazador.” He says, “Each one came to our door and begged to be given his ‘eternal gift’. They’re sure he’ll turn them if they serve him well enough” whatever the fuck that means.

What I can gather from this information is, that people do know that Cazador is a vampire lord, but obviously not everyone. It's like the well-kept secret that isn’t a secret because Astarion claims earlier that Cazador wouldn’t want to do the ritual at the Palace for fear of exposing himself. If anyone else has any clarification that Cazador is a known vampire, please, I'm all ears.

The servants seem to be obsessed with keeping the place clean, making sure it's ‘pure’. But that’s kind of hard considering there are BATS flying around everywhere in this palace. I can't tell if they are paid at all, either, they are just there freaked out trying to be the best they can so they can be the next vampire spawn. It also makes me wonder, why doesn't Cazador just turn these people into spawn? Is he afraid to scare staff away when they vanish because they begged at Cazadors door for vampirism? How on earth did they find this out? What on earth is Cazadors title to these people, is he a lord even if the public doesn't know he's a vampire lord?

All the text in Cazadors Palace Explained, and rooms explained

[ALL THE TEXT FOUND IN CAZADORS PALACE]

Chamberlain Dufey

In the Chaimberlain's private quarters, we find Chamberlain Dufey’s dead body in a casket. The Chamberlain is responsible for managing the household of nobles, so Dufey would have managed the household for Cazador. It's suggested by a private note left by Dufey’s Werewolf GF that he killed himself via poison, and so she Romeo and Juliet herself and killed herself as well.

You can find his diary on the bed on the floor, and we find out that Dufey killed himself because he found out about Cazador's ritual, because Cazador wanted Dufey to be the stand-in for the missing Asterion. He even calls Astarion a brat! Ironically enough, his poison is just enough to slow his heart and he isn’t actually dead, so his lover found him and killed herself in return. True poetry. Dufey hopes that once Cazador ascends, he can leave since Cazador won’t need his management anymore. This suggests that Dufey is a prisoner in one way or another. He is, a vampire spawn interestingly enough.

Godey

Cazador would throw the spawn into a ‘kennel’ when he was displeased with the vampire spawn. This is hidden by an illusion, that Astarion claims is one of his regular, cheap tricks.

Godey is a pair of bones that is under Cazador's control. He claims to be doing his job and to ‘keep him(astarion) in line.” He apparently tortured the spawn for days at a time, and Godey seemed to enjoy the screaming.

Spawn sleeping quarters

The vampire spawn seemed to live in a ‘dormitory style’ living, inside the dormitory wing. He has two rooms, “spawn dormitory” and “favorite spawn”

You can find Violet's diary, where she says the ‘garlic in Yousen's bed gave him a nasty rash’ which signals that vampires can’t handle garlic. It also shows that Violet is a little shit and makes life hell for the other spawn… a true sibling. Leon has a daughter named Victoria, but Cazador seems to ‘have a little plan for her.’

There is also a blood ledger from Dufey, who states the rules of what type of people Cazador wants to be picked up. Most notably, to focus on the lower class. He chastises them for picking up three people from wealthy families because their families of course are wondering where the as fuck they went. The goal is not to attract unwanted attention and to avoid aristocrats, even if they are out slumming in the lower city.

Favorite Spawn

The ‘favored spawn’ room is a lot more grand, with nice beds that don’t stack on a bunk bed. I wonder if Astarion was a bottom or top bunk?

It turns out when looking at the favorited spawn list, it mostly is Leon, with Violet taking only one year. When you read Leon's diary though, we find out he’s working so hard because he has a daughter named Victoria. Leon writes, “I've had to be his best hunter just so I could stay here with my daughter and keep her away from the other spawn. I don’t like the way Violet looks at her, not at all!”

So it seems that Cazador let the other spawn family stay with them unless Victoria is an outlier… But while they are ‘siblings’, they still do not get along. Either that or Violet is just a bitch. That being said, Leon also writes, “When I ask the master what he plans to do with Victoria, Cazador just gives me that wicked smile.” He writes that he is working together on a plan to disguise Victoria so she can escape. She’s a human girl running around, and her father even writes her a note to learn the ancient language book that is in the guest room so she can move around freely in the mansion. This means there was a KID running around the palace. A HUMAN KID.

You can also find a list that Victoria made, which seems focused on the number '17' for some reason.

What I’m gathering is, that Cazador is wicked and sick- of course, we knew that. But poor Leon, protecting his daughter? All of this is to say- Victoria is dead in the guest room. She’s covered by necrotic magic.

Astarion claims he has brought people to this guest room before.

Dalyria

In the guest room, we get to find Dalyria’s diary. It claims she was a Doctor, and Physician General to the Parliment of Baldur Gate. She claims she will always be a Doctor, despite what Cazador did to her.

She says that a “massive infusion of fresh, youthful blood may overwhelm the vampirism infection and enable my body to heal” and points out that Victoria is the pureblooded daughter of Leon. This seems to indicate that she thinks that vampirism is a blood-affected thing, and can be cured one way or another.

Leon was apparently a sorcerer before he became spawn, and warned everyone to not bite her since he booby-trapper her blood in case of an attack. So… considering she is letting out necrotic energy, I assume that Dalyria tried to bite her because she assumed Leon was lying.

When you try to Speak with Dead on her, it seems her answers don’t line up too well with the actual journal entries. She says that Dalyria lured her with the promise of food and shelter and she was bit by her, and then Dal was dragged away by Cazador, and Victoria was eventually killed by him.

A question I have is, with a daughter so young, and Leon has been on the favorite spawn list for so many years, did he have this kid when he was a vampire? She looks like she’s only 10 or younger, so he either had to have her at the Palace when she was a baby or he somehow got someone pregnant.

The Ballroom

When you enter the ballroom, the people on the floor are called guests. So I can assume there was some party, and then the werewolves were called to rip everyone up. On the body of a woman named Sanseverina, she’s carrying a note that says. *“Sansy, I've been invited to a party at the Szarr Palace tonight in their ballroom. Show the chamberlain at the door this note and he’ll let you in to join me. Wear your best dress!” - Callira (*Sansy was not indeed, wearing a dress at all.)

Callira can be found in what I assume is the cigar room dead on the floor. She holds a note from Dufay that she is requested by Cazador to play music at the party.

Using "Speak to Dead" on one of the dead party members on the floor, we find out that one of them is named "Sterlac", a Senior Clerk in the Counting House. He was invited to the party, and claims he was enjoying the party, drinking and talking. When you ask him what he was talking about, he says,

"Work… Counting House… Who controls what. Wanted names of senior staff… families… any scandals, secrets…"

He also says that at the party, the guests were politicians, minor nobles, fist officers, 'all sorts'. Cazador wanted information, he apparently asked them all a lot of questions about the power structures in the city, the weaknesses, and the type of people Cazador should look at controlling.

Cazador apparently took the most beautiful people away from the party, and they were never seen again. According to Sterlac, after Cazador left, werewolves came to the party and made the guests their little afternoon snack. From what I can gather, it does seem that Cazador has his foot in the door pretty heavily in politics, if he's using clerks for their information about staff and…. scandals.

I'm assuming this random attack of wolves is in reference to the 'grand feast' Dufay writes about in his party planner diary you'll find in Cazador's office.

What my takeaway is, that people in political power, at least of use to Cazador, know he is a vampire. But it isn't generally common knowledge, even when Tav comments on the vampire-filled manor, and Astarion jokes back that its "subtle, isn't it?"

Dufay also orders the guards on the wall to make sure they're vigilant and that the staff are silent and never speak. This shows that Cazador’s reach goes all the way to the guards. Dufay does note that “If you encounter the mater, stand still and cast down your eyes with dereference. The master likes to be respected.”

Oh. and no whistling, of course.

What is the puzzle under Cazadors Palace?

The puzzle under Cazador Palace can be entered via the cigar room. Me, and so many people have concluded this is simply an unfinished room since I tried to do just about everything to get this to work.

I back my theory up because this is the only location in Cazadors Palace that isn't marked as dangerous and allows the player to long rest and travel by waypoint etc.

Venturing further, we can find a confession from one of Cazador's captives, where they confess their transgressions. This is from someone named Dawson Kiltmaker, who claims they cheated on the city accountants' certification test. Since Dawson suspects he is going to die, he is using the journal to rid himself of sins so he can die with his soul a little lighter. He also claims that Cazador gloats, so it's confirmed that Cazador at least, fucks with the prisoners mentally. There are a lot of dead bodies so it can be assumed sometimes, Cazador just keeps people / kills them instead of turning them.

Cazadors Office Area / Family / Attic

Cazador's office is directly linked to the ballroom named the “Office Hall”

There’s a party planner on the desk that Dufay used to plan Cazador's gatherings. The ballroom functions are divided into two categories - Invited guests and involuntary guests, which are the entertainment for the latter category being considerably more sinister than the former.

So what I can assume is … There are other vampires invited or others invited of different types of morality that use or torture the second category? Thats wild. Cazedor also planned a ‘final feast’ that Dufey had to organize, which involved invited and involuntary guests…

Cazadors desk has Starbrt Shandy, a Carafe of wine, and Cagulated blood. He also seems to keep up with the news since articles are on his desk and a book about Baldur City's history. Cazador's entire office is just… blood and wine. Dude parties non fucking stop. There is also a book on the upper city and the lower city.

The Dais is the elevator down into the dungeon, Astarion had no idea it was there. He said Cazador brought his victims there, so it can be assumed that Astartion at least dragged the person to Cazador's office before they were brought to the second room down the elevator… Imagine how scary that would be.

There's a bust of Shyressa Runemaster as well, a vampire in 1360 DR. It should be noted, there's so many bottles of wine in this fucking estate. Does NOBODY drink water???

Cazador's Niece

In the attic, we actually get entries from Cazador's family from the year 1477. Amanita Szarr, Cazadors ‘niece’ claims she didn’t know that Cazador was a vampire. She claims she had no idea that her family were vampires, so it confirms that the Szarr family at least has some nonvampires and a long line of vampires.

She grew up on the country estate near Anga Vled was raised by servants, and hardly ever visited the city palace in Baldurs Gate. It noted she hated visiting, and that the Palace straddles the wall between the Upper and Lower City. In the year 1477 when she was 13, Cazador personally summoned her, and she was brought by carriage. Dufey greets her and brings her to the ballroom, and It is here that Cazador forcibly turns her into a vampire in the torture room above the ballroom. She was imprisoned in the attic by someone named Bolvart for trying to resist being a vampire, and she eventually succumbed and drank human blood. They kept her in the attic starving for an entire year and eventually sent up a bound captive, which she killed. So Amanita decided to stay up in the attic for the rest of her life calling herself Lady Incognita.

Amanita later wrote a book describing blood diseases claiming that there is something that can infect vampires with a brief illness. It's called “Red Thrombosis and Thandals Paroxsym”. Vampires should be able to recognize this before they even bite people if they are trained. Do you hear that, Astarion lovers? It's time to write Astarion is sick fanfiction. Or.. maybe, Cazador is fucking ill and everyone points and laughs.

So even those who survived the Szarr massacre still get hunted down by Cazador to become vampires it seems. Cazador leaves no stone unturned, but it makes me wonder how many other surviving members there had to have been. Obviously, Cazador has siblings if he has a niece.

Cazadors Corner

Going down into Cazador’s dungeon, there is a list with thousands of names from Baldur City, which can be assumed the sibling's victims.

There is Cazador's journal, which records the movements and actions of his spawn. He seems REALLY interested in Astarions, noting his every order, failure, and punishment.

He says, “Astarion failed to return from his hunt this night. Godey Informed. He will have the pliers ready when the boy shows himself again.”

Cazador starts to say how upset he is that Astarion is missing and that he wants to make Astarion scream. So then, Cazador starts to torture his siblings to find Astarion since he’s been missing for days. He then notes that when Astarion interacts with his siblings in Wyrms Crossing, Astarion is able to stand in the sunlight and bolds that he’s able to disobey Cazador. Dude is fucking upset writing in his diary. This obviously won't appear if you don't ever interact with Pale Petras and Dal.

In another book, Cazador writes about how he’s concerned about Lord Gortash because of his new steel watch, wondering if they’d mess with his vampire spawn and how he operates….

Cazador has a letter he writes to Mrel Alkam, who I suppose leads their own vampire circle in another region called “Athkatla” which is apparently more homogeneous than Baldurs Gate. He tells Alkam to enjoy his success while he has it because he plans to surpass him. He also says that he’s been long content with being a major city’s vampire lord. This signals that Cazador is not the only vampire lord out there, of course, but he’s feeling inferior.

Cazador essentially is writing this hatemail like, You might think you’re so cool and special with your vampires, but just you wait, I'm about to become cooler AND more popular. (For the record, Cazador slept in a twin-sized bed, so he was getting NO bitches.)

Looking into Athkatla further, we can find that this is the "City of Coin" , a location in BG2. There is a whole vampire coven in Athkatla, which players are able to interact with in BG2.

Under Cazadors corner, you can also find a scroll written by Lady Incognita that it was Donnela Szarr, Vellioth's original Vampire master, explaining how she was the one that opened the halls that Cazador uses as his dungeon. Apparently, they were built by mining dwarves who were exiles from Bhaerynden and seemed to be more of an outpost abandoned with time. Donnela questions, what was being mined here? It's questioned by Lady Incognita that it's unusual the halls were never discovered under Baldur's Gate, and they could have been deliberately hidden.

Cazadors previous vampire master, Vellioth

Vellioth - A skull with a scroll clamped in its teeth. This is Cazador's previous master, a cruel man.

His first lesson: “Is to always dominate. Allow none to be your equal.”

“Vellioth recalls when Cazador reached out to a former friend. His punishment was to watch as Vellioth drained his friend dry.”

His second lesson: “Power comes from solitude. To share with others is to be weak, and to be weak is to fail… and die.”

"Vellioth recalls when Cazador rebelled against him. Cazador suffered eleven years of impalement… because he failed."

(For the record, this is fucking horrific. It's such a hard juxtaposition AND parallel between him and Astarion.)

His third lesson: “Act not in haste. A near immortal has time to plan, time to act when others will pay the price of action.”

“Vellioth recalls Cazador, his lesson learned, killing him in the Rite of Perfect Slaughter. How they both laughed! Vellioth recalls Cazador boiling the flesh from his skull and then, to mock him, clamping his Schooling Scroll in Vellioth's jaws.”

(I couldn't find any information about the Rite of Perfect Slaughter)

Vellioth

As for Vellioth, he is known as Vellioth the Martinet. A Martinet is a strict disciplinarian, especially in the armed forces. He ruled from 1204 - 1276(72 years). A lot shorter run than most, but overall rather average considering. Vellioth’s master was Donnela Szarr the Architect, which makes me wonder if Vellioth was actually his family. There are only two Szarr names on the list of vampire lords, including Cazador and Donnela.

Here are the recent 5 stats:

Cazador Szarr - 216 years

Vellioth - 72 years

Donnela Szarr - 66 years

Hideous Gathwycke - 119 years

Failbleur the Fleeting - 0 years

The average amount of years in Cazador's recent 5 history of Vampire Lords is about 94.6 hours, with Cazador holding the highest number. When calculating the numbers for all listed, the average is 80 years, with Cazador taking the gold medal for longest in ruling.

My general opinion on why Cazador is most obsessed with Astarion is not only looks, but because I wonder if he also sees himself in Astarion- Cazador rebelled and pulled against Vellioth, so maybe he punished Astarion as Vellioth punished him for being bad.

Astarion will note that Cazador can’t be original for once and stole his own rules from Vellioth.

I think it's really interesting to see this side of the story, because when you ascend Astarion it feels like he kind of becomes the next Cazador, and this shows that Cazador was also in the same vicious cycle of abuse. Not that anything Cazador did was ever acceptable, but it's an interesting angle.

You do have choices to break this cycle or continue it. If you convince Astarion to not go through with it, he will thank you for believing in him.

On letting Astarion Ascend, he will sadly continue the cycle of abuse it kind of feels, not letting you break up with him at the end of the game. He laughs and calls you stupid, and says,

“You’re mine, remember?”

It's a sad reminder- Cazador is a cruel, vicious, and unredeemable person, but was also once a person, likely with some sort of light in his eyes… only to be shut down by abuse from his master, which makes his character so interesting.

Astarions Victims

From the four older captives that Astarion has brought, there is Sebastian, Wensleydale, Hapdim, and Gondlemead. Only Sebastion can speak. For…. research purposes, they do not react to being attacked.

For the children, it seems Cazador specifically ordered Astarion to capture them. This can only be assumed because they are the children of the Gur. When you kill Cazador, before leaving, you'll be confronted by Ulma, a leader of the Gur tribe. They are upset that Astarion stole their children, but seeked Astarion out when they find out he fled and somehow betrayed Cazador in hopes they could recruit Astartion.

There also does seem to be a back entrance to the dungeon from the sewer. Who knows how often that was used since there is a scene with a girl who was meeting up with a ‘silver-haired’ man who told her there was going to be a party when you reach Act 3.

Why didn't Astarion bite Cazador?

I wish I had a good theory for this, but I really don't. So, the only thing I have that could be something is Astarion mentions:

"In theory, the next step is to drink their blood. Once you've done that, you're free and a true vampire."

But he follows up by saying that it doesn't happen because vampires are the true natural enemies of another vampire. I read something someone said that maybe the vampire has to be willing to let the spawn bite him, but that doesn't make sense since Cazador didn't seem all that willing to be stabbed to death. If the tadpole can protect him from Cazador's grip, it should be able to allow him to bypass that stipulation.

So, at the end of the day, I think we can assume this is some plot hole. Either that or Astarion is thinking about it the next day after he rejected ascension and realizes, 'Wait fuck!'

My questions about Cazador…

I would love to know more about his Palace and why it was built/bought in such a weird spot?

How long Cazador has been a vampire?

Do the citizens of Baldur City know Cazador is a vampire lord? Or is it, if you know you know?

How long ago was the Szarr family massacred, and how many really survived? What was his family like?

How did Cazador meet Vellioth?

What is his fucking problem with Astarion?

What is his title? Is he referred to as 'my lord'?

Is he seen as a Patron to his spawn by the public?

What was the most surprising fact you learned?

#BG3 #Astarion #Cazador #Cazador Szarr #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #Baldurs Gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #i made this for all my vampire lovers and fanfiction writers #<3 #i hate that my friends now call me cazador girl #my bg3 posts

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opencommunion · 4 months

Text

The producer, artistic director, and an educator at The Freedom Theatre in Jenin were kidnapped alongside over 100 other Palestinians today (13 Dec 23). The Freedom Theatre is a hub of cultural resistance and artistic community in the occupied West Bank.

Join me in calling on theatre institutions to demand the immediate release of these kidnapped artists. Here's the email I'm sending; feel free to copy but please adjust the phrasing to avoid spam filters: "Today in Jenin refugee camp, The Freedom Theatre's artistic director Ahmed Tobasi, producer Mustafa Sheta, and acting teacher Jamal Abu Joas were taken hostage by the Israeli army alongside over one hundred other Palestinian civilians. This follows the murder of three Freedom Theatre artists in the last few weeks: Yamen Jarrar (17), Jehad Naghniyeh (26), and Mohammed Matahen (30). The global theatre community must stand up in support of artists persecuted by the occupation regime. There is extensive documentation of torture in Israeli occupation detention centers. I urge [name of organization] to issue a public statement demanding the immediate release of these hostages. Here's a recent article about The Freedom Theatre's work with traumatized children: [AJ link above]" I'm also adding a brief statement from my perspective as a theatre artist, expressing my disappointment in my local and national theatre scene for its silence. If you're a theatre artist or theatre-goer I encourage you to do the same! The international and US institutions I'm emailing: International Society for the Performing Arts - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] International Theatre Institute - [email protected], [email protected] International Amateur Theatre Association - [email protected] Theatre Without Borders - [email protected] ASSITEJ - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] International Federation for Theatre Research - [email protected] IDEA- [email protected] International Schools Theatre Association - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] Theatre for Young Audiences USA - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] American Association of Community Theatre - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] American Theatre Wing - [email protected], [email protected] American Theatre Magazine - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] American Alliance for Theatre and Education - [email protected] American Society for Theatre Research - [email protected], [email protected] Theater of War - [email protected], [email protected] Actors' Equity - [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] The Broadway League - [email protected] PEN America - [email protected], [email protected] Please also email organizations where you live, and any personal contacts in the performing arts. You can also tag organizations in the comments of The Freedom Theatre's posts on ig @.thefreedomtheatre

#palestine #id in alt text

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lazuliquetzal · 4 months

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I keep on telling people you're the only one who knows how to plot. Can you teach all of us how to plot, please? I love you.

I AM SUMMONED? PLOT BRAIN SUMMONED?

I love plotting. It's my favorite part of the writing process. Plot is "things that happen" and the best part of writing is imagining things that happen. I'm going to assume that whoever may be reading this knows how to imagine The Happenings, so I'm gonna be talking more about structure, but in like, a kinda abstract sense.

A good plot is a little bit more than a string of events. Plot is like music: there's variation in rhythm and sound and melody, but ultimately there's cohesion, because it's all one song. You can have a bunch of wild things happening, but no matter how strange, there should be something that links them all together, because you're telling one story.

Plot structures are patterns in stories. I'm pretty sure most of them were developed as analysis tools (as in, story already exists > look! it follows this pattern) rather than as writing tools, but people use them as writing tools because it's a neat little way to organize the chaos that is "shit happens." Stories follow patterns for the same reasons music follows patterns: we enjoy the certainty of hitting certain beats. But we also like being surprised. A good pop song doesn't sound like a random collection of sounds, but it also doesn't sound like the middle slider of other songs.

There is this shared concept in both music and writing: the idea of tension and release. Basically, you're playing with reader expectation: there's an imbalance in the experience (tension), and we want to see that imbalance resolved (release). All the common plot structures deal with this basic pattern:

You set an expectation

There are complications to the expectation

You meet the expectation

And this rhythm is happening on multiple levels in writing. Scenes follow this structure (we're gonna get past that door, we're gonna find the murder weapon, we're gonna collaborate and come up with a plan) and all those scenes feed into the overarching expectation (we're gonna solve this murder!). I usually think of chapters as their own mini-story, part of the larger whole. And I think of scenes as their own mini-story, part of the larger chapter. I have engineer brain. I see the gears spinning in the clock. That's why all my chapters have at least One Important Thing happening, because that's that particular chapter's Step #3.

And One Last Important Thing:

In music, a delayed resolution is almost always more interesting than the standard resolution. In writing, that means you wanna drag out Step #2 for as long as you can. That's where the bulk of the story is happening, that's how you build tension, that's how you get people to turn the page.

So when you write a fake dating fic, those bitches better not get together until the very end. I came here for fake dating, not for real dating, damn it. If you resolve that expectation early on, you better replace it with a different expectation that's just as engaging.

But also don't drag it out for too long. Sorry. The hard part of writing is learning the difference between too short and too long. Writing is unfortunately a nuanced skill which is why my advice is like "do this but not too much teehee." But tension and resolution is just rhythm, you can build a sense for it if you engage with enough stories.

#asks #yellowocaballero #writing #writing advice #THANKS FOR ASKING ME THIS MEG I LOVE PLOT I WILL TALK ABOUT HER ALL DAY AND I LOVE YOU TOO #i haven't read a fake dating fic in a long time i just brought it up because it was the first Trope Thing that came to mind #i didn't go into different plot structures because i was trying to boil them all down into the very basic building block of question-answer #but if anyone's curious i usually favor a circular plot structure #the ending reflects the beginning. the song loops: the same beats but with new perspective. cycles.#and by that i mean 'story starts with dink being mean to time' and 'story ends with dink being mean to time (but now it's affectionate)#lazuli talks

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chronically-ghosted · 5 months

Text

there ain't enough room in this Pontiac for the two of us

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

summary: 1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms. 4. No murdering your annoying DEA partner. (A Javier Peña-shaped rift on this iconic fic)

tags/warnings: smut, dubcon/noncon elements, hand jobs (f receiving), no use y/n, javi being sexually frustrating as hell, time period compliant sexism (not from Javi)

a/n: please go read the original fic. Her’s is far superior to mine and this is but a shameful hollow echo.

🤍 AO3 Link

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🤍Masterlist

Bogota

11:23PM

Back before you willingly and eagerly joined the special task force between several unruly government organizations created with sole and express purpose to hunt down and catch the cartel king Pablo Escobar – before you applied to the DEA on the highest recommendation of your law professor, your criminal psychology professor, and the dean of admission, all whom believed your talents, (despite the unfortunate accident that you were a woman) would have a deep and profound impact on catching those responsible for the deaths of thousands worldwide – hell, even before you applied to Stanford and you spent your free time oscillating between color guard, JROTC, and retaking your practice SATs and ACTs until you got nearly a perfect score so that the realization that you didn’t have one single friend in the world to distract you from your single-minded almost obsessive focus to prove yourself, despite all your faults –

Before all of that –

If someone had discreetly taken you by the arm, gently sat you down, and told you what a perfect and deluded idiot you would make of yourself on a seven hour stake out on a dark, rainy night in the capital of Colombia, well, you probably would have laughed them out the door.

You aren’t one really predisposed to bouts of uncontrollable, side-splitting, “I’m laughing so hard I’m afraid to take a breath out of fear of the noise that’s going to come out of my nose” laughter, but if someone allowed you to take a good, long, healthy look at one of your more unhealthy habits – that, of course, being your almost toxic levels of competitive behavior – you might have been prone to at least one giggle.

The thing was, you really didn’t lose. Ever. You didn’t back then and you don’t now and your tenacious, unbreakable will made you not only a formidable and dogged DEA agent, but it also (and perhaps more importantly) made you a social, professional, and absolutely mental equal to men like Javier fucking Peña.

Javier Peña, whom women would literally melt into a puddle around, whom men would clamor over themselves just to get a drink with. He’s just so fucking cool, you overheard one of the office interns mutter to another, just look at him. That was also the day you spilled coffee down your entire blouse because you squeezed your styrofoam coffee cup too hard, but that was an entirely unrelated matter.

Whatever sway Peña seemed to inflict over the panties of every woman in the building, you resolutely stayed immune. When you first joined, it had been easy to avoid him. So much so, you were completely flummoxed when the man with the name you’d heard whispered in the hallways, finally made his way over to your side of the building for a meeting with your boss. He walked in with a badly-fitted suit, bags under his eyes, the reeking stench of day-old cigarettes, but by the reactions of the phone girls, you’d thought Elvis himself had just emerged from his coffin and began performing “Hound Dog” topless in bedazzled pants.

This? This is “The Guy”? The guy that women on your floor would spend their entire lunch breaks in the bathroom comparing stories over – “yes, Kathy, I heard his dick really is that huge!” “Yes, Shannon swears he made come for hours just with his tongue!”

Him?

Really?

Was it just slim pickings between married men and wheezing senators?

Never meet your heroes, I guess.

That was back in the late 80s. Back before the bombings and the kidnappings and the mutilated bodies of journalists.

Things had changed. Significantly.

Once things had gotten – let’s just say, dire – the agency started moving around teams, prioritizing certain missions over others. Which meant not only were you taken off a case you had just spent the better part of a year and a half building, but you were reassigned to a new team. Co-led by the one and only Javier. Fucking. Peña.

Now, Javier didn’t like the rain, especially not after a seven hour stake out. You knew this because every time it rained, he stormed into the pen, snorting like an enraged bull, his hair wet and his shoulders damp. Why the man couldn’t just simply go out and pick up an umbrella, you didn’t feel the need to ask. But it set your teeth on edge that a grown adult would be so annoyed by something that had such a simple solution. More than once you thought about hurling your own umbrella like a javelin at him, but your fighting matches had become legendary around the office and you refused to be provoked again by Javier’s own arrogance.

But that’s what started all of this, right?

You, with your white-hot competitive streak, and him, with his over-inflated ego, clashed again and again – until finally about the one thing both brought you a sense of pride: your sex lives.

Annoyingly, this was proving more difficult than you anticipated.

Thumbing the rim of your third lukewarm coffee of the night, you sigh, long and loud, not entirely regretful of the choices that led you here, but simply rather irked that someone had come along and finally proved to be a real challenge.

“Shut it.”

“Excuse me?”

Javier, who had been sitting next to you for the better part of the past seven hours, his long legs tucked up around the bulky wheel of the black Pontiac Firefly the agency had rented for this mission, continues to scowl through the dark and the rain at the spot where you had tracked one of Pablo’s higher ranking enforcers. A gambling den on the first floor, and a brothel in the basement, most men you tailed here spent only a few hours betting and fucking, before wandering back home, probably a little drunk and significantly less horny. But this guy – fuck – did he have the stamina of an Olympic athlete?

What had begun as a quick follow up to some intel your team received earlier in the week had turned into one of the longest and most unbearable nights of your life.

“I said, shut it.”

Your mouth drops open. “I am literally just breathing, Javier.”

“Yeah and you’re doing it too loud.” He takes a sip from the coffee between his legs then resumes his hunched, crossed arm position. “It’s annoying.”

Huffing, you sink lower in your seat, as much as the surveillance equipment and evidence boxes around your legs would allow.

“This is so stupid,” you grumble.

“This is basic DEA work, sweetheart. If you can’t cut it, I’m sure I can find someone – literally anyone – else to take your spot. Sarah’s always been eager to spend some extra time alone with me. Or what about Mac? You two get along right? Who am I kidding? You get along with e-e-everyone–,”

It is infuriating he knows exactly where to poke and prod to supercharge your competitiveness as well as your jealousy.

“I’m not talking about the sting, Javier! I’m talking about your need to always be in control. I’m talking about how, just because you can’t get your fucking rocks off, you’ve been sniping at everyone in the building.” You scowl and lean as far away from him as you can in the cramped hatchback. “Making everyone’s lives hell because you haven’t gotten your dick wet in a month.”

“Oh, sure, I’m the only one being a fucking nuisance in the office,” he sneers, scratching at his forehead with his thumbnail. “After your little meltdown at the copier machine, I think Mark from accounting would rather fist-fight God than have to ask you for a stapler again.”

You snatch up the used napkins in the cupholder between you and shred it to pieces. You chuck the little bits at him as you snap back,

“The. Stapler. Was. Right. There! He. Was. Being. Stupid!”

“Stop it! You’re going to get it in my coffee!”

With a snarl, you hurl the mangled rest of the napkin at him and he swats it out of the air. It rolls over the dashboard, fluttering in the AC that was doing absolutely nothing to combat the sticky humidity.

He did this to you. He always did this to you. Made you feel like a silly child, an overly emotional brat, for pointing out things he did time and time again. Why was he allowed to get away with it and you weren’t?

In the temporary silence, the rain patters loudly on the roof of the car. Headlights emerge from the gloom and disappear as the few unlucky caught out in this deluge run from awning to awning with magazines, newspapers, or umbrellas tucked over their heads. It had been raining for hours and it seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

You aren’t sure which irritates you more: the humidity or the stickiness gathering on the crotch of your panties.

It had been there for days, constant, a reminder, no matter how often you changed them out for some temporary escape. Your thighs tightened as close as they could, but a large storage box split your legs apart.

“You know,” Javier begins softly, almost contrite, gentle in a way you’d never heard before. He's pinching the edge of his coffee cup with his fingers, resolutely not looking at you. “If this bothers you so much, you can just quit. Call it off. No hard feelings.”

You snort. He really is the most ridiculous man alive.

“Yeah? You’d get the satisfaction of finally coming, after being hard for at least – what, a month, month and a half? – and half my next paycheck? I don’t think so.” You adjust in your seat, your left hip starting to ache from the position you’ve been maintaining for seven hours. “Well, the money’s one thing. But I think I’d rather be physically shot than have to listen to you parade around the office, gleefully spilling secrets about me as your latest conquest, bragging to all your little buddies around the water cooler how you finally bested that bitch in the bullpen. At that point, I’d rather we just actually fuck. At least that way I can finally understand what the fuck has the secretaries all in a goddamn hissy fit over.”

After nearly a third of the day spent next to you, he finally tears his gaze away from the target and looks at you. His dark eyebrows drawn down, plush lips frowning, he’s unnervingly serious. You wonder if you actually managed to make him genuinely angry.

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t brag about you to anyone, even if you lost. And I especially would never if you let me fuck you.” Let me? Now that’s a turn of phrase you definitely won’t spend hours thinking about. His frown deepens as he glances down to his coffee cup. “People – women – like to talk, but I never say anything, to anyone. I don’t encourage it, but it feels like I’m the one being checked off a list. Like I’m a space on a fucking bingo card. It’s rude.”

Gobsmacked into silence, you watch as he cranks down the window for just enough space to chuck his (and yours) empty coffee cups out onto the wet road beside the car. You let him tug it out of from between your legs without a single line of snark.

Your brain finally comes back online when the window squeaks back into place.

Hang on a second – did you really just feel bad for the office casanova? That little shit manipulated you into actually feeling sorry for the dozens of women he willingly brings home then turns out like used toilet paper. You can feel that decades old hate and disgust crack open and boil in your stomach.

“Well, hey, Javi, here’s an idea. Just stop fucking the women you work with. If it bothers you so much, then stop fucking women entirely!”

“I did! I have done that and I am!” He gestures wildly with his hands, palms out as if in supplication. “Everyone in the office – including Noonan, I’m pretty sure – knows about this stupid fucking bet and for once, it’s been great to have an excuse to not have to hold up my expectation of being a great lay!”

You will not allow yourself the time to fully process the idea that not only is Javier Peña grateful to not have to fuck a skirt, but it’s you he’s doing it for, so you snarl back, as you always do.

“Then what? What’s got you so fucking wound up, if your poor dick needs a break from getting sucked?”

With a groan that starts somewhere in his lower ribcage, he falls forward into the steering wheel, his forehead on the rim.

“I’m not saying that, alright? It’s actually been nice to have my bed to myself for a bit. But Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.”

Don’t.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the way he says it. Like it’s holy.

The warmth of the humidity in the car ratchets up as your heart starts to race, your palms sweat. You wonder vaguely if there’s condensation on the inside of the windows. He shouldn’t be allowed to get you so wet by just saying the word. You swallow, clawing back that familiar anger until you feel in control again.

“So then go get it.” You wave your hand around the dark streets of Bogota. “Just go out there and end this thing once and for all. God knows I’m sick and tired of having to listen to you roll around, grunting and huffing, with a hard-on so big I can almost hear it.”

“What are you so mad at me for?” He snaps up, a much more palatable rage in his eyes. “All of this – the bet, the rules, the fact that you actually included wet dreams – you decided on!”

“You’re the one who demanded you move into my apartment for the entire duration of this hell! You’re the one who went out and bought two twin beds like a fucking maniac and made me take out my bed to put in your little torture devices to make sure neither of us cheated off the clock!”

“And you agreed to it! I’m not the only insane one here! Sometimes I think you do it on purpose – kicking and fighting with the sheets, moaning in your sleep, rubbing yourself up on the mattress. Twice now I’m pretty sure I’ve gone blind in one eye, listening to all that and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it.”

You scoff, but now slightly uneasy. You’ve been moaning in your sleep? Fuck. Taking down your overbearing and egotistical coworker a few pegs was one thing. Becoming roommates with him was something else entirely. About two weeks in, he had come out of the bedroom without his shirt on – he’s been doing that more and more lately – and you had to sit in the bathroom with your hands clamped around the toilet seat for ten minutes straight to keep from finger-fucking yourself on the living room coffee table.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t want to install cameras in the shower just to make sure I’m not jacking off in secret. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there, Javi. You touch yourself once and I win, Javi. Stop looking at my ass when I’m wearing less clothes than a Victoria Secret model, Javi.”

“It’s summer in Bogota, you jackass,” you snipe, particularly ruffled by his high-pitched affectation of you. It stings more than it should because it sounds exactly like the shrill harpy all your male coworkers make you out to be. “What do you want me to wear?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, something terrifying like a smirk crawling across his perfect mouth and you feel the safety of annoyance crumble out from under you. He really is so fucking pretty.

“A puffy snowsuit would be lovely, actually. Arms, legs, all wrapped up. Cover your gorgeous hair in a hat too, if we’re at it. But if I knew you’d wear what I bought you, all you had to do was say so. Women always say I have excellent taste.”

You sigh, again, irritated and desperate to relieve that fist of tension in your shoulders, that gently knotting warmth between your legs. You wonder how much rubbing your crotch with the seam of your jeans you could get away with before he’d say something.

No, fuck, shit – focus. You’ve got to get a grip. This is just like those long night study sessions at the academy. All you had to do was buckle down and get serious about this. Sleep deprivation and curtailing your basic instincts didn’t scare you. You had been outlasting men like Javier your entire life and you weren’t about to get weak-kneed now.

And then something occurs to you that you hadn’t really considered before.

You had been so caught up in your own denial, in fighting your own need to hump your pillow even for a bit of relief – you hadn’t stopped to think what this might be doing to him.

Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.

Here's a crack in his resolve and you had seen it. Just for a minute. But it's there. You didn’t have to win so much as to make him lose.

Javier Peña. Nowhere to go and having nothing to fuck made him a very dangerous man. One you could easily exploit. However, and as much as it physically pained you to admit, Javier was smart. Blind-sided by his own horniness, or not, if he caught wind of you purposefully stacking the odds against him, there was no telling what he’d do in retaliation.

For a moment, your sex-deprived brain lounges in the idea of the many forms his retaliation might take.

No – Focus. You lick your lips, wrenching your gaze to the ceiling of the car. You had to be very careful about this.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Go at it from the side. Around back while his attention is focused elsewhere. This was fucking guerilla warfare tactics. Placate him with submission. “I didn’t realize my outfits were bothering you. It’s just . . . it’s been so hot lately. I feel like I wake up, drenched wet in sweat, and it’s just too much still. And then, with this bet, sometimes I wake up and between my legs, I’m so –,”

A fist slams against the inside of the window so hard and so loud it makes you jump. His shoulders hunched, the fist in his lap tight and white-knuckled, he doesn’t even fully open his mouth when he snarls, “Do not . . . under any circumstances . . . finish that fucking sentence.”

He’s breathing heavily, breath skipping between his ribs, and you know you’ve got your opening. Your bottom lip drawn in between your teeth, you’re as much transfixed by his control visibly slipping as you are secretly, darkly thrilled to hear him make those noises. He breathes for a few more times, eyes closed. The sound of rain makes another appearance.

His hands come up to wrap around the steering wheel, as if he were picturing something else flexing beneath his palms.

“I know what you’re doing, or what you think you’re doing. But it’s not going to work. It’s just going to make me mad and I am not above hauling you over my lap and spanking you for being such a tease.”

You aren’t sure what shorts out your brain first: the fact he caught on so quickly, or the mental image he’s painting – and how much you fucking love it. God, when did it get so hot in here? You can feel sweat pooling along the ridge of your spine, under the cups of your bra. As though reading your mind, he shucks off his notorious brown jacket and hurls it into the back seat. Your toes curl in your boots. He’s wearing that white linen shirt that expertly shows off the cut of his biceps, his forearms and is more appropriate for a beach trip in Hawaii than the mean streets of Bogota. In his movement, his infamous sunglasses clatter against his stomach – if he just buttoned his collar all the way up like any man with an ounce of decency, they wouldn’t get in the way as much. You want to tell him that, correct him yet again, but now you can see the sweat shine in his clavicle, skin slightly pink and feverish over the hollow of his throat. You had no idea you affected him this much.

“You’re right. This is ridiculous.” He huffs, tossing back his glasses too before flopping back against the seat. “This can’t be healthy, at least. Edging ourselves for weeks at a time. I keep seeing tits in the clouds.”

“So then end it already.” You don’t mean to sound breathless – it’s the opposite of what you want – but your heart rate still hasn’t settled over the idea of Javier spanking you till your ass is red. He’s so much bigger than you, broader. He’d do it rough, if you asked, you know he would. You really hate to sound like you’re begging, but maybe you are. His eyes snap open wide at your near whimper. “Javi, please. We’re not going anywhere. He’s been in there for hours and he’s not coming out any time soon. Just unbutton your pants – I can just watch you – drop your hand in your underwear and –,”

A hand that can cup you nearly from ear to ear flies across the console and claps over your mouth. Something’s changed about him. You can see it in his eyes. At this point in your partnership, you had become fairly good at identifying his emotions, given there were only a handful he ever cycled through: tired, irritated, bored, furious, frustrated, disappointed. But this . . . this is different. His shoulders still face forward, arm reached out over the console, but his thick eyebrows arch down, as if he’s considering something. His head is cocked slightly to the side. You have to stop yourself from breathing in a sigh when his tongue wets his bottom lip.

“I’ll willingly lose this godforsaken bet on one condition,” he rasps out. His hand is warm, all consuming, you can barely breathe under it. You train your entire focus into the way his hair flops over his forehead to keep from whining at what his deep voice does to your lower half. Your muscles clench and your neglected pussy drools. Fuckin’ traitor. “And the condition is, that after this is done, after this fucking doomed stakeout is finally over, I drive us home and you let me rail you against our couch. How does that sound?”

You squeak, once. That’s it, but you can already feel that tell-tale hum, that warmth that almost itches, taking root below your stomach. His eyebrows arch in surprise, in victory, that smirk threatening to make an appearance. Your nails dig into the pleather seat – you want to thrash back, to get out from under the weight of his hand, to snark back a litany of responses that are not only mean but belittling – but you don’t.

You know he can feel you swallow and his eyelids hover halfway as he licks his bottom lip. He shifts, elbow now pressing against the back of the seat, his weight leaning forward, almost pressing down on you. His other hand is dangerously close to your knee.

“I’d make it good. I’d make it so fucking good, I swear. I’ll get down on my hands and knees and eat that wet little pussy for as long as you want. Lick and suck that attitude right out of your cunt.”

The car is too small, too cramped. Heat is washing over you in waves and the ache between your thighs is burning. With him this close, you can smell his cologne, the cologne that you rib him endlessly for because you’ve watched women inhale it like a pheromone as he passes down the hall. The scent now floods your senses, choking out everything that isn’t him, and your fingers dig up around his wrist, to pry him off you. You can feel sweat trickle down your temple onto his pinkie over your cheek. He watches it with his eyes, hungry and ready to devour. You have to wrestle back some semblance of control, or else your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

With all the strength left over from keeping yourself from bucking your hips up into the center console, you shove him back across the car.

“You fucking . . . stay over there,” you croak, gulping down air as if you had been deprived. He sprawls back, arms outstretched across the window ledge and the back of his seat. “Don’t ever fucking t-touch me again. Those things y-you said. I should report you–,”

“Why?” he chuckles. “You liked it. Thought you were going to eat me there for a minute . . . and I would’ve let you.”

It’s remarkably easy how your white-knuckled, lightning-sparked anticipation for him to do exactly what he said he’d do quickly morphs into a near-blinding rage. He doesn’t get it – he still doesn’t get it – he thinks this all a fucking game, when every minute of every day, your entire self-worth was put on the line.

But this is how you danced with him – right up to the edge, barking, screaming, yelling, then when it got real, or even almost real, you backed down. And he knew it.

“You really deserve someone who knows what they’re doing,” he continues. He folds his arms across his chest, grinning wildly. “Maybe that would teach you to be nice. Is that why you’re so nasty all the time? Someone who cares about you to properly stuff up that sweet little pussy in the way you need it?”

You feel fire crackle up and down your spine, plunging low to lick your insides every time he muses about the state of your cunt, then sky-rocketing back into this rage you’ve built out like walls.

It’s your turn to twist in the seat, to push against the windows as if you could expand and break out from this twisted scrap of metal that kept you chained to him.

“This is not about sex, Javier.” Your teeth ache from grounding out the words. “This is about proving to every single man out there that I deserve to be here. That I’m not just some cock-struck idiot who falls to her knees just because you snap your fingers. I don’t care what you think I need or what you want to do to me. I don’t care because until I come out of this bet the winner, all they’ll ever see is a pair of tits who negs them to do their fucking jobs.”

That wipes the smirk instantly off his face.

His eyes go soft and that might be worse than when he threatened your cunt.

“You think I don’t respect you.” It wasn’t a question but a surprised, almost hurt, statement. He sits up as best he can while still facing you. You were both irate and appreciative that you didn’t have to put it all into words. Words that would make you, again, feel like an overly emotional wimp. Someone with feelings. “You think I’m doing this – that I’m still doing this – because I want to humiliate you.”

You wait in silence for the pricking in your throat to subside before continuing on. “Is that not why? To bend that bitch as far as she’ll go before she breaks so everyone can see how much of a child she really is?”

His nostrils flare. “That’s the second time you’ve called yourself that tonight and I won’t stand for a third. Do you understand?”

His protectiveness flares so fast you aren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you nod.

“Good.”

Javier turns back around, his knees spread outright around the edge of the steering wheel, and picks the packet of cigarettes from underneath the radio. He wheels down the window again, rain spitting inside the inner ledge, and he lights up for the first time all night. His breath is shaky as he exhales through the crack he made. You can’t stop staring at the shine against his throat. What was rain and what was sweat? The golden lights from the store fronts and shops make the curls around his neck glow.

“I’m sorry that by fighting with you, I made you feel inferior. If you can believe it, I actually respect the living shit out of you and I . . .” He taps out ash before dropping his gaze to his lap. “That was never my intention, but Christ alive, you drive me crazy.”

If anyone ever asked, with a gun to your head, what was the one thing that immediately turned you on, you would without question answer with: Javier’s voice. How deep it got when he barked orders. How stern and serious it was when he directed raids and stationed soldiers. How playful it could be when you stopped trying to claw his eyes out.

He inhales slowly, thoughtfully, before blowing out again, fully turning his shoulders away from you as if something he is ashamed to admit is crawling up his chest into his mouth. He presses back against the seat, his unoccupied fingers tapping on his thigh.

“I think you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever met,” he confesses quietly. “Which should be the only opinion that matters, actually. I don’t say that to be egotistical – this bet isn’t about them. It’s between you and me, so fuck them. They’re all idiots and you know that. They know you know that and that’s why they want to take you down. Some men can’t stand it when a woman is smarter than them.”

Your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth. There is a heady mixture of pride, relief, and lust swirling lower and lower. He thought you were one of the best agents he’s ever met. Your lower half tightens at the praise, especially coming from him. “And you? What do you think?”

Javier grins. He flicks the butt end of the cigarette out the window and rolls it all the way up as he says,

“It’s a fucking turn on, is what I think.” His hips adjust towards you, that obnoxious belt buckle gleaming in the low light. Do not look at his crotch. He presses the backs of his two fingers against his mouth as he watches you. “But I’m not going to let you win this bet because you flutter your pretty eyes at me.”

He knocks his temple against the headrest, gaze shamelessly sweeping up your thighs, your wrists – of course, your tits – your neck and then your lips. You had caught glimpses of this look from him before – when you were reporting to a room full of slobbering men with precision and direction, or when you kneed a suspect into the ground, pinning him down and cuffing him with the other hand or that one time you joined the game of volleyball at the agency picnic in nothing but a sports bra and swim trunks. But now, that unique Javi look that seemed reserved only for you, it barrels down on you in full force – not another agent or superior around the corner to drag his attention away. Without restraint, he let those dirty, nasty little thoughts spring into his mind and you can almost hear the moans you're making in his head.

The desire that had been reduced to a simmer suddenly flares up in a fever pitch. Between your legs, your cunt aches at the mere hint of attention.

“Javier, don’t,” you warn. You try to back away, try to cut the argument in half like you do in the office by storming away down a hallway or into the bathroom or your car. But you can’t. You’re pinned by proximity under the weight of his stare. You’re not even fighting with him and he’s making you angry.

Angry? God, leave it to fucking Javier Peña to prove to you that the line between rage and being outrageously turned on was a razor-thin edge.

“I’m not even doing anything, baby,” he croons. He rounds his shoulders as if trying to lean forward, cover himself with his body. If you couldn’t see the whites of his knuckles around his clasped hands, you would have feared you would have been making this all up. “I’m not touching you, just like you asked.”

“Thank you, Javi,” you squeak out. “Now, please let's just get back to–,”

“I could, though, if you change your mind.” His eyes follow a very predictable path up the curve of your throat. “I could touch you. Are you going to change your mind?”

Even now, on the knife edge, even when he has been extraordinarily honest with you, you can’t make yourself say it. Can’t ask for it.

“It’s against the rules.” Because she's a traitor to you, your cunt leaks when you meet his jet black gaze. You feel the sweat on your neck return so fast you shiver. “I will kick you if you come over here again.”

“You’re so mean to me but, fuck, I love it so much.” He smirks. With mounting horror, you watch as he lifts his hand, the same one that flew over your mouth, up to the lip of the center console. “Here I am pouring my goddamn heart out, and you want to resort to violence.”

Not so much cautious, but more with the slow, syrupy flow of direct and deliberate intention, he brushes the backs of his fingers against your thigh. You jolt back, a muffed gasp caught between your teeth, but you don’t move to snatch his hand away.

He watches your face for any hint of resistance. When he doesn’t find any, he continues, casually flowing the pads of his fingers from the top of your knee, all the way up to your hip.

“Do you wanna know what I think, baby?” He purrs. “I think, somewhere along the way, someone came along and really fucked you up. Hurt you beyond comprehension.” His touch is more insistent now, more of his fingers, his palm occasionally. His thumbs sweeps your inner thigh and your cunt clenches down onto nothing and your teeth ache in your head.

“Javier–,”

His eyes flutter for a minute at the sound of his name tearing through your mouth. “Fuck, you’re getting me distracted . . . what was I saying? Oh, yeah . . . I think someone fucked you up and like the fucking warrior you are, you built up safeguards to never let that happen again.” His eyebrow arches lazily as he palms your waist. By the sheer grace of God, you had tucked your shirt into your pants today, never wanting to give the men in the bullpen the satisfaction of an accidental flash of skin. But Javier just tuts at the intrusion. His knuckles digging into your skin, he pinches out the edge of your shirt, bit by bit. “Problem is, you kept building until you locked yourself in and now you don’t know how to get out. You don’t know how to ask nicely at all.”

His broad palm slides uninterrupted under your shirt, smoothing the rough pads of his fingers across your stomach, and then up to the underwire of your bra. That’s enough to jerk you out of this dizzying haze.

“Javi, you can’t–,” you squeeze your eyes shut, as tight as your cunt, as he threatens to brush his thumb over your teased nipple. “I–I don’t wanna – I don’t wanna lose –,”

“Fuck the bet, sweetheart. You can tell them I lost for all I care. Right now, I just wanna feel you gush between my fingers.”

He doesn’t even need to touch your tit to yank that first moan out of you, but the breeze of his thumb only elongates the noise. Your own hand claps over your mouth this time, to muffle half of that stifled sound.

“None of that now,” he purrs, switching the direction of his hand and going lower on your body. “It’s fine when we’re in public, but here, I want you hoarse from screaming my name as loud as you can.”

“Javi, please–,”

His hips twitch. Twitch so hard they jerk off the seat, the side of his crotch rubbing the steering wheel. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Juuust like that, baby. Keep saying my name just like that.”

His fingers don’t slow down as they breach the waistband of your pants. He didn’t even unzip you so his entire warm hand is shoved right up against your coarse, damp hairs.

“Fuck, is this sweat, baby, or is it from me? Please fucking lie if it's not and tell me it’s for me.”

The pad of his middle finger skims the top of your lips, terrifyingly close to your clit and you finally react. Your clit throbbing, your fingers clamp down on his wrist and he freezes. But he’s panting, breathing harshly across the seat.

“Don’t ask me to stop. Not right now. Please don’t –,”

Your hips buck into his palm and your head drops back against the window. You end up pressing him harder against you and you moan.

“It’s you, Javier, I’m dripping for you.”

“Shit,” he snarls and rubs himself against the steering wheel again, anything to relieve the pressure. His fingers slide around the edges of your puffy, swollen lips, skitters across your pulsating clit, and you nearly orgasm from the direct touch. You jerk back, the denial of your orgasm almost painful, but because your waistband binds him to you, his fingers come with you and you bump into them again. You almost cry out at the intrusion, but his hand is still.

“Can I touch you– c-can I put them inside you, baby – please?”

Tight-lipped, you shake your head furiously, muffling nuh uh between your teeth. He hisses darkly.

“This can’t possibly still be about this stupid fucking bet –,”

“I don’t – w-w-wanna lose – I-I-I don’t wanna lose –,” you swallow, voice breaking, and you yank his hand out from your soaking underwear. You can’t bear to look at his fingertips, assuming from the ocean between your thighs, they’ll come out pruny. But the ache doesn’t go away. It lingers, waiting and lurking for the next touch. It’s been denied too many times tonight. Your head spinning, you gasp for breath for the split second he’ll allow.

“You know, for such a smart woman, you really don’t get what’s best for you.” His other hand finally comes around and grabs your knee, pinning you apart with his broad hand and his other elbow as his fingers dive for the buttons of your pants. You try to shut your legs, but the box at your feet is immovable. “Just fucking relax and let me take you apart.”

“W-w-wait, Javier, that’s not–,”

His gaze pinning you down as much as his weight is, his fingers deftly unzipping your pants, sliding through the opening, and pressing up against your sodden panties. You gasp. It’s relief, painful, throbbing relief, but it comes at the cost of fire licking your spine.

“But that’s not what you need, is it, pretty baby? That’s only part of it. Touching is one thing, but you need someone inside of you, don't you? Need someone to fuck up into that pretty cunt.” Your pussy swollen, you fight to breathe as much as it to fight off your impending orgasm. “Just say thank you, Javi when we’re done, alright?”

Unrelenting and deaf to your cries, his fingers strip back your underwear and finally, finally, finally, he sinks two fingers into your hot, pulsating core. His shoulders shudder as you arch back, letting out a wail. Your thighs quake around the box in front of you.

“‘Is so good. So warm.” He slurs. His hand releases your knee and slides up your hip to palm as much of your ass as he can reach. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He inhales like he wants to haul you over the console into his lap, but that you resolutely cannot allow, because there would be no coming back from that. You can still see the other side of your orgasm, enough to stifle it back down, sequester it. He strokes your inner muscles, in and out, the wet sound obscene – you must be gushing – and he hums. “Listen to that, sweetheart. God, the things I could do with that. Put you over my fucking shoulder, for one.”

Your release is roaring at you, the razor-edge of pain and pleasure digging into the meat of your pussy, as you fight again to deny what you actually really want. You plant your heels, rolling your hips against his fingers because if you were going to fucking lose, you were going to be the one to make you do it. Not him.

And then unprompted, he retreats his fingers and all but shoves them into his mouth. His hips buck up again and he’s not breathing properly. You shudder at the loss of contact but at least the edges of your vision return. God, you’re not sure how much more you can take. But there is some respite, even for a moment. Javi seems to have momentarily forgotten how close he had come to winning.

Saliva and your thready cum dripping from between his lip, Javier sucks on his fingers as if someone were threatening to cut off his hand. His hips bump lazily, distractedly, against the steering wheel as his other hand white-knuckles his knee. He licks his wrist up to the meaty side of his palm, never one to waste excess.

“Fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. The sight has you flushing again. “I’m gonna eat that cunt whole if it’s the last thing I do. Gonna put you in my lap and bounce you on my cock until you beg me to let you –,”

“Come.” You command, sanity finally snapping as you use the same voice to scold rowdy students at the academy or talkative agents in a presentation. It’s forceful, direct, and you are hoping that it throws him off enough to do exactly that. Come, so you win fair and square. Because that means you can finally come too.

It works.

Or it nearly does.

Javier’s spine goes rigid, hips still, his soaked fingertips hovering inches from his wet lips. His eyes snap open and oh, shit, you’ve done it now, you’ve really done it now. His once blissed out face contorts into that scowl of primal determination that only comes down for raids. For meetings with sketchy CIs. Moments when lives are at stake.

“What did you just say to me?” The growl is more gnarled wolf than human. You immediately back up as far as the car will allow, the front of your pants still undone.

“Javi, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry –,” By his expression, you half-expect him to throw open the door, storm around to your side, yank you to your feet and start fucking you against the car window. Your cunt is throwing a fucking riot at this point. She’s so pissed at you, she’s squeezing so tightly, you think she’ll suck the air right out of you. “I wasn’t thinking – i-i-it just slipped out –,”

He unbuttons two more of his buttons on his shirt and you think, deliriously, he’s going to take his shirt off, but no, he’s just letting more heat escape. More steam rise from his sweaty back. He seems to grow, fill out, until he takes up the entire front seat of the car.

“Please, please, don’t make me come, Javi.” You cry, shrinking back as far as you can. You might actually die from this. From him or a lack thereof. Either way, Javier Peña is going to destroy you.

“I should leave you alone, you know.” He growls. “I should just leave you there to fucking drool into your jeans, smart little cunt knotted up so tight, I could breath on you and make you come. The kind of shit you pulled tonight, you fucking deserve to suffer. But I’m not going to do that and you know why?”

Without warning, his hand snatches around your wrist, yanking you up against the center console. He’s right, you’re so fucking close, the movement rubs you wrong and you squeak again.

Slowly, with superhuman restraint, his nose delicately strokes the underside of your jaw by your ear, then down your neck, as if inhaling the goosebumps that burst out across your skin. You shudder. “J-J-Javi, p-p-please –,”

His other hand slides back up under your shirt, his fingers slotting in between your ribs, your back as arched as it can go. He feels you breath shakily and he closes his eyes. His next words are so soft, spoken so close to your cheek, you can feel the hairs there vibrate with the frequency of his voice.

“I’m not going to do that because I want you to know exactly what the fuck has the secretaries in a goddamn hissy fit over. I want you to think of me and me only every time you try to open your legs for anyone else. I want you to cry in frustration every time you can’t make yourself come with just your fingers because they’re not mine – they’re nowhere close to mine – and I want you to scream in frustration when I don’t pick up the phone. After tonight, I’m going to ruin you for everyone else.”

He pauses, as if expecting an answer, but he couldn’t possibly think you are capable of responding, of dredging actual human thought up out of the murk he held you under. His lips drag gently over the arc of your cheek as he leans into your ear. His voice rumbles and you whine, embarrassed, at the sound alone.

“Because that’s what you’ve done to me.”

No, no, that can’t possibly be right – it’s a trick. It’s a trap. It’s a lie. Javier Peña can’t actually be –

And then, in that same, slow timbre of voice, Javi says,

“I’m gonna finger-fuck you now, okay?”

Any chance of fighting back, of arguing still, is obliterated when his hand shoots back down between your thighs, surges past your underwear, and hooks his fingers up inside you again. This time it’s fast, he’s not waiting for you to gather your sense, he’s going to split you open, here in this fucking Pontiac.

The force of his thrusts make your spine turn to ooze and you drop forward onto his shoulder.

Fine. It’s fine. You’ll fucking lose. Who cares about your precious pride?

You don’t realize you’re whimpering in time with his fingers until you try to say his name. He cups the back of your head, reverently, as he spews more filth into your ear. As if the lewd noises he’s evoking from your pussy isn’t enough.

“I’m going to take care of you, you little sweet cunt. I’m going to take care of you the way no one else has. That’s right, that’s a good little pussy, squealing for me. Hmm, tell me, does she like this?”

His thumb merely brushes your clit, the lone survivor in all of this, and your hips jolt in his hand. He holds you steady against his shoulder. Your fingernails dig into his bicep.

“Oh, yeah, she does. Of course, she does. I can do that for as long as you like, alright?”

That white heat curls your body inwards, tearing your mouth open, and sending your eyes to the back of your head. “JaviJaviJaviJavi – please –,”

He tsks into your ear. “You keep saying that but you never tell me what you’re begging for.”

It’s coming. It’s staggering. It eclipses everything and it’s just out of reach. You feel it start to expand and after all this time, it’s actually a fucking relief to give yourself over. To let yourself be rent asunder by something this huge and overwhelming.

His fingers, the ones not rocketing you towards the biggest orgasm of your life, gently wind up into your hair, sweetly caressing the soft skin behind your earlobe. His voice is quiet, coaxing, kind. His lips almost kiss the ridges of your ear.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll tell you what to say. Say, Javi, I want you to make me come.”

“Javi, I–,”

There’s an explosion.

No, not like that. He’s not that good.

It’s a literal explosion in the street, with flashes of flames and heat that rattle the car. Alarms go off, your vision goes white – because of a pipe bomb stationed out underneath a car parked outside the part-time gambling den, part-time brothel. Javi’s arm flings out in front of you as the car is rocked from the impact. Flames lick the charred out husk of the front of the building. Only when your ears stop ringing, do you finally hear the screaming.

And then patter of bullets.

“Baby, get your gun and stay low!” He roars, as the windshield of the car behind you shatters, the popping of gunfire echoing the distance. He lunges back and grabs his jacket, fumbling for his gun. The panic in his voice shakes you awake and you dig into the glove box for your own handheld.

It’s a firefight for your lives, in the middle of the rain, in the middle of chaos and smoke.

It’s time to go to work.

🤍Part 2

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena fic #javier pena one shot #javier pena x ofc #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier peña x you #narcos #narcos netflix

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palipunk · 1 year

Note

hi there! you made a post about pinkwashing and Israel, recommending the organization BDS as a way to protest human rights issues going on in Israel. I just wanted to let you know that BDS is actually antisemitic, it’s in their mission statement to wipe out Judaism and Israel altogether. there’s lots of reform jews out there such as myself who are opposed to Netanyahus awful policies, and lots of different ways to show support for people who are being victimized, but BDS is not a good one of them. this isn’t on anon bc I stand by what I say and I’m open to conversation about this!

Hi so I’m just going to answer this quickly because I honestly don’t want to answer any more asks like this or for things I’ve already discussed on my account but you are misinformed, like, very misinformed, and I want to be clear to you I am speaking to you as a Palestinian and I know what I am talking about. I am assuming this ask is in good faith and you might be open to conversation or debate about this but I am not. I do not debate about Israel or Zionism and if you think that’s area for debate or conversation I’d advise you save time and block me.

You are talking about two different things. BDS is strongly opposed to Zionism and is very open about this - which is not Judaism. And many pro-Israel organizations that hate BDS have taken this to mean antisemitism, anti Zionism is not antisemitism. The conflation between anti Zionism and antisemitism hurts Palestinians the most and only seeks to silence Palestinian calls for justice, it polices the way we talk about our own experiences and history with Zionism (which has always been violent). The ADL is the second link you will find if you search more for BDS or what BDS calls for, and if you don’t already know, the ADL is one of the largest and loudest proponents of anti-Palestine rhetoric and general hatred towards Palestinians and Palestinian liberation. They also participate in genocide denial. A lot of misinformation has been spread about BDS from pro-Israel orgs (because they’re afraid of BDS actual impact) and i’ve read the entire BDS website and participated in actual events where they were present. Often times they work right beside Jewish Voice for Peace. So no, that’s complete misinformation.

I don’t understand what you mean by Netanyahu’s awful policies as if the issue is Netanyahu and just became an issue when he came to power, the State of Israel has always been violent towards Palestinians - Palestinians didn’t just start being loud about it when he got elected. My family was forcibly displaced in 1948 during the Nakba, Netanyahu was born a year later.

If BDS is calling for the dismantlement of the state of Israel, that’s actually fine by me. The state of Israel can only exist through the oppression, displacement, and mass murder of the Indigenous Palestinian population - if a state can only survive through the subjugation and murder of Indigenous people, the state has no right to exist (this also applies to the USA & Canada etc but settler states in general should all be abolished). The founders of the state of Israel made it very clear of their desire to remove every Palestinian to secure a Jewish ethnostate, that the expulsion and murder of Palestinians was an existential necessity. If you want me to say it aloud in case if wasn’t clear by my blog, I support a democratic non-sectarian Palestine ie a Palestinian state with rights for Muslims, Christians, Jews, and all other religious or ethnic minorities.

Also, please just say Palestinians. You didn’t say Palestinians once in your ask and I’m really tired of people avoiding saying Palestinian. We are not ‘people who are being victimized’ - We are Palestinians and we are Indigenous to the land of Palestine.

Hope this helped but again I am not open for debate on any of these points.

#ask #Palestine #free Palestine #bee-squared-official #bds #cw Zionism #pretty much every source about how bigoted bds is is run written or published by a pro-isr@el group #and I’ve read a lot of them

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horsemenoftheapocalypse-if · 7 months

Text

(First ever collaboration IF between the Author of King's Despair and Dragon's Edged.)

Writer's Links: Dragon's Edged & King's Despair

(Warning: 18+ The story includes the following: Violence, , self-doubt, cliché’s, child abuse, torture, trauma and many more will be added in the future.)

Kroz&Author

"Greetings, Reader!

You are about to enter a world of darkness, danger, and deception.

A world where a child has been sold to the most powerful underworld company known as the Fates. A world where you will have to make life-or-death decisions for them. This is not a typical story of an orphan or a survivor.

This is a story of a child who has to learn how to kill, lie, and manipulate in order to survive in the dark side of New York City. A city where crime never sleeps and where the Fates control everything from the shadows.

You are not just a passive observer of this story. You are an active participant. You are the voice, the intuition, the gut feeling of the child protagonist. You will have to guide them through their trials and tribulations, their choices and consequences, their victories and defeats. But be careful, Reader.

The Fates are watching your every move. They have plans for you and the child. Plans that may not end well for either of you.

Are you ready to take on this challenge, Reader? Are you ready to face the Fates? Reader I beckon you to join them on this extraordinary adventure, where danger lurks at every turn, and the stakes are unimaginably high.

Through your unwavering presence, you will empower our young hero to face their fears, outsmart their enemies, and ultimately shape their own destiny.

Prepare yourself for a thrilling and immersive experience. Brace for the adrenaline-pumping encounters, the unexpected alliances, and the heart-wrenching decisions that will test the limits of our protagonist's resilience.

The fate of our young protagonist lies in your hands. Choose wisely, for their life depends on it. Decided are we?

Then come closer, and let me tell you more about this story…"

Introduction:

You were a kid, was a kid, now your a cold-blooded killing machine.

Dispensing justice and vengeance using your guns and knives. A modern robin hood you ask? Nope your not wearing any leotard pants or cap.

You're a merciless executioner, killing anyone who crosses your way. But underneath all that bloodshed and brutality, you still have a soft spot for kids.

It all started when you were taken by a prolific assassin, who decided to make you his protege. Armed with guns and knives, he taught you how to kill, track and hunt. But there was one rule that he made you live by, "No children, we never hurt them". That code fueled your respect for the man.

Through rigorous training, you became an expert in sharpshooting, knife throwing, and stealth. You even surpassed the master assassin, becoming the leader of your own hit squad. Together you and him started cleaning the streets from drugs, hoodlums, pimps and mafias. That made you a hero to the poor and downtrodden. But you were known by the authorities as a murderer and vigilante.

Despite all the havoc you reaped, you kept your code. Whenever you had a child captive, you would send them back to their families or orphanage. But one day, rumors of a powerful entity known as "The Fate's" were spreading they deal with guns, prostitution, alcohol, guns for hire, and mercenaries.

It was said that they're the Top Dog of the black market, the consigners of death and terrorisms. You know because your were one of the victims in their child trafficking business.

Now it's up to you to take down "The Fates", the only problem is that you couldn't seem to find any hard evidence against them. It was rumored that they cover their tracks so meticulously.

Until one day a member of their organization was sent to the hit list.

The client? The Fates their selves wanting to kill one their own. Yet there is one problem, your just still a rookie under the eyes of your teacher and he's not getting any younger.

"We need you to get a team and a back-up plan," your mentor said. "To get to The Fates, we need to be ready for everything they throw at us."

Despite his worring tone, you were confident that you can end this once and for all.

Now it's up to the great assassin and their protege, to bring the dark side of the world to light and serve justice to those who deserve it.

"It's time, kiddo," he smirked as he patted your back. "You've proven yourself more than ready for what's ahead, you will be leading this team but under my supervision of course!"

This was an exciting step towards finally taking down the Fates. With your mentor and you leading the team, you were sure it will be successful. After all, this was his legacy, and you will be a part of it. Together, you and him gathered a group of skilled mercenaries, sharpshooters, and information brokers.

You knew it wasn't going to be an easy mission. The Fates were known for their ruthless methods and their underhand tactics. To take them down, you needed to be able to outsmart them.

But this wasn't a rite of passage or even a battle of egos. This was a race against time, a race to save countless souls like you, who were trapped and used for the Fates' twisted plans.

Elizabeth Baker, The Rider of Death

"Appearances can be deceiving. I don't have to be gentle with my words to save your life."

She was once a respected doctor at a prestigious hospital, admired by colleagues and loved by patients. Her passion for saving lives and talent for surgery were well-known. However, everything changed when she uncovered the hospital's dark truth. They were charging exorbitant fees while using second-hand equipment and expired drugs. The medical director was involved in a corruption scheme, siphoning off millions of dollars.

When Elizabeth confronted him, he responded with threats and violence. In self-defense, she accidentally killed him with a scalpel. Fleeing the scene, she left behind her career and reputation, going into hiding. In the underworld, she became a freelance doctor, offering services to criminals and outcasts.

Operating in secret locations, she used whatever tools and resources she could find. Her prices were high, but she maintained high standards. Morality and legality didn't matter to her clients as long as they paid well and respected her rules. With a sharp tongue and a cold heart, she became the most sought-after doctor in the underworld.

Over time, her skills grew, and she began performing complex procedures like organ transplants and limb replacements. You and your mentor have made countless deals with Death, even cheating him a few times, so you know how to handle someone like her.

Nate O'Neil, The Rider Of Conquest

"The beauty of an explosion's light surpasses that of a sunrise!"

Nate is an unpredictable force within the group. He excels at causing explosions and demolishing obstacles, making him the go-to person for such tasks. Nate embodies chaos and has a twisted love for destruction.

Recklessness defines Nate. He thrives in dangerous situations, embracing the adrenaline rush that comes with each explosive endeavor. With a devil-may-care attitude, he charges into any situation, leaving destruction in his wake. His disregard for personal safety often leaves his comrades on edge, unsure of what he might do next.

Nate's passion for pyrotechnics is unmatched. He finds beauty in the chaos and destruction that fire brings, taking pleasure in watching things go up in flames. His eyes light up at explosions, and his laughter echoes through the chaos as he revels in the fiery spectacle. He is a true pyromaniac, using the world as his canvas to paint with flames.

But Nate is not just a reckless demolition expert; he is also the life of the party. With his larger-than-life personality, he fills the room with infectious energy. His boisterous laughter and dark jokes keep everyone entertained, even in dire circumstances. Nate can turn any situation into a comedy show, ensuring there is never a dull moment.

He possesses an innate talent for determining the right amount of explosive power needed to achieve the desired result, whether it's breaching a secure facility or creating a distraction with a chaotic firework display.

Nate is also one of the most loyal members of the group. He always has their back, regardless of the situation. He willingly puts himself in harm's way to protect his comrades and will fight fiercely for them if necessary. His bravery knows no bounds, and while his recklessness can sometimes lead to trouble, it is ultimately his heroic actions that make him the beloved daredevil he is today. Nate O'Neil is a wild card, a dynamo of destruction, and the heart of humor in the group. He reminds everyone that even in the darkest times, laughter and explosions can still exist, and he is always ready to ignite excitement wherever he goes.

Haley Jones, The Rider Of Famine

"When I look through the scope, all I see is you."

Haley, a Texan country girl, was born and raised on a ranch. She had a fiery spirit and a talent for precision. While she was no stranger to hard work and the thrill of the open fields, it was the touch of cold metal and the weight of a sniper rifle that truly ignited her passion.

From a young age, Haley displayed an uncanny talent for marksmanship. Her ability to hit headshots with unwavering accuracy earned her the title of the best sniper in her town's academy. Instead of pursuing a military career, Haley chose to become an assassin, targeting key figures who committed heinous acts.

Haley's movements were as precise as her shots. She never missed a target and always completed her missions efficiently. Her sass and flirtatiousness added to the mystique that surrounded her. She often used her curves to distract opponents, giving her time to get into optimal shooting position. People said that if you heard Haley's rifle, it was already too late - you had been marked and there was no escaping your fate.

Despite being an elite assassin, Haley never lost sight of her roots. She took pride in her Texan heritage and maintained a strong work ethic. After every assignment, she would return home to the ranch to decompress from the chaos. Among familiar faces, she would tend to the fields or go horseback riding, finding solace in the simplicity of her upbringing.

David Garcia, The Rider Of War

"I don't engage in meaningless conversations. Prove your worth or go away."

David is a mysterious and versatile individual. In private, he is quiet and reserved, preferring simple communication. However, during missions, he surprises even his closest allies with his various personas.

David is quick-witted and can easily become a charismatic trickster. With his clever wordplay and silver tongue, he can turn the tide of a battle without using force.

Flirtation comes naturally to David, and he uses it to manipulate and gather information. It's hard to determine his true intentions when encountering him.

Regardless of the roles he assumes, David is always dedicated to completing his missions. He will do whatever it takes to accomplish his tasks, whether it's infiltrating an enemy stronghold or uncovering a sinister plot.

#adult fiction #authors of tumblr #fiction #if game #if recs #if wip #interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #interactive story #original writing #twine game #twine if #twine wip

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fishwithtitz · 7 months

Text

Was It Worth It? (Cardinal Terzo x Reader)

Summary: Worth (n.) - the value equivalent to that of someone or something under consideration; the level at which someone or something deserves to be valued or rated.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Cardinal Terzo x AFAB reader / 6.2k words

Warnings: language, graphic description of piv sex, religious trauma, alcohol, poorly translated Italian, angst

aO3 link

Part One: What Goes Up...

Sometimes, when the sun was low in the sky like this, and you could still feel the occasional pitter of droplets dispersing against your skin, you took the risk of abandoning your responsibilities and popping outside for the evening. It was peculiar how the salmon rays of the sun peeked through heavy, sodden clouds. The beams heated the water in the air and made it sticky and heavy. “Hot rain” your Granddad had called it. It reminded you of simplicity. Of home.

You stepped right outside the cloister on the farthest corner of the abbey to soak the weighted air and shafts of light inward as self-anointing. The grass was springy under your feet, verdant, and you lost track of your steps as you meandered out into the less-manicured side of the grounds towards the wooded border of the property’s boundaries.

It had been two years since you decided to join the order. Your family, long gone at the prospect of you choosing a life of sin and vulgarity, and your friends feigning happiness that slowly dripped away as time wore on and contact faded into simple memories. You didn’t mind it. If being a part of the ministry had taught you anything, it was that change was normal - healthy, even - and that embracing and adapting was necessary to find self-fulfillment and true absolution.

The first year as a Sister of Sin proved a heady challenge. With scripture and philosophy to study, on top of a laundry list of new procedures and rituals and ways of living to memorize, you had your hands full. There were some nights where sleep was truly a blessing from below and you started to understand the pull of addiction as you filled your coffee for what seemed like the umpteenth time at breakfast before starting your shift washing the ministry’s linens.

Uncertainty and impulsivity had inspired you to join. Desperation had encouraged you to stay. Like a mid-life crisis happening 20 years too soon, you clung to any open window to find purpose and opportunity. You longed for a defined path outlined in thick black marker on a map with an ‘x marks the spot’.

It wasn’t until a year and a half into your tenure as a Sister of Sin, fresh out of novitiate, that you met a young Cardinal Terzo (as he liked to be called) and your outlook on this new life began to shift. You couldn’t exactly point to why he had chosen you out of all the other sisters. You didn’t feel as though you were the most attractive, or the most seductive, or the most educated or intelligent. You didn’t feel secure in any specific talents and you didn’t feel a drive to accomplish anything specific. If anything, your energy was spent on yearning for direction.

Perhaps he had noticed your propensity to velcro into anything novel or interesting. Or maybe it was your enthrallment and willingness to engage. Whatever the reason, Terzo had chosen you to devote his time to.

You had been assigned to his detail as a temporary member of his small team of siblings. Though your past experience noted a range of clerical skills and literary study, you had instead been chosen to keep his chambers. It had taken all but a few days to learn Cardinal Terzo’s particulars. His sheets, which were a stereotypical black satin, had to be positioned just right (heaven forbid the fitted sheet have a loose corner…one would think that Papa himself had been murdered). Because of their color and Terzo’s…life choices, both the top sheet and the fitted sheet had to be changed nearly daily to save them from resembling Pollock’s “Lavender Mist”. His clothing had to be organized by occasion and style (and as you quickly found out, by random personal preference that seemed to change on a whim). Terzo required his wine fridges (plural) to be stocked twice weekly (including the large collection of reds that rested atop each fridge at room temperature), and it wasn’t uncommon to fulfill last minute requests for antipasto, fruit, candles, or other carnal delicacies to be brought to his room for later that evening.

Completing tasks was a nightmare. You never knew if your assigned shift would lead you into an empty (and disarrayed) room with Terzo having been up and out early in the morning, or an occupied suite that stayed inhabited up into the early afternoon. The latter still caught you off-guard and you made frequent mental notes to work on your stuttered apologies as you awkwardly left his bedroom to wait until it was empty to resume your duties.

However, one day that seemed all but special, you entered his bedroom to change his linens and refresh his wardrobe, only to find Cardinal Terzo hunched over the mantel in front of the fireplace. His head hung low, browbeaten, and a rocks glass of scotch was perched between heavy fingers while his fist was clasped to his right. If you listened closely enough, you swore you could hear his aggravated breathing laced with tears. You froze at the sight.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you eventually peeped out, trying your best to keep your tone even as to not portray any perceived judgment.

Terzo hadn’t turned to face you, but was quick in his reply — his voice gravely and gruff. “It’s best if you go, Sorella,” he responded, gripping even tighter onto the glass. The air felt thick and you could feel your own sweat (whether from the heat of the fire or the anxiety of catching Terzo at an inopportune moment, you weren’t sure) pooling on your forehead.

Despite his request, you stayed stationary.

You couldn’t help but look over the way his hair hung down to frame his painted eyes, tracks of tears threatening to wash away the intricate circular design and painted bow, and how his lips pursed in the firelight. Do you dare overstep your professional boundaries to show a touch of common humanity? To show that despite his role as a prominent Cardinal in the church, he was still a human being that deserved empathy and kindness? It was then that you decided to be bold. You took a deep breath.

“Do you need a hug?”

Your words seemed to catch Terzo off guard, and he suddenly raised his head and craned his neck to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. You gently set down the basket of clean laundry and took a step towards him, wringing your hands in apprehension as you approached him.

Upon seeing you, soft-faced and vulnerable in the dim light, his own expression dampened and he turned his body to face yours. “I think I would like that, Sorella,” he replied.

It was from the moment that your small frame enveloped him, your head tucking in against his chest while your hands moved comfortingly against the smooth fabric of his jacket that hugged against his back, that you felt your heart beam against his. And maybe, you reasoned, you weren’t crazy in thinking that you felt his beam back against your own.

Over the next week or so, your daily visits to his chambers began to change. You could almost bet on him being present for your visits now, and while it had made you nervous before, you had begun to look forward to seeing him lounging about in his chambers, coffee in hand as he greeted you with a warm, “Good Morning, Sorella.” Dinner in the refectory had been previously uneventful, but now was punctuated by stolen glances from (and to) the head table, with Terzo occasionally lifting his ever-present glass of red in your direction — a subtle, yet definite nod to your existence. You couldn’t help but internally swoon.

The second week after your fireside interaction, after replacing the linens, replenishing the firewood, and restocking a few choice wines in Terzo’s chambers, you were met with a personal request from the Cardinal.

Like many nights during weeks prior, Terzo had left his room with a special request for the evening. “A sensuous feast” he had called it, and having fulfilled his wishes before, you knew exactly the way it was to be done.

Ignoring your disappointment (and the pang in your chest when you read the note), you worked with the kitchen ghouls to create a charcuterie board to remember, rife with various fruits, cheeses, nuts, and the homemade rosemary focaccia you knew he enjoyed at dinner. A bottle of prosecco sat on ice in a marble wine chiller on the low mahogany coffee table (and you made sure to stock a couple extra in the nearby wine fridge for good measure), and two glasses were perfectly polished beside it, waiting for eventual effervescence. A low fire was kindled and warmed the plush rug that lay in front of it as it waited for its future occupants.

Swallowing the sharp spasms that assaulted your chest, you gave the room a small, unreturned smile and surveyed your work.

“Beautiful job, Dolcezza.” Terzo’s silken voice frightened you as it broke the quietude in the room. You let out a breath, a chuckle laced between it and your words, and you replied with your same gentle smile.

“Thank you. Will that be all, Your Eminence?”

You had been prepared for the Cardinal to shoo you away, possibly thanking you with another one of his thousand-yard smirks, but to your surprise, he didn’t. Instead, he wrinkled his brows in thought, walking slowly over to the velvet-tufted loveseat across from the mantel. His gloved hand stroked the back, fingertips brushing so lightly that they didn’t even leave a mark.

“Actually, no, Sorella,” he said, eyes fixed on the raspberry-hued fabric. You felt your lungs tighten. Had you forgotten something? You’d be the first to admit that you’d been distracted in your work lately, and it wouldn’t have surprised you to see that you missed something crucial. Terzo interrupted your worried visage, his duochromatic eyes flickering up to you with a sultry gaze. “...would you like to stay?”

His words had hit you square in the jaw, which you were sure was now hanging open just slightly at your surprise. You swallowed and stammered out, “I-I don’t want to intrude on your company, Cardinal.”

“I was hoping you would be my company tonight, Dolcezza.”

It was the first of many evenings spent with Terzo. The debut of your time together, if you will — and it was not at all what you had expected.

Tentatively, you agreed to the invitation, only doing so because you knew that his room was the last on your list to freshen and you were now technically done with your duties. You had watched as Terzo held his hand out to motion towards the seating by the fire, and you hesitantly moved to take a seat on the plump leather couch across from the loveseat.

To say that you had been nervous would be a gross understatement. Your senses drank in the stimulus around you — the pop of the bottle of sweet wine, the fizz of the bubbles blooming in the glass, the spicy, floral musk of Terzo’s cologne drifting through the air as he held out the flute for you to timidly accept — they all became cataloged in your mind as sensory memories of this first excursion.

If Terzo’s smooth, charming attitude hadn’t calmed you down, the prosecco surely had. Not long after you’d taken your first sip, Terzo had sat on the other side of the couch with his own glass in his gloved hand, his cardinal cassock floating down over his crossed legs like sin, and he had struck up a conversation. His body was turned towards yours, eyes always drinking in your form like it was the preferred spirit of the evening, as he asked you more about who you were.

He was easy to talk to (far easier to talk to than you’d expected). You divulged your history with the church and briefly described your one and a half year commitment with a peaceful pride. As a Cardinal, you were sure he spent the majority of the time discussing the intimacies of the ministry and you didn’t want to bore him.

“And what led you to the light bringer, Sorella?” he had asked you, fingertips stroking the stem of the champagne flute delicately, tenderly.

Even though you’d initially fabricated walls to guard you from revealing your past, Terzo’s soothing yet fascinating energy knocked them down almost instantaneously. You explained the falling out with your parents over your decisions for your career and lifestyle, how they’d refused to support you following your passions as it didn’t seem “financially prudent” to do so. With forlorn fondness, you recalled your relationship with your Granddad that had ended abruptly with his unforeseen death and how it had cracked your mother’s inward countenance and plastered it back up with vodka and Valium. The final straw, you explained, was your decision to openly renounce your faith and begin the exploration into different forms of spirituality. Terzo had listened intently, his face bleeding sympathy and compassion as you unraveled your past in a way you hadn’t since joining the order.

But despite the heavy conversation, the night turned to one of true connection as you both polished off the first bottle of prosecco (and eventually, most of the charcuterie). Laughter frequently permeated the air after the second bottle had been opened, and you giggled over shared stories of gossip about the ministry — Terzo even letting a few more secretive and scandalous pieces about the clergy loose after his fourth glass of bubbles.

By the end of the evening, you began to see Terzo in a new light. Before, he’d been the suave, debonair Cardinal with a reputation of philandry. But now, Terzo felt like a true kindred spirit. As you’d gotten up to leave (sea-legged from the alcohol, you might add) the Cardinal had offered you his hand to steady you. After helping you up, he continued holding onto your hand, his body advancing closer to you with a half-step.

You remember the light of the fire reflecting off the yin-yang black and white eye as he took in your features. You remember the notes of apple and pear on his breath. Most of all, you remember the words he purred out in a low, dulcet hum.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Dolcezza.”

And he had. Searingly slow, his lips lingered on yours for countless seconds before he pulled away completely.

It was the beginning of the downfall.

🜏🜏🜏

A mere two days after your memorable night with the Cardinal, you arrived at the workroom connecting the laundry to the housekeeping stores in increased anticipation to start your duties. Yesterday was your day off, and as such, you hadn’t had the opportunity to see Cardinal Terzo.

As soon as you set down your coffee thermos, Sister Teresa, a senior Sister of Sin, approached you with a jollied clap on her hands. She explained that the sister you’d been covering for had healed quite nicely from her surgery and was returning to work early — today, in fact — and your services in housekeeping would no longer be needed. With a chuckle, she reached out to touch your arm, saying, “It’s a blessing of timing from the Dark One. We have been running behind ever since you left!”

Outwardly, you nodded and thanked the sister for letting you know before heading through the connecting door to the laundry. Once out of sight, you sighed, turning to make your way down the walkway towards the oncoming chutes, closed fist lightly pounding against a pile of folded bedsheets as you passed. You weren’t exactly sure when you’d get to speak with Terzo again, which of course disappointed you, but you were arguably more disappointed that you’d spent the time shaving your legs and fussing over the exact flavor of lip balm before leaving for work today — all for naught.

That evening, you took your usual seat in the refectory with a slogged posture. Your hands smelled of bleach and detergent, and your skin felt dry from the dryer sheets you’d spent the afternoon picking from the dryer vent. After pouring yourself a healthy glug of table red from the decanter, you sighed and leaned back, watching as other siblings filled the room. After a few lengthy sips and more disassociation than you’d care to admit, you saw a flash of a black cassock from the corner of your eye. Towards the front of the refectory, seated at the clergy table, was Cardinal Terzo. He was mid conversation with one of the bishops and looked surprisingly pleased as he took a seat and accepted a glass of red similar to yours. His glance turned to your direction by chance and he met your eyes, smirking before raising his glass as he had so many times before. You raised yours back.

And on this went for the remainder of the week — you, successfully seeking out his gaze and him acknowledging you with a raised glass, a smile, or as of the night before, a wink. Each time made your heart patter so high in your chest that you could taste it in your throat (or maybe that was the pinot noir).

This particular night, after placing your napkin on the table and sipping the last drop of wine from the globe of the drink ware, you realized that this week put you into a state of melancholy. You’d felt trapped (an odd feeling in a church based on free will) and you craved a break in your monotonous routine. A walk would do you good, you'd decided. You breezed past a group of siblings and out the refectory doors so quickly that you hadn’t heard the voice calling your name from the other end of the room.

Down the cloister and to the gravel path your feet traveled, and just after you felt the crunch of the rocks beneath your shoes, a hand reached out to cup your shoulder. You’d turned with an inward huff, nearly frightened, but each muscle seemed to relax when you’d seen that it was just him, just Terzo, and a smile crept across your cheeks.

From an outward observer, the walk would have seemed ordinary. It wasn’t out of character for siblings to peruse the gardens in the evening, and members of the clergy indulged too, of course. But as you made your way through the carefully pruned rhododendrons and lilac-lined pathways, Terzo admitted something that made the stroll all but ordinary.

“I miss seeing you in my chambers, Dolcezza. I hope our kiss did not frighten you away.”

And of course you had assured him that it was anything but, explaining the predicament that brought you to the housekeeping staff in the first place, along with the reassignment to the ministry laundry earlier in the week.

As time wore on, you kept to your work in the laundry and he to his in the clergy, but both you and il Cardinale continued your joint traditions — the hushed glances at dinner, the occasional stretch through the church’s gardens. You shared the stories of your respective days, with the conversations always morphing into a mishmosh of memories or past experiences, with the occasional smattering of theological conversation. Sometimes you sealed the evening with a kiss, sometimes you didn’t. However, regardless of how the night ended, you always thought of the taste of his lips on yours (wine-bathed and smoky and soft).

Luckily, on occasion, the senior Sisters of Sin pulled the laundry staff to help out with housekeeping duties in the event of someone falling ill or needing to take time off. Each time this was proffered, you quickly volunteered, buttering the situation with the explanation that you had already filled in before and knew the routines and procedures, including the particulars of the clergy members. It made you appear as if you were flexible, hardworking, and willing to help the ministry in any way needed. Deep down, however, you knew that your real motivation was the off-chance that you’d get to see your raven-haired Cardinal.

One of these days you had all but physically jumped at the opportunity to help out with housekeeping. Your enthusiasm was nearly crushed when you found out that not only were they short staffed, but they had fallen behind due to a fairly extensive disaster left behind in an upper clergymen’s room by what appeared to be an entire pack of ghouls. In spite of your utter exhaustion at the end of the day (and shudders at the recollection of all the oddly sticky surfaces you had to wipe down while tidying up the ghoul pack’s aftermath), you found yourself

making the familiar trek to Terzo’s chambers. Ghoul juices aside, you had a slight jaunt in your step. The day’s unfortunate proclivities wouldn’t put a damper on your excitement of seeing the Cardinal. As soon as you entered his room, however, you noticed something felt strange.

Hoping to finish your more formal duties quickly, you beelined into the bathroom to replace the towels and gather the dirty laundry before passing through to his bedchambers. Removing and replenishing his sheets was like child's play now, and after a couple of minutes you had already balled up the used linens and placed them in the basket with the other laundry before turning to exit his bedroom.

You heard the crackling of the fireplace in his living space before you saw the dim flames, and the occasional scribbling sound of a pen against paper was even more of a telltale hint that you were not alone. Setting the basket down, you padded over to the leathered couch that reminded you of your first visit with the Cardinal and rested your hands against the back of it. Terzo was sitting against the rug, feet outstretched by the fire, with a notepad in hand. It had indeed been him slugging the fountain tip across the page, and from the balled up sheets of paper littering the floor, you gathered that whatever he was getting at was not a success.

“Your Eminence?” you rasped out softly, so quietly that he didn’t hear you. “Cardinal?”

With your slightly louder inquest, Terzo’s head shot up and his pen dropped against the paper pad with an audible clunk. The delighted expression on your face dimmed, though, when you noticed his own.

His usually slicked-back hair hung down in messy strands across his forehead, barely covering the lines that had formed there undoubtedly from a frequently furrowed brow. His eyes looked a little glassy, and although the paint around his eyes and upper lip didn’t seem to be tear-scathed, you could tell that he had rubbed at his face more than once by the blurry edges of the black makeup. In sum, Terzo looked doggedly stressed.

“Dolcezza,” his voice perked up with a hint of surprise, “What a treat it is to see you here.”

You could feel the color creeping into the apples of your cheeks like ripened fruit. “They needed a little extra assistance and I offered to help,” you explained, your voice calm and surprisingly steady at the scene in front of you.

“Ahh, bene.” Terzo threw the notepad down to the floor with a little more oomph than you expected, stretching his feet out in front of him. You noted that they were dangerously close to the fire.

“Is everything alright?” you asked as you came closer, rounding the couch to sit down next to him on the floor, “you seem a little —” you paused, unsure of whether to continue lest you come off insulting, yet decided to risk it, “ —stressed.”

The Cardinal sighed. “SÌ,” he breathed out, slipping his hand through his hair for what had to have been the dozenth time that evening. “I am to give the sermon at black mass tomorrow.”

Your lips curved into a proud smile. “Black mass? That’s…well, an honor, really.”

Terzo nodded. “SÌ… however, I have yet to finish it. I keep coming to a stop, like a eh—” he paused, his hand motioning in circles as if to demonstrate that he was searching for the correct word, “ —barrier, in my mind.”

Folding your legs underneath you (and being careful to adjust the skirt of your habit), you turned to face him. “You have writer’s block?”

“If I am to be completely honest, I have never delivered a sermon at Black Mass before.” He sighed again and you noted that there was a lot of weight in that sigh. He looked down, flipping the pen to and fro between his slender fingers. “A lot is riding on this performance and I fear I will be nothing but a disappointment.”

At this, your body stiffened. Terzo had always seemed so confident, so demure, and you were taken aback by his insecurity. “Cardinal,” you began, inching just a bit closer, “you are anything but a disappointment.”

At this, the painted man beside you laughed. “Ahh, yes, il stronzo, perhaps…”

You rolled your eyes at his self-deprecation. “Based on our conversations during our walks, I think you will do beautifully. You have quite the mind for theology, and you speak eloquently and with conviction.” You licked the curve of your lips, craning a bit to try to see his downtrodden eyes. “Maybe it’s yourself you should have some faith in?”

At your kind words, Terzo raised his head, his hair partially hiding the milky white eye that you had never quite become accustomed to. “I’m afraid I will just disappoint you, cara. As well as the congregation.” At this, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his fist clenching as he softly pounded the ground in frustration. “Figlio di puttana…”

The way he looked right now reminded you of the first moment you approached him: vulnerable, closed in on himself, raw, and before you knew it, you reached out your hand to gently touch his left arm, your own fingertips brazenly trailing up and down the wool-covered limb. Your touch surprised the Cardinal, and his eyes met yours once more — this time, the widened emerald one peering straight through you.

What you didn’t know was how touched Terzo was by your compassion at this moment. Of course, he knew how much you cared and sacrificed for others, but you never ceased to amaze him with your empathy and tenderness. His heart beamed in a way he hadn’t felt since childhood, and as he drank in your alluring stare, he couldn’t resist the urge to study your beauty in the firelight. He noted the way the flames etched against the contours of your cheeks and jaw, shadows drawn across bone.

Putting his gloved hand on your own, he found himself leaning towards you, his fingers squeezing yours as his breath stilled in his throat. Warm lips — one painted and one bare — pressed against your own and you felt at home again. Your kisses with Terzo had always felt this way, and although they were a bit of an unconstant, you relished in the moments you’d get to feel him like this.

Your eyes fluttered closed. Head tilting ever so slightly, your body mirrored his own as you melted into the touch. Faint wine and the bitter tang of paint touched your tongue while you moved your lips against his, the slower series of pecks diverging into something a little more heated, urgent, needy.

As you sat like this, all you could hear was the crackling of the fire in front of you, the light smacking of your lips moving in unison, and the intakes and exhales of shared breath. It felt much more intimate than you were used to with Terzo. But most of all, it felt right.

His hand trailed from yours and danced across the flesh of your neck to your jawline, cupping it gently as he tilted to deepen your connection, tongue tasting your lips (for self-gratification or permission, you weren’t sure). You also weren’t exactly sure how you ended up lateral on the thick rug, or how your hand had found purchase in his slicked back hair, or how his own had pushed the fabric of your skirt up around your bare thigh, or even how your bodies had been pulled so impossibly close. Nevertheless, you found yourself wrapped in air thickened with firewood and his cologne and the humid heat of your kisses and exhales, and Satan below the way his trouser covered leg had parted your own to tangle you both into one being had your mind swimming.

“Let me take you,” he had whispered to you, his breath warm against the corner of your lip and the curve of your cheek, “let me have you here, like I’ve always wanted to.”

That was all it took. The look in his eyes had been flooded with desire and it overcame your ability to do anything but completely submit to his request.

He moved over top of you, his arms lifting up criss-crossed to pull his jacket and button up off his slender, muscular frame. Flamed illumination danced across the ridges of the muscles of his chest, the smooth, lightly tanned skin that still seemed so deliciously pale for an Italian man, and your eyes took in stills to catalog in your memory while he slid his hands up and under your dress uniform.

Terzo mimicked the action with your dress, pulling it over your head quickly before tossing it casually to the side. His hand slipped underneath you and before you realized it, the tension of your bra loosened and the garment was quickly abandoned. As cool air pricked the skin of your breasts, the Cardinal’s eyes wandered down to stare at them in the dim light. He bit at the tips of his gloved fingers to loosen the silken material, pulling them off to reveal slender, strong hands that reached for your soft skin.

He must have noticed he look of insecurity that painted your face, of shyness, because he began to trace your curves with his fingertips, just barely, butterfly wings against the surface, and murmured out “Cosi bella…” as they shimmered across the peak of your nipples.

Far back in the recesses of your mind, you felt dips of worry. Was this something that he said to everyone he was with? Was this how he treated all the women he’d brought back to his quarters — the quarters that you’d cleaned and prepared? But each time your mind wandered there, you pulled it back with a yank of a leash to the present. You were here, this was now, and you were going to enjoy what was happening in this moment.

Your mouths connected again, this time more wantonly, and all you could taste was the uniqueness that was simply Terzo — the wine, the smokiness, the dark face paint. A groan escaped his lips into your own and he moved to box you in with his thighs on either side of your body. One hand found room just by your head against the ground and held him above you, while the other clutched to your left breast, kneading and squeezing at you with a mix of adoration and longing.

When he brought his hips down to press against your own, you let forth your own series of moans into his mouth, and he all but combusted as he ripped your lips apart, hands hurriedly unbuckling his pants to shimmy them down his legs. Your reaches crossed one another’s as you both grasped at each other’s undergarments and tandemly pulled them down over hips and skin, revealing your bare forms in communion.

From there you lie naked on the rug, Terzo on top of you, with sweat-slicked skin osculating as tongues and teeth gnashed passionately. Veil and shoes were long forgotten. You could feel his hard length pressing against the space between your sex and your thigh and it made a chill wash over the expanse of your body. As his hips rutted against your pelvis, he slid between your folds, slick coating him with delicious friction, and your arms wound under his own to curl around the strong muscles of his back and shoulders. You broke the kiss with a whimper and crooked your neck to the side.

“Cardinal,” you hummed out, a little more needy than you had intended to, “don’t make me wait any more.”

He lifted his head to look in your eyes, a chuckle reaching past his lips as his hair nearly dripped across your forehead.

“The virtue of patience isn’t something we celebrate in our faith, Dolcezza,” he purred as he brought his face close to yours, breath pricking across your lips and cheek as he moved his mouth to ghost your earlobe, “ —and I think you’ve waited long enough.”

With that, he pulled his hips back and you whined at the brief loss, your breath stilted as he pushed forward almost immediately, his cock pushing past your folds and into you firmly. You let out a choked groan and your eyes ripped open, watching the darkness of his pupils overtake his unmatched irises as he sank into you to the hilt.

Your leg came up to hook around his hip and thigh as he pistoned in and out of you. Your hand gripped the furry fibers of the rug below, the other still curved around his back to hang onto his shoulder like he’d disintegrate if you let go. With every thrust you found God, and every retreat you went searching for redemption.

Your Cardinal found solace in the arch of your neck, teeth nipping at skin and tendon as he grunted along with each forward movement.

“Così buono con me. Sei così buono con me.”

Tension built up inside of your core, tugging at the muscles of your abdomen, and you felt your grip tighten around Terzo. Despite the stricture, you could feel your core blooming, softening taking everything he had as he worked himself inside of you, hips rolling and grinding.

The smell of the sweat on his skin and the burning wood of the fire lit your own flames deep within you and you could feel your impending release begin to blossom. “More,” you cried, the noise so sweet in taste and sound to Terzo that he couldn’t help but obey.

He pressed his lips to your neck in a series of wet marks. Your hand abandoned the rug and came up to card through his air, fingertips winding around the strands with a needy tug as you felt your pussy begin to contract around his thick cock. He knew you were close because he kept going, never faltering in his pace or touch, moaning little praises into the skin of your clavicle until lightening rushed through your veins.

You came and it felt like everything and nothing all at once. You weren’t sure if you’d made any noise at all, but as your jaw hung open, eyes fluttering back into your skull, you were certain that within the Cardinal’s arms was the only place you were meant to be. Here, now, releasing yourself to him completely, with the firelight plaguing the walls as a reminder of your devotion to him, your Cardinal, and to the flames of hell and the one below.

Terzo was soon to follow with his own orgasm. You could sense him tensing, his length twitching as his hips began to jolt against your own unrhythmically, throaty growls punctuating his movements. And as he filled you, you trembled against him from the fiery char of your release, your own inner muscles twitching as you welcomed his spend as sacrament.

Breath stilted and waned as he lay collapsed against you, skin slick with the proof of your union, and your fingertips found purchase soothingly stroking against his scalp. A beat passed and you relaxed in the aftermath of just the two of you. Terzo was the first to speak.

“Was it worth it?” he hummed out, eyes peering up at you from his head that rested against your soft breasts.

You furrowed your brows with a small smile. “What do you mean?” you asked.

He tittered and brought his hand to trace along the line of your jaw. “The wait,” he clarified, thumb rubbing sweetly over your chin, “Was it worth it?”

You felt warmth course through your chest and leak into your limbs. It was different than before. It was new, yet oddly familiar — like remembrance, uncovering a dusted memory. Your hand came up to clasp over his own on your chin, and you brought it to your lips, pressing them slowly, repeatedly against his skin.

“You’re always worth it.”

🜏🜏🜏

Yet now, as you soak in the humidity that paints your skin while you move across the courtyard and to a lesser occupied area of the Ministry gardens, your mind replays your words from that night. “You’re always worth it.” Always. So finite, so absolute.

You continued to walk, searching for a prayer, a sign from the one below that everything will click into place and the grand plan will be revealed over time. And as you settled down onto an earthen stone bench overlooking an old statue of the Emeritus family, eyes cast towards the statue that partially formed the man you’d fallen from grace for, you realized that there was no hot rain.

Only tears.

Tag list: @copiasghoulfriend @copias-juicebox @the-lisechen @anamelessfool

Image Credit(s): Pinterest

#ghost bc #ghost band #the band ghost #terzo #fanfic #ghost band fanfic #cardinal terzo #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus iii x reader #papa iii x reader #papa terzo #terzo emeritus #ghost terzo #angst #terzo fanfiction #ghost fandom #ghost bandom #my writing

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matan4il · 3 months

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Update post:

Today marks 123 days since Hamas launched the war in Gaza with its massacre of Israeli civilians.

There were two terrorist attacks today in Israel, both stopped before anyone was injured. The first entails Palestinians from the West Bank shooting at a home in kibbutz Meirav in the Gilboa mountains (where the Israelite king Shaul and his sons died 3,000 years ago), the house was damaged, but no person was hurt. This kibbutz was attacked several times along 2023. The second was in the city of Shchem (you might know it as Nablus, the Arab mispronunciation of the Greek word 'Neapolis,' because Arabic doesn't have the sound 'p'), I'm attaching the pic of the gun and knife which were found on the terrorist after he was neutralized. I found reports about them on two Israeli websites (Ha'aretz and Now14), but both are in Hebrew. The latter also mentions a rock throwing terror attack earlier today, against the car of a woman named Rachel Yaniv. Her brothers, Halel and Yagel Yaniv, were murdered by Palestinian terrorists almost a year ago.

We got the info today on an Iranian attempt on the lives of Jewish leaders in Stockholm, that was stopped in 2021. These terrorists, believed to be linked to the IRGC, infiltrated Sweden under the guise of Afghan refugees, and were deported (rather than put on trial) in 2022. This is a small reminder that the Islamist axis led by Iran, and which includes the terrorist organizations it funds (including Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis), as well as countries that chose to align themselves with Iran against the west, such as Qatar, is not anti-Zionist, it IS antisemitic.

In an Israeli TV interview conducted in Arabic, an Israeli journalist asked the right hand man of Palestinian Authority's president Mahmoud Abbas, whether he's willing to denounce the Oct 7 massacre. He didn't. Instead, he insisted that the occupation is the source of all this violence (even though terrorist attacks against Jews in Israel by Arabs predate both the war in 1967, which used to be defined as the start of "the occupation," and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948), and that as long as the occupation continues, so will such acts [as the Oct 7 massacre].

As part of the campaign against the antisemitism and bias at the BBC, an employee who called the Jews Nazis, and denied the Holocaust, has finally been fired.

youtube

Israel's most popular sketch comedy show decided to tackle UNRWA with this funny short vid:

In the segment where the UNRWA teacher shows how he teaches biology, history and English using Hitler's Mein Kampf, on the left side of the wall behind the "teacher" you can see the lyrics of a song titled Fedayeen (a term used for Egypt-funded Palestinian terrorists who attacked Israelis in the 1950's), and the pics of two Hamas leaders who are heading the war in Gaza now, Yahya Sinwar and Mohammed Deif ('deif' is a nickname, his real name is Mohammed al-Masri, a last name that literally means "the Egyptian," so guess where his family is originally from).

Jewish singer Montana Tucker proved she's the bravest artist from among countless performers who attended the biggest American entertainment award shows recently, as she wore an enlarged version of the yellow ribbon to bring the Israeli hostages back home to the Grammys. She didn't just speak up for her people, she made sure everyone would hear her. She's been regularly speaking up for Israelis and Jews since Oct 7.

The ceremony also included a nice gesture to the over 400 people in Israel who were either murdered at or kidnapped from the Nova music festival on Oct 7. Taylor Swift broke yet another music industry record, so this is a good time to remind everyone that there are several Hamas leaders who are each individually richer than her. It pays more to kill Jews, than to be one of the most successful musicians ever (her net worth is estimated at about 1 billion dollars).

This is 19 years old Idan Alexander.

His mom Yael recounted how cool he was in every given situation, and how proud his family was of him, when he told them that he intends to leave New Jersey and make Alyiah. Moving to Israel of course meant he'd have to serve in the army, too. On Oct 7, Yael got to talk to him, and hear that he has seen some horrible things already. She knew something was off, because unlike his usual behavior, he sounded stressed. Idan was kidnapped by Hamas, and it took 6 days before the family even learned whether he's alive or dead. He's been in captivity for 4 months now.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack #Youtube

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madarasgirl · 1 year

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Without You

Friends…I am a Mrs. now! The wedding stuff turned my head to goo...feeling very romantic (but also horny). Sorry for the sappiness in this story, which I baked on/off over the past month. This Alucard is pretty soft with his Reader until he wants to troll.

With how important a concept virginity is in the world of Hellsing, I was surprised by the lack of virginity loss fics, especially with a partner Alucard actually cares for. So I wrote one. Your decision was made. You will not forsake your humanity in exchange for an eternity with your vampire King. On the night he was to take your virginity, there will be no going back.

“Eternity is a long time, little one.” Tags/warnings: 18+ NSFW, Alucard (Ultimate) x Fem!Reader, Vladcard x Reader, Riocard x Reader. Romance, angst/comfort, emotional sex, loss of virginity, vaginal sex, creampie, oral sex, sex marathon, slight bondage & BDSM, partial mind control, anal, snowballing (?), tiny bit of predator/prey (Alu can’t help that side of himself), AFTERCARE, Alucard uses his abilities... Words: 10441

Tumblr won't let me post the full fic even though I've seen longer fics here before. So here's the link.

An excerpt is below the cut.

Dracula was crying. It felt as though he murdered you metaphorically even if you were still living, which was foolish because the sex only solidified the fact you will never turn into a ghastly vampiric monster like him. Yet the act also represented the end of something. The dream that you might always be together. Bloody tears stained his face and the silky sheets. He held you close, squeezing you into the soft mattress as he wept silently, unwilling to let you physically part from him.

You understood. Your arms found their way around his broad back and caressed soothingly in an oval track. Salty tears fell down your cheeks as you mourned with him –you mourned the fact you won’t always be there for him.

Sir Integra gave her blessing to your relationship with her servant years ago, instructing you to take care of him because he was little more than a sobbing child. Her words were nonsensical at the time. This creature of mass destruction, a sobbing child? She had been right all along.

You kept rubbing his back while you peppered his head with light kisses. You were lost in the intimacy of the moment, but when you came to, the vampire in your arms was Alucard again, peering at you lazily like he wasn’t vulnerable just now. This was the form in which you met. You loved him as the King, but also like this. You loved him in all his forms. You pet his sinfully alluring face as he purred and leaned into your touch. He loved to be touched.

He was so beautiful it just wasn't fair. His stunning appearance and cryptic mannerisms used to fluster the heck out of you. Fortunately, after many years together, you managed to better compose yourself in his presence. Until the next time he discovered another way to pester you, as Alucard does.

The Cheshire grin told you he heard your thoughts. “I’m not reading your mind, sweet, you are telling me.” He looked too pleased with himself. You exhaled. Nothing was fair to begin with when it came to this immortal being. “Come love, join me in the bath,” you told him, making to get up from the tear-stained bedsheets when you were swept off your feet and into lean arms several feet off the ground. “Alu, I can still walk!” You laughed at his overprotectiveness.

A sound at the back of his throat reverberated as he silently drew the bath and poured in scents and products, never letting you out of his grasp while he waited for the tub to fill with steamy water. “We will rectify that by the time I am through with you.” He finally replied, lowering both of you into the water, a devious grin painting his lips.

The bubbly water level reached your shoulders. You wriggled against a toned, lanky body to get comfortable, ignoring the boner poking your rear as you enjoyed the bath with Alucard. His head was thrown back against the tiles as he felt you shift around, your vampire the image of relaxation and contentment, his long limbs hanging awkwardly outside the tub. You sighed and leaned against him, the soothing water jets the only sound in the room.

He washed you, sweat and fluids sliding off your body with each swipe of his hands. "My Queen. My love...I will protect you. Always." His voice was low, eyes lidded and rippling with intent as he scented your rising arousal.

He buried his long nose in the crook of your throat and crooned, the elixir of your blood that raced under the skin ravishing his senses. He had been obsessed with your neck since the night you met. How he loved to lick, nuzzle, and sniff your throat. Running dexterous fingers down your waist, he found slick vertical lips once more.

The vampire made his infamous landshark smile from behind you, two rows of pointy teeth glinting in the soft light of the bathroom. He lapped at the side of your jugular, a low moan sounding deep from his chest as he teased, “So tempting, love.”

You snickered, head tilting over as if to invite him in, daring him to bite as you held his head and pushed his mouth against your throat. His teeth ached with the compulsion to drink, your intoxicatingly heady aromas tickling his bestial nature…

His fangs descended, his cock twitched. Alucard growled, huffing and finally ripping away from the urge to sink fangs into your vein. “A dangerous game you play, little one.”

#alucard x you #alucard x reader #hellsing alucard #alucard smut #alucard fanfiction #hellsing fandom #vladcard #riocard #post-30 year interval #alucard #alucard hellsing #hellsing ultimate #a bit of fluff but mostly heavy smut and some angst #yes I think Riocard is kind of scary

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yanderederee · 4 months

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MurderMystery

「探偵場地！」

April29th, 2004

a/n: I felt inspired to rewrite this in a fun drabble idea♡ I was sad the opportunity was only given a five page spread, so I took matters into tutor!reader’s hands:)

shoutout to @tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang for kindly helping me locating the bonus chapter link, so I may refresh myself on all the specifics regarding the deduction quiz (spoiler; the only clue pointed out is the ‘murder tool’/pill bottle.)

before! › here! › after!

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

*i am not a medical professional; all drug/medications/ailments are either made up or should not be looked into as truth!

To say the least , you were ecstatic when Ryusei recruited you for this role.

Based on how Chifuyu and he had explained it to you, Baji was actually excited to try solving a detective case of his own.

They had even already dragged the ever so willing Mitarai into this plan as well.

You and Mitarai were friends. The both of you were very good in academics, and keeping patience with the overzealous boys in front of you.

The two of you huddled together that same day, whispering to eachother different plans and hints to lay around as clues.

“So, who is the killer?” You asked the genuine poindexter.

You could tell he was flustered by your closeness. You didn’t mind though, nerds were cute.

Mitarai looked over your compiled notes in critical fashion. Collaborating back and forth on the matter, you truly felt like the case would be a hit.

After about a half hour of planning, giggling, and whispering to one another, you could feel a heavy presence looked over your back. Automatically breaking out into a smile, you threw your hands across the desk to hide all evidence.

“What’re you doing?” Baji asked, flat. It was a simple question, yet the dark glint of jealousy glared obvious.

You could tell Baji was addressing how close you had been getting to Mitarai, but you thought jealous boys were cuter; better to play coy.

“Creating an awesome case,” you admitted, pulling all the papers that littered your desk into one big pile, to which you organized out of his view. “I’m actually really excited to come up with this!”

Mitarai made an attempt in hopping into the conversation. “Y/n is quite good at this! She had written a sequence of events in only a matter of seconds. Though, I admit her knowledge in…. ‘forensics’ is a little unnerving.” he murmured.

You shrugged with pride, putting the papers into a manila folder, and into your bag.

“I’ll have the materials for the operation by tomorrow. I’m gonna go consult with the victim of this case~”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

You bend down, checking for any sign of life. Your blood ran cold. “Detective, he…. He’s dead.” You announce to the room. Baji bends down, patting your arm so to dismiss you from the corpse. “This bottle looks suspicious…” he murmured seriously.

Chifuyu grinned wide at you and Mitarashi, giving a subtle thumbs up. You chose to remain in character, following the scripted dialogue you wrote and handed out yesterday (that everyone barely mesmerized in time).

Normally, Baji would love to solve this kind of thing on his own. But you knew better than anyone, that without direction, Baji would soon become irritable and fume with frustration. He just needed to notice the clues, without telling him he found a clue. Make it seem like he figured it out himself.

“Here is Sora Ijuuin’s file,” you handed Baji a small packet of paper, containing a profile shot of Chuu, some blurbs of false medical history, and reposts given by neighbors on the events leading up to the victim’s demise. “Please look over it carefully..”

“Thank you assistant.” He acknowledged shortly. Looking over the file, it took him a few minutes, but eventually he stood in haste.

Ijuuin Sora, date of birth: 03/07/1980, blood type: B, marital status: married.

- Statement given by Neighbor [1]: “That voice of his [Sora Ijuuin] sure does carry! Just three days ago, I could hear him fighting with someone clear down the street!”

- Statement given by Neighbor [3]: “Well , there has been a suspicious looking fellow visiting that house for the past month. He visits perhaps once a week. White hair, and dark skin. Suspicious!”

“Seems Chu had a few visitors before he bit it.” Baji said suspiciously. “Satou Ryusei, what business did you have with the victim three days ago?”

Baji thought he looked so cool, keeping his glare focused on the taller boy in the room.

Excellent. First step, make Baji suspect and snuff out all clues from innocent yet suspicious figures in the room.

Ryusei played it cool, a poker face striping him of all laughing matters. “Sora and I were colleagues. We had been collaborating on a project for about a month now. I came by to discuss these matters three days ago.”

“Sound reason. You say you were simply discussing, but neighbor complains state they heard loud arguing. You two must have had a disagreement.”

Baji’s cool demeanor slowly began showing more confidence as he made his case.

“We’re both particularly passionate fellows,” Ryusei suppressed a giggle. He may have thought your script was a little over the top. “We disagreed often. But our altercations were never very loud. We always came to sound conclusions.”

“And was that conclusion murder?” Baji asked accusatively.

“I would never!”

Baji hummed. Blaming Ryusei seemed too easy. And if he learned anything from his detective shows, never go with your first guess. So, eyeing the file again he read;

- Statement given by Neighbor [3]: “…his [Sora Ijuuin] wife and I only spoke on occasion. She told me they had been dating since high school. They had gotten together thanks to a mutual friend. […] Arguments with his wife have been consistent over the years, but for the last 6 months, they have been non-stop! They become progressively louder as days pass.”

- Statement given by Acquaintance [1]: “Sora? Yeah, he and some four eyes were friends back in high school. Though, he always seemed to have a thing for his girlfriend at the time. Guess they’re still friends, saw them hanging out recently. I heard four eyes became a doctor. Good for him.”

- Statement given by Neighbor [2]: “I’ve heard rumors about resident of that house becoming recently ill! A friend of his, I presume, has been visiting often to oversee his health. I hope he’s well?”

Based on this statement repost, Baji soon began concluding that it was perhaps Chu’s “wife” may be the murderer. However, reading further, he realized this to be impossible.

- […] After a particularly heated argument, {assumedly being the disagreement of Three Days ago}, eye witness repost conclude Wife had gone to stay with her mother three days ago.

Chifuyu caught your waiting gaze, and understood the subtle nod in his direction. Playing into the role, Chifuyu settled closer to the crime scene, eying the pill bottle.

“Cause of death, overdose? But with what? … Medication? Was Mr Sora ill?”

“My colleague often complained about suffering from unexplained migraines and severe nose bleeds. I recall him mentioning these symptoms began about three months ago.”

“He met quite frequently with his at home physician to determine a diagnosis.”

“Were the physician and victim on good terms?”

“Yes. In fact, neighbor reposts state they originally thought him an old familiar friend of the victim, with how often and friendly their visits.”

“Ah! Ijuuin and I have been friends for some years now, even before he requested I oversee his declining health.” Mitarai spoke up confidently.

A shock to everyone in the room, everyone stood silent. Baji’s judgemental gaze looked over the self proclaimed physician up and down, thinking of anyway to blame him.

Dense as he was, he nodded. “A nobel friend always sticks by his friend’s side. My condolences, doctor.” Baji turned, thinking to other matters at hand.

No!! Everyone internally yelled.

Mitarashi was practically trying to be blamed, at this point!! But Baji wasn’t taking the bait.

No matter, you sighed silently, planning your second hint.

“Looks like the only evidence useful to us is this pill bottle.” Baji interjected.

You handed Baji a plastic glove, insisting he wear it before touching any evidence. After doing so, he observed the bottle.

It was medicine, plain and simple. Without even so much as a label on the bottle, it was impossible to identify further than that.

“Detective,” Chifuyu whispered to Baji, just as you described he should do in the script. “I recognize the look of this pill. Its purpose is to increase blood flow, mostly aimed for anemic patients. It doesn’t match the name of the medicine typed on the pill bottle.”

Unfortunately, Baji had no idea what the fuck ‘an anemia’ even was.

“Doctor, if you could please elaborate, what diagnosis came of your time spent together?” You asked Mitarashi. He nodded in response.

“Ijuuin described having severe nosebleeds, following his migraines. I concluded he suffered textbook side effects of overexertion.”

A medication meant to increase blood flow for a patient with frequent nose bleeds? Baji finally started putting the clues together.

“Were you the one to prescribe this medicine, doctor?” Baji asked Mitarai.

Aha!!

Mitarashi purposely showed signs of nervousness. “Y-yes! That medicine is one that regulates migraines. I-it even says it on the bottle!”

Baji smirked, dropping the bottle into a plastic, held open by Chifuyu. “We’ll see what the forensic’s team has to say about that.”

Mitarai became anxious at the mention, but chose to keep quiet. Baji hadn’t earned a confession out of him yet.

Baji really had to think now. He had evidence, but no motive. What motive would a physician have to kill his own patient? One he seemed fond of, even.

The room grew quiet, and frustration was eating up Baji’s neck. How could he get the guy to confess?

And unfortunately for Mitarashi, when Detective Baji began to feel frustrated, he had a hard time putting a cap on his emotions. In fact, he physically couldn’t.

So of course, he resorted to intimidation.

“Speakin’ of forensics, back there, I noticed there’s a pill that’s been crushed up. Almost like it was stepped on. Saaay, doc, how bout I see the underside of those shoes, huh?” Baji grinned ear to ear, eyes creasing in one-sided victory.

Mitarai gasped, red faced and shaking. It was hard to tell if it was because he was in character, or genuinely scared of Baji’s terrifying aura.

“P-please sir! Spare me!” He yelled, backing up against the door quickly, showing the underside of only one of his shoes. “There’s nothing! See! Nothing!”

Baji shook his head, and in one quick motion, bent Mitarai’s standing knee. Unable to balance himself in time, the four-eyes fell to the floor with a scream. “Well what’da ya know? What’s this blue powder here? Think we’re gonna need to send this over too, Detective Matsuno.” He chuckled.

Surely this was enough to earn his confession.

“F-fine! I swapped the medication! I’ve been giving him medicine to make him sicker and sicker f-for the last five months… but-but! … I had to!” Mitarai crocked, crocodile tears falling down his face.

Damn, Mitarai sure knew how to act!! Who would have guessed…

“Well, spit it out.” Baji hurried.

Mitarai took a few deep breaths, increasing the reveals dramatic timing. “He made Hanako cry… I’ve… loved Hanako ever since I met her, you see!” Mitarashi looked away bashfully.

“Who’s Hanako? From the Toilet?”

“That’s the name of the victims’s wife. It’s on file.”

“…oh…”

“You’ve been friends with Mr Sora since high school?” You asked the clarifying question, which finally clicked in Baji’s mind.

“Yes! She always had eyes for the obnoxious types though… so, I waited… And just as I suspected, he began to mistreat her, all over petty misunderstandings and other stupid, meaningless things! They were fighting so often, Hanako finally reached out to me to ask for advise….

“I told her to give it time. I just needed a little time… make him sick, until he died of natural causes! Than she’d finally be free! So you see, it was out of love! And it worked!” Mitarai laughed, still hysterically crying. “He’s gone now, Hanako. She can be happy now, right detective?”

Baji’s face was cold at Mitarashi’s performance.

“That’s why?” He asked. “All over a girl? Seriously?” He clicked his tongue.

You frowned at his disgust.

“What a lame reason. Whatever, we got what we came here for. Matsuno, cuff this freak.”

And just as quickly, Baji’s victory became evident with such a wide grin. “Haha! I’m a genius! Bet ya didn’t think I’d notice that stepped on pill over there did ya?” He said in your face.

You laughed in unison, and rose your hand up to give him a big high five. “I’ll admit, I was wondering how long it would take you to notice, but I had faith in you, Detective!~”

The lot of you all cheered for Baji, making his ego soar all the more. But just as you thought to stop, that adorable toothy grin of his made you swoon all over again.

While he and Chu were laughing together, Ryusei took notice of your adoring stare, and melancholy smile. “You like him, don’t you?” He asked so very quietly. As much as you could act embarrassed and deny him, you knew it would be in vain. Ryusei knew. Your smile became more flatlined.

“I do… it’s one-sided, I know… but I’m happy where I am, for now.”

Ryusei watched as you tore your gaze away, distracting yourself with cleaning up the rest of the murder scene. Out of earshot, Ryusei chuckled. “One sided, huh… Can’t say I’m so sure of that.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

Finally, after it was all said and done, the lot of you found yourselves shoved close into a booth at a local family diner. It was cheap and close by, but deserving enough for Detective Baji’s victory on his latest case.

“Still! That cheesy alibi was so over the top. Seriously, which one of you even came up with that crap?” Baji mulled over his drink, glaring at how closely sat you and Mitarai were sitting. You rolled your eyes. “Yeah yeah, just let it go already.”

“Mitarashi! Your acting was so good back there though, I almost thought you were really crying!” Chifuyu praised the four eyes beside him. “Thank you! I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off at first.”

Still dressed in the costumes stolenborrowed from the Drama Club, you all looked quite dashing and out of place in this family diner. But not a one of you seemed to care. Everyone was in high spirits.

Baji would occasionally bring up how ‘killing someone for a girl you like is so lame.’ And sure, he was right. It just made you all the more embarrassed that you were the one to come up with the dramatic idea. But that was the idea! Detective shows were dramas!

As everyone threw in their last praises and thoughts on the case, the natural urge to pee made itself known to you. Quickly excusing yourself, you shimmied yourself out from the booth. It hadn’t even been a few minutes before you were relieved and headed back for the table.

On your way to do so, some high school delinquent who clearly wasn’t paying attention to how much of the narrow walkway he was taking up, ended up smacking right dab into your shoulder. It wasn’t enough to make you fall backwards, but enough to lose your balance. What an asshole!

Yet, when you glared up for your rightfully owed apology, the high schooler kept walking. Baffled, you pursed your lips into a thin line. It probably wouldn’t do you any good to go after him. But that was way too rude!

Unbeknownst to you, the whole scene became a spectacle for your delinquent friend group. And they were Not having it. Most of all, Baji Keisuke. He practically hopped over the table to get out from the booth quicker— rather than waiting for whoever was on the outside to make way.

“Oi, asshole.” Baji seethed through his teeth. It was quiet, enough to not draw attention from everyone in the restaurant, at least. “Apologize, or we’re takin’ this outside.” He’d since grabbed the collar of the offending jerk.

The high schooler chuckled, not taking Baji all that seriously. “Yeah right, get lost pipsqueak.” He went to push Baji, who was a solid few inches shorter than him. Unfortunately, Baji took this personally.

Baji laughed at the audacity of this jerk, grabbing his arm hard, and twisting it behind his back. He wasn’t trying to cause a scene, but there he was, causing a scene.

You aught to stop him, but nothing you’d say would do you any good. “Stay here, this won’t take more than five minutes.” Baji had told you.

It didn’t take long for Baji to walk the punk outside of the family diner, around the front and into a less populated street.

Ryusei gave a shrug, and offered you a seat. “Leave him be, that’s just how he is.”

Chifuyu was tempted to follow his squad leader, but decided against it after seeing how anxious the whole situation was making you. “Maybe we should leave…” you mumbled. “No way, we just ordered while you were gone!” Ryusei patted your shoulder. Mitarashi was also a little unsettled, but tried not to show it.

“If anything, you should be glad Keisuke’s actually showing this much restraint. Normally. He’d have pummeled the poor guy in front of everyone and got us kicked out.” Ryusei sighed, as though that same scenario had just happened recently.

Just as Baji promised, he was back at the table in less than 5 minutes. “‘I miss anything?” He asked, a proud wide toothy smirk painting his features.

That proud look really suited him. Stop, why were you thinking about how cute he was at a time like this? Did you seriously find delinquency that attractive? Your heart felt like it’d beat out of your chest.

“Still think it’s one-sided?~” Ryusei whispered in your ear with a shit eating grin.

Your face went beat red.

“Hey, what’d I say about personal space asshole?” Baji cursed at his friend before pushing him hard.

“Sorry sorry~”

…♡

#FragileDearest #this took way too long #but here it finally is #I hope it’s enjoyable…#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x y/n #baji keisuke #baji #baji x reader #Keisuke baji #a letter from baji #letter from baji keisuke

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mariacallous · 5 months

Text

“Now, how long will this take? The Ukrainians behave like charlatans and we continue to pay,” reads a quote in French next to a picture of Taylor Swift on what looks like a promotional poster for an upcoming tour. “That is not right.”

“Every time the Ukrainians get money, everything goes wrong,” reads another quote in German next to a picture of Selena Gomez on what appears to be a page taken from a fashion magazine.

"It's just disappointing how the Ukrainians use our help,” a quote, also in German, reads next to a picture of Kim Kardashian speaking on stage. “Someone needs to stop this, seriously."

Though the images make it look like these quotes were said by Swift, Gomez, and Kardashian, they weren’t. They were the product of a pro-Russian network of fake Facebook and X accounts that created and disseminated an ad campaign suggesting that some of the most famous people in the world back Russia and detest Ukraine. Among the celebrities included are Beyoncé, Oprah, Gigi Hadid, Lady Gaga, Jennifer Lopez, Justin Bieber, Shakira, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Cristiano Ronaldo. “Supporting Ukrainians is unacceptable,” reads a quote next to a photo of Oprah. “Their actions destroy lives and societies.”

The disinformation campaign, which was launched in November, reached at least 7.6 million people on Facebook alone, according to a database of the ads reviewed by WIRED and collected by Reset, a nonprofit that provides grants to those tackling disinformation. It’s still in progress, and two separate groups of disinformation researchers believe the campaign is run by a notorious Russian influence operation dubbed Doppelganger that has in the past been linked to the Kremlin. New information shared exclusively with WIRED suggests the campaign has links to Russia’s GRU military spy agency.

At the beginning of November, researchers at Reset discovered what they described as a “blitz campaign” by two networks of fake Facebook pages. Over the course of a week, the researchers saw at least 560 Facebook ads that feature images of celebrities alongside pro-Russian and anti-Ukrainian quotes. While some of the ads reached only thousands of users, others spread far more widely. One featuring Cristiano Ronaldo reached over 115,000 people before it was deactivated. Alongside the image of Ronaldo was the quote “It's frustrating to see how the Ukrainians use our aid. Someone needs to stop this, seriously.”

Researchers at Reset believe that the campaign “exploits loopholes in Facebook’s ad verification and content moderation systems to foster hostility against Ukrainians and undermine EU support for Kyiv.” Including fake quotes from celebrities within images makes it harder for Facebook to spot a coordinated campaign, they added. The campaign, which specifically targeted people in France and Germany, also removed any links or additional text in the ads, making it harder for Meta to track it.

Doppelganger has been actively spreading disinformation on both Facebook and X for some time. The organization was unmasked in September 2022 by EU DisinfoLab, a nonprofit working to combat disinformation against the EU, but it had been operating since at least May 2022. The group used clones of media websites, including The Guardian and Bild, to spread disinformation, filling the fake sites with articles, videos, and polls designed to push pro-Kremlin talking points about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Facebook first announced action against Doppelganger in September 2022, and said it was removing pages and accounts associated with the campaign.

In June 2023, another campaign targeting major French websites including Le Parisien, 20 Minutes, Le Monde, and Le Figaro was exposed by the French government. “French Minister supports the murder of Russian soldiers in Ukraine,” read one fake headline on a page that looked like Le Monde during that campaign.

Despite being repeatedly found out, the operators of Doppelganger have managed to continue their work: They also created fake versions of Fox News and other news websites to seed chaos and confusion during the Israel-Hamas war.

While Doppelganger campaigns in the past have been linked to the Kremlin in some media reports, new information from researchers tracking the disinformation campaign shows a link to Russia’s GRU.

A network of bot accounts on X, which in the past have been used to push Doppelganger’s fake websites, has also been used to push people to websites with direct links to Russia’s military spy agency. “Doppelganger bots promoted two sites recently, which both have strong connections to GRU,” researchers at Antibot4Navalny, a Russian anti-disinformation research group that has been closely tracking Doppelganger activity on X, tell WIRED. The researchers did not want to be identified due to security concerns.

The first site promoted by the Doppelganger bots was ObservateurContinental.fr. The Whois data, a public record of information related to the registration of a website, for this site shows that it is connected to InfoRos, a news agency previously linked to the GRU that operates hundreds of websites to push Kremlin propaganda. InfoRos was first reported to be a front organization for GRU Unit 54777 by The Washington Post in 2018. At the time, the group was said to have been active as far back as 2014 to spread disinformation about Russia’s annexation of Crimea.

The second site pushed by Doppelganger bots targeted Germans. In October 2022, an investigation by the German newspaper Die Welt found that the author of content on the EuroBRICS site was being paid directly by InfoRos, which is registered as the operator of the EuroBRICs website by the German domain registrar.

Many of the same images from Doppelganger’s campaign, along with others targeting an English-speaking audience, were also shared on X by the same network of bots that have previously shared links to the Doppelganger campaigns.

“We collected a whopping 75-plus fake quotes by celebrities from the US and EU, all massively posted recently by bots of Doppelganger, the pro-Kremlin influence campaign,” one of the researchers at Antibot4Navalny tells WIRED.

The campaign on X, which coincided with the Facebook campaign, used over 10,000 bot accounts, according to the researchers. In the space of one eight-hour period, the bots posted over 27,000 messages. At one point, the bot accounts were posting 120 messages every minute.

The posts on X are identical to those posted as ads on Facebook identified by Reset, except that some of these posts were in English. The X campaign also featured mocked-up versions of celebrities’ verified Instagram accounts, making it seem as if screenshots of celebrity Instagram accounts, using similar anti-Ukraine quotes, were being shared.

X did not respond to a request for comment from WIRED about the Doppelganger campaign. Since Elon Musk took control of the platform in October 2022, he has eliminated most of the company’s trust and safety team, and disinformation has flourished on the site, especially around breaking news events like the recent Israel-Hamas war.

One of Reset’s researchers, who did not want to be identified to protect their privacy, tells WIRED that, in recent days, researchers have seen Doppelganger’s celebrity-based campaign evolve. Some ads on Facebook now, like the ones on X, feature screenshots that appear to show verified Instagram accounts of the same celebrities, adding a further layer of authenticity to the campaign. In one case, a screenshot of a fake Instagram post from the entrepreneur Richard Branson suggests that he believes America was behind the Nord Stream explosion.

The researcher also found video ads that feature real footage of celebrities with fake audio dubbed over the top, which they say have been created with text-to-speech apps. The researchers at Reset were unable to identify which app was being used to automate the creation of the videos. One example reviewed by WIRED showed footage of German filmmaker Wim Wenders speaking in English about his own films, dubbed to make it appear as if he was speaking in French about how “the Ukrainians are ruined.” The ad was posted to Facebook on November 25 and was seen by up to 3,000 people before it was removed for failing to have the “required disclaimer,” according to Facebook’s ad library.

While Facebook has taken down the majority of the pages, some of them remain active, and the campaign shows glaring gaps in Meta’s ability to deal with disinformation on this scale.

Meta declined to respond on the record to WIRED’s request for comment about the campaign and the network of fake accounts created to disseminate the false ads. In a report from August, however, Meta acknowledged that Doppelganger was the “largest and most aggressively persistent covert influence operation from Russia that we’ve seen since 2017.”

The automated creation of accounts on Facebook is a well-known problem, and Meta has deployed a variety of artificial intelligence systems to combat efforts to mass-create fake pages and accounts. By its own admission, Facebook deletes millions, and sometimes billions, of fake pages every quarter, sometimes within minutes of their creation. Meta claims that around 5 percent of its monthly average users are fake, but outside experts say that figure is substantially higher.

While the Doppelganger group ran the campaign, the fake Facebook pages it used were purchased from an agency that specializes in creating massive networks of inauthentic pages on Facebook, according to Reset. They are still investigating who created these initial networks, but the researchers say this campaign was pushed out by two separate networks they identified containing 52,000 and 25,000 pages respectively. In October, Reset published a report identifying even larger networks of inauthentic Facebook pages, including one that had over 340,000 inauthentic pages. Despite having been identified publicly, these networks are still operating today.

With a number of major elections taking place in 2024, experts are again concerned about Meta’s ability to reign in disinformation.

“Meta’s sloppy product safety is a security liability for both Europe and the US as we approach next year’s elections,” Felix Kartte, EU director at Reset claims to WIRED. “Threat actors will continue exploiting loopholes in Facebook’s advertising systems to target deceptive and inflammatory content at millions of voters in the world’s biggest democracies.”

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