#IT WAS SUCH A GOOD PRICE FOR A VINYL TOO

[transgender-scout]

Heart breaking: local guy desperately searches for a vinyl of his favorite band, finds his favorite album, clicks the link, and realizes that it’s sold out and they have no idea when they’re going to restock

#IM GONNA CRYYY #IT WAS SUCH A GOOD PRICE FOR A VINYL TOO #they have cds but it’s nOT THE SAME #anyway if someone has a vinyl of modeling’s somewhere before album please hit me up #I WILL suck any part of your body 👍 #terrifiedofjudgement

[intertexts]

i hate u international shippingg................

#hi happy new years. watch me liveblog trying 2 get vinyl all afternoon LMAOO #anyway. suffering the ridiculous juno international shipping fee (not junos fault theyre great) bc their prices r so fucking good + #portishead third & heligoland cds too. for the same amount id spend on kakusei + butterfly tbh. #txt

[shotmrmiller]

since i'm rambling about self inserts? (is that it?) now you're miserably turning over on the bed, pulling the comforter over your head because you wasted a whole whopping 70$ for MW3 only to get an unfinished game and a piss-poor half-assed shock value main character death.

You fall asleep thinking about what you'd do differently- how johnny wouldn't die so needlessly, maybe even convince Captain Price to let Johnny put a bullet in Makarov's head in that helo.

And when you wake, your surroundings are different. The bed is too small when yours is a king, the innerspring mattress creaks when you sit up, even though you explicitly bought a memory foam.

The walls are spartan instead of the personalized decor you had. Looking over the edge of the bed, the floor isn't carpet. It's an ugly, white vinyl tile.

Where the fuck are you?

Your hands are callused but the only time you even got one was when you tried your hand at gardening, only to eventually realize you could kill a cactus with your brown thumb.

Hopping out of bed, you beeline to your bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror. Almost everything is the same. Eyes, hair, body, height.

Only difference is your flesh. It's littered with scars- both old and new. A thick, pink jagged line across your clavicle (a blade?), a puckered star shaped keloid above your hip bone (A gunshot wound?)

Stepping back out into the room, you carefully survey the space around you. A tac vest you swear you've seen before hangs on the back rest of your small chair.

Two black glock-19's sit on the desk. How do you know that? You don't know lick about weapons.

There's a large sheathed blade by your nightstand table. Didn't Rambo have one of those?

Suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You're dreaming. Jesus. Maybe you should start reading some smut fanfiction before bed to get Simon in your-

A knock at your door pulls you out of your degenerate thoughts.

oooookay.

Padding quietly to the door, the metal of the handle feels shockingly cold. How wildly vivid.

"Ye- what the fuck?"

What the actual fuck?

"Language."

...

Your mouth gapes in utter disbelief. "Simon?"

His dark eyes narrow behind his skull mask. "Chummy, are we?" He steps forward, forcing your neck back at an uncomfortable angle to keep your eyes fixed on his. "You and I, Sergeant, ain't friends. It's Ghost to you. Clear?" he snarls.

You swallow thickly. "C-Crystal, sir."

He tips his chin forward. "Get decent, I'm to take ya to the debriefin' room."

what?

"Now."

Spinning on the balls of your feet, you hastily dress, and grab the vest on the chair. UK flag on it. Tactical. Heavy as hell.

Your hands move on their own, and fingers smartly clip buckles, pull up zippers and close the pockets- as if you've been doing this your whole life.

What is happening?

When you get to wherever it was you were going, you're met with more recognizable faces.

Captain Price stands in front of Laswell, bulky arms crossed as he speaks to her in a hushed tone.

Gaz sits on a chair with his head hanging back as he blankly stares at the ceiling, trademark cap in place.

And then there's- "Bonnie!"

Johnny.

"Good to see Simon dinnae eat ye on the way here."

Simon Ghost doesn't react to the jibe at all.

Why are you sitting in the middle of the 141 listening to Laswell debrief about Hassan? Why aren't you waking up yet? You're lucid. The sharp sting of your nails digging into the palms of your clenched hands isn't dulled.

"Good hunting."

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. The heavy helmet strapped to your head. The weight of the bulky tac vest full of equipment. The painfully tight straps around your thighs. The way the rifle feels in your hands, solid and dense.

Not real.

Until you're offloading with Bravo Team in Al-Mazrah on the search for Major Hassan. The tall grass grazing your pants, the NVG's over your eyes to help you see in the dark. The harsh recoil of a weapon you've only ever used in a video game. The gurgling sounds of the enemies as they choke on their blood by your feet. The bullet whizzing past you, clipping your cheekbone. The burning sting of it, white-hot pain.

Real.

It feels fucking real.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #kyle gaz garrick #john price #is it self insert? idk

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 39

part 1 | part 38 | ao3

Eight hours, four pizzas, and one — yes, one, Henderson, Jesus — job-well-done beer each later, Steve waves the kids out the door and promptly collapses facedown on his shiny new vinyl flooring.

"God," he groans, rolling his forehead on the floor.

Eddie's not much better off. He's slumped against the front door, bracing his weight with one hand, head hung low between his shoulders. His hair's all frizzed out with sweat, and Steve can hear his soft panting over the hum of the radio. "Yeah," he says in breathless agreement. "Fatherhood is exhausting."

Steve snorts a quiet laugh. "Welcome to the babysitters club."

"Not even getting paid for this shit," Eddie complains, but Steve can see the smile tugging at his mouth when he steps over him. "I'm gonna grab a shower. That okay?"

"Go ahead," Steve mumbles, eyelids heavy as he waves Eddie down the hall. "Towels are in the closet. Borrow whatever you want."

His limbs feel like lead. Shoulders throbbing; headache worse. He's also... maybe, possibly having some major regrets about moving all the couches out onto the front lawn along with the rolled-up carpet earlier (a fact he'd sooner eat his own shirt than admit to Eddie, because Eddie warned him not to do it; told him he was going to be too tired after installing the floors to bring them all back inside, and Steve had shrugged him off at the time because Steve's an overconfident dipshit.) Anyway, he's pretty sure the spasm in his spine is price enough to pay for not listening. He's not about to put up with Eddie's gloating, too.

Eddie pauses in the hallway, rings tapping against the wall, smug little bastard look on his face. "You doin' okay down there, champ?"

It's a serious effort to raise his arm to flip him the bird, but Steve manages.

—

"Hey, sunshine."

Eddie's voice is gentle as Steve blinks himself awake, neck cracking horribly, little puddle of drool under his chin. He's not sure when he drifted off. The last thing he remembers is nuzzling his cheek against the floor, feeling the weirdly papery material slide against his stubble; thinking about how it was cheap and it was tacky but it was new and it was his. How it felt like as good of a fresh start as anyone in Forrest Hills was going to get.

"How long was I out for?" he groans, rolling onto his back to stretch out his stiff limbs.

Long enough, apparently. Eddie got a whole pillow fort situation sorted out while Steve was snoozing — dragged all the pillows and blankets off Steve's bed and arranged them in a pile in the middle of the empty room, pulled a side table and lamp over from the corner, gathered up the radio and the last box of leftover pizza and his black lunchbox and a couple of beers to share.

He's also freshly showered and wearing Steve's pajamas. Looks clean and warm and soft; borrowed Hawkins High green sweats, a thin, white undershirt, the shoulders damp where his hair hangs in pretty wet waves.

Steve is so, so normal about the picture Eddie paints.

So normal.

Not at all popping a boner over a guy in ratty loungewear.

Steve crosses his legs — subtly, left ankle to right knee, but Eddie gives him a knowing smirk over the lip of his beer bottle anyway.

"Shut up," Steve blushes.

"Did I speak?" Eddie asks.

—

part 40

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #my writing #my fic

[onestopfanficshop]

a fish with a bowtie

a simon "ghost" riley x reader blurb part two here!

no shock that i have fallen for yet another tall, muscular masked man. nothing new here! 😭

warnings/author's note: it feels so good to actually be able to write again omg. i included a very poorly drawn floor plan of the house in my head so you can visualize it better- nothing worse than not being able to see a story in your head! just some language and unreasonable amounts of fluff. your call sign is sparrow. simon being simon. gif not mine

word cound: 2100

"If any of you get boot prints on my tile, I swear to God…" you threaten weakly, kicking your shoes off at the door. The team knew better than to argue. You had saved their asses back at the warehouse breach–and unfortunately, you also took the brunt of the damage. Your head was throbbing, and your legs threatened to give out at any moment beneath you. The team had been successful with your help, but the attack was loud. They figured they'd lie low for a couple of days and let the smoke clear, but they needed a safe house. You debated it for a second before reluctantly telling the boys that you knew a place.

Unluckily for you, that place was your house.

The team silently marveled at your home. It seemed to be a perfect reflection of you but also not at the same time. For someone that claimed to be no frills, your couch sure did look fancy. But your collection of vinyls matched up with all the music recommendations you'd give them between missions. Soap geeked out over the movie posters you had framed around the living room, and Price squinted at your coffee table decor. He never took you for a candle person.

"Is that an original Back to the Future poster?" Soap asked in awe. 

"Mhm…" you mumble distantly, racking the fridge for food. You zone out on the bright lights of the fridge for a second before letting out a grim chuckle. Of course there was no food. You were barely ever in this house– if you kept food in the fridge, it would all go rotten. Seriously, how fucked up was your brain right now?

You decided to search for the pantry next. It was mostly empty, save for a few spices and boxes of tea here or there. Your eyes searched the shelves until you found what you were looking for: exactly five bowls of nearly expired Hot-and-Spicy ramen soup, which was just enough for you, Soap, Price, Gav, and Ghost. You thanked whatever higher power might exist out there as you stacked the bowls on top of each other, carrying them close to your chest to avoid dropping them.

"I have the finest delicacy here for you, boys," you say humorously. "Three Michelin stars,” you continue, earning a laugh from Soap and Gaz. You set the bowls down on the kitchen island, keeping one for yourself. You tear open the lid and untwist a water bottle cap, pouring the water up to the ridged line inside the bowl. After you poured the tiny packet of dehydrated vegetables and chicken, you stick it into the microwave and lean cross-armed on the kitchen island, waiting for the three minutes to pass. The rest dutifully follow your lead, taking turns with the microwave built into your kitchen and the other one that was plugged in on the counter. 

"Dinner" was eaten in relative silence. Not that anyone could hear anything anyways (you really needed to tell Soap to go easy on the frags before you all went deaf). You were too busy eating your soup to notice the team sneaking glances at each other and then at you, Ghost most of all.

After you all ate, you pointed everyone to their rooms. Soap went straight away, which is how you could tell he was really exhausted. Price and Gaz sat on the couch debriefing for a while before they headed to bed, too. Only you and Ghost were left. You were lying on the couch, half-tuned in to some old-time game show on the TV. Ghost sat on the loveseat to the right of you, polishing his gun and sneaking occasional glances at the TV—and at you. 

“Shit,” you exclaimed suddenly. Ghost halted his movements, watching as you got up to a sitting position, closing your eyes.

“What is it?” he asked you quietly, finger moving instinctively to the trigger.

“No, I’m fine. I just… I just remembered I have to wash my hair. It’ll be a fucking miracle if I don’t collapse in the shower,” you sighed. “It’s a whole process, and it’s gonna take forever, and it’s already late… I’d better start now,” you finish, rubbing your eyes.

Ghost sat for a moment, contemplating what you said.

“I’ll do it for you.”

“What?”

“I mean—only if you want. I could. Over the sink or... something.” It’s the first time you ever heard Ghost sound unsure of himself, and it completely threw you off.

“Are you... sure?” you ask, staring at him.

“Positive,” he replied, staring back.

“Okay… I’ll be right back,” you say, moving towards the stairs. Once you were in your bathroom, you grabbed everything you would need: a towel, shampoo, conditioner, and your beloved shampoo brush.

When you got back downstairs, you found Ghost ungloved and running water in the sink, absentmindedly touching his fingers to the stream of water as his eyes were fixed on the TV. It occurred to you that he was making sure the temperature of the water would be okay for you. You weren’t entirely sure why your stomach got light at the sight of it, but you stubbornly decided to ignore it.

“You ready?” he asked, eyeing all the stuff you were carrying. 

“Mhm,” you say, setting everything down on the counter. “I’ll just lie like this over the sink to make it easier for you,” you tell him, lying down and pulling your knees up on the unusually long kitchen island. The size of the island had been something that drew you to the house when you were house shopping, even though you weren’t home enough to cook on it.

“Is that a torture device?” Ghost said, jutting his chin at the shampoo brush sitting on the counter as he got your hair wet.

You laugh for the first time all day when your eyes land on what he’s gesturing at. “Far from it. You kinda just use it to get the shampoo into my scalp. Probably my favorite invention.”

“Your favourite invention?” Ghost repeated to you.

“Yeah. What’s yours?” you ask him. 

He’s silent for a minute as he squeezes the shampoo onto your hair and works it into a lather.

“Electric kettle,” he responds finally.

“You Brits and your tea,” you say fondly, laughing to yourself. Ghost let out a sound, and it took you a second before you realized he chuckled. He laughed. You had never heard him laugh before. You decided you liked the sound.

“What’s your favorite kind of tea, Ghost?” you ask, closing your eyes. He had started using the shampoo brush, and it felt like heaven. You could feel the grime and dried blood dislodging from your scalp; you didn’t even want to see what the sink looked like right now.

“Black tea, maybe earl gray. But I’m not picky,” he shrugged. His eyes narrowed at the nape of your neck where he saw a thin line of blood. 

“You have an interesting cut back here, Sparrow.” He started rinsing out the shampoo as he carefully moved your hair aside to examine it further.

“Well, shit,” you say, sighing louder than necessary. “How bad is it? Is it stitch-worthy? Am I gonna make it?” you ask sarcastically.

“No stitches. You’ll live. Unfortunately,” Ghost deadpans. You roll your eyes at him just as you notice his hands aren’t in your hair anymore. You turn your head to see him squinting at the conditioner bottle.

“The hell is this for?” he asked.

“The conditioner?” you replied incredulously. 

“I know what it is, it’s just—why is it separate?” 

You squint your eyes in thought, trying to understand what he meant when it suddenly clicked.

“Simon…” you say, a wicked grin spreading on your face as you move up to a sitting position, carful not to drip water everywhere. His eyes shot down to look at you. That got his attention. You almost never called him by his actual name. “Please don’t tell me you use it.”

“Use what?” Ghost pressed, getting mildly annoyed. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that stupidly adorable annoying smile off your face. He hated not being in on a joke, even if he rarely showed it.

“On today’s true crime episode,” you say, grabbing the conditioner bottle out of his hands to use as a makeshift microphone. He crosses his arms at your antics, seeming oblivious to the fact that he was getting water and eucalyptus-scented suds all over the arms of his uniform.

“We’re looking at one of the most prolific criminals out there, Lieutenant Ghost. It’s terrifying, it’s horrifying, it's downright disturbing. What are his crimes ,you ask? Using two-in-one… shampoo and conditioner,” you finish, lowering your voice for dramatic effect.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost rasps, voice tinged with exasperation. “Am I not supposed to?”

“No!” you whisper-shout, mindful of your sleeping teammates. “Shampoo strips all the oils from your hair and conditioner puts moisture back in! How could one product do that simultaneously? I mean, seriously, Ghost,” you say, squeezing a generous amount into the palm of your hand before smoothing it over your strands. “It’s common sense.”

“It’s not common sense. Tedious and unnecessary is what it is,” he replies gruffly, watching you put the conditioner on. “So what, you just–put it on, and… leave it there?”

“Yeah… I usually leave it in for 15 minutes while I do other stuff but I’ll just let it sit for a couple minutes since I’m-” you pause, yawning. “Tired.”

“Do you want me to wash it out for you?” he asks, his voice going unusually soft.

“Yes, please,” you responded, lying back down so your hair was over the edge of the sink again. 

His fingers thread through your hair, ridding it of the last traces of conditioner. You force your eyes closed, trying not to think about the fact that Ghost’s face was mere inches away from yours. You felt something cold brush by your face, and your eyes shoot open to see the gleam of his dog tags dangling over you.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbled, tucking them back into his uniform like it was nothing.

Like it didn’t just get your heart caught in your throat.

You can feel his hands wringing out the water in your hair, strong enough to get your hair dry but not strong enough to hurt you. In a final act of pure kindness, he takes the towel sprawled out on the counter and throws it over your head.

“Done,” he says nonchalantly, ignoring your muffled protests from under the towel. When you finally get the towel off and tie it around your hair, you see him standing by the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and watching you intently. Suddenly shy, you pull a stray blanket off of one of the chairs at the island and wrap yourself in it as makeshift armor from his icy gaze.

“You going to bed?” he asks as you walk up. You spin on your heel to look back down at where he’s still standing, arms crossed.

“No. I was actually just about to go for a six mile run,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “You should go to sleep too, Ghost. I could see your beady little eyes fighting to stay open at the dinner table.”

“My eyes are not beady.”

“Whatever. I’m going to bed. You can stay up until my neighbor's rooster Fish starts crowing if you like,” you say, fighting off another yawn.

“Your neighbor has a rooster named Fish?” he asks, amusement tinting his voice as he starts up the steps after you.

“Mr. Stricker is a strange man,” you reply. You’re met with a few seconds of silence as Ghost catches up to you.

“What do you call a fish wearing a bow tie?” he questions.

“Oh God.”

“Sofishticated,” he continues, not missing a beat. You were not expecting the laugh that erupts from your lips, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, wary of the rest of the team sleeping right above you. 

“That was so not funny,” you say, clearing your throat in a poor attempt to cover up your smile.

“Mhm. And yet you laughed,” Ghost replied. Even in the dim light, you can spot the glint in his eyes. You’d like to think that under his mask, he was smiling too. 

He fell into step with you now, his hands brushing against yours as you two made it up the rest of the stairs. There was plenty of room for both of you to walk without touching each other, but you didn’t pull your hand away.

Neither did he.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #mw2 #modern warfare 2 #ghost x reader #onestopfanficshop

[chamomiletealeaf]

Olderbf!/kinda Sugardaddy!Price brainrot

Thinking about olderbf!/kinda sugardaddy!Price who buys you anything you could ever want. You grew up in a pretty money-tight household, feeling guilty when anyone spent money on you because you were so aware of how much things cost at such a young age.

But if you look at those shoes on sale you thought were cute for a little too long? It's wrapped up all nice for you by your door the next day when you get home from work with a cute lil note on the box.

"Saw you looking at these <3"

You mention craving your favorite food? He's taking you out immediately.

"Ugh __ sounds really good right now." You say as you walk into the kitchen to try and find food already in your fridge.

"Take out or dine in?" Price asks.

"What?"

"Do you want me to order it as takeout or do you want to eat there?"

You pause and look at him hand still on the open fridge door, taken a bit off guard. "I-"

He's already picking up his phone and wallet waiting for your answer. And when you don't answer, he does for you.

"Put some shoes on, let's go out hm?"

You try to hide your smile and blush as you make your way to the door where your shoes are, and where your boyfriend stands too, helping you put your jacket on.

Or when you two go shopping together and you get distracted by a section with CDs and vinyls as you see a deluxe vinyl of an album you've been wanting to get for your record player.

"Oh John look! Wow I didn't think they'd have this here! I've been meaning to try and get around to buying this!"

You pick up the deluxe album and turn it over to check the price, and your giddy smile fades a bit seeing it. You put it back, visibly a little upset as you furrow your brows a little and go for the regular album that's a little bit cheaper, which you note as you turn that one over and see the price.

"Hm. This one's a little cheaper." You say to yourself quietly, not thinking Price can hear as you go to put it into the cart, but he stops you.

"No." He grabs the album from your hands before you can place it in and you look up at him wide eyed. He doesn't make eye contact with you as he swaps the regular album for the deluxe one you wanted and replaces the empty spot in your hands with it.

He looks down at you and sees you cutely staring at him with wide curious eyes.

"I'm getting you the one you want bunny." He says with a smile. "Plus the deluxe version has more songs that I can watch you dance to in the kitchen so it's a win win." He says with a wink and your wide eyes fail to conceal the love for your boyfriend in that moment as it lights them ablaze.

Or on one particular bad day when you come home and do some online window shopping on your couch in your cart on Etsy to make yourself feel better. Your cart is filled with cute stickers, jewelry, fanmade merch for your interests, and cute trinkets to decorate your house with that you look at hoping one day you'll be able to afford to get them all. You definitely had money, but it was just enough to get you by with little left over. As you log into your account, you realize that your whole cart is empty.

"What?" You try and refresh the page, panicking a bit as you had so many things in your cart that you don't really want to go searching for again. It took a while for you to find them after all.

ding!

your laptop makes a noise as an email notification comes up

"Thanks for your order!"

You panic, thinking maybe you bought everything by accident, which you can't exactly afford right now, until Price comes up from behind you, leaning over the couch to nuzzle his face into your neck.

"Surprise bunny." he whispers into your neck smiling.

"John, what? what did you do?"

"You're always on that website looking at those things. Got tired of seeing you not have them. Plus, I'm always looking for a way to spoil my little bunny hm?" He smirks into your neck, bringing his hands around to grasp yours.

"How did you-"

"Shhh don't worry about it. I got you express shipping too. You'll get everything this week." He places a hand on your chin and gently turns your face to him and he kisses you, making you feel a warmth that no fire could ever provide nor compare to.

You're not selfish, both you and John know that. You don't need the little or big things he buys you, but boy does he love spoiling you with them, as it helps to heal the part of you that always felt guilty as a child when it came to spending and saving money on you, as your family never had much.

And there's nothing else John would rather do than spoil his pretty girl rotten just to see her smile.

#captain price x reader #john price cod #captain john price #captain price #cod mw2 #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #fluff #cod mw3 #fanfic #call of duty #modern warfare x reader #ilovehim #kickingmyfeet #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod mwii #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish #modern warfare 2 #real #john price #soapghost

[kookygranger]

Top five, most memorable kisses of all time

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin move to Chicago and find their people. Eddie finds you behind the counter at Championship Records. He thinks you're cool. You think he's gorgeous. Life outside of Hawkins might just be worth fighting for.

Warnings: swearing, kissing (obvs), fluff, fem!reader, mostly Eddie's POV, our boy has no rizz, alcohol consumption, I don't think anything else, too many high fidelity references?

Word count: 4k

Author's note: This is a one-shot, that has been sitting in my drafts since last Halloween and thanks to a wip game has finally seen the light of day! Find the playlist that inspired the fic below.

Masterlist

One pill makes you larger,

And one pill makes you small

The bell above the door jingles as Eddie steps through the threshold, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth seeps back into him and he scans the racks of records before him. Perking up as he notices the music playing over the speakers, he was still getting used to how much cooler things were in Chicago than back home – and shit, how much cooler people were.

Eddie clocks you sitting on top of the counter with one leg crossed under you, the other swinging down the side as you sticker a stack of vinyl. You mouth along with the music, not even noticing him slip through the aisles as he stops in a random section with a perfect view of you across the small store.

He’d only come in here to kill some time between soundcheck and the gig tonight at a venue down the street. The rest of the band had gone to find some food, but Eddie wanted to check out the record store they passed on the drive in. And boy, was he glad he did.

He mindlessly flicks through the records in front of him, trying to come up with a good conversation starter. It wasn’t that often that he missed Steve Harrington, but he could sure use one of the boy’s famous pep talks right about now. Fuck, what was it about pretty girls that got him so tongue-tied? Probably the pretty part.

But you weren’t just pretty, you were obviously very cool, and he certainly wasn’t used to girls sharing the same interests as him – but he’d met a lot of them since he’d moved to Chicago a couple of months ago.

Just as he’s thinking about what albums he could pick out to impress you, the bell above the door jingles again. A guy around his age walks in, his short hair spiked, nose and ears pierced and tattoos peeking out from a crisp white t-shirt. He walks with confidence to where you sit and makes you jump slightly as he greets you boisterously.

“Shit, you scared me.”

He snickers and starts rummaging through a crate of cassettes by the counter.

“Yeah, you look like you were in the zone. Did you even notice you had a customer?”

You turn your head in Eddie’s direction just as he ducks his down, continuing to flick through the disco section. Wait, shit where’s the metal?

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath and turn your attention back to the other guy, not quite lowering your voice enough so Eddie couldn’t eavesdrop. “No, but in my defence this song is a banger.”

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

Severin, down on your bended knee

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that led to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you coming to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing. Apparently, they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god-awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points his hand in the air, drawing your attention to the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s now sure you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorts. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the way your face lights up quietly when you realise what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You look up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile creeps up on you.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?”

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

***

“Hey, Carlos.” You greet your friend at the door of The Allied, who waves you in without payment. “That Darondo record came in, I put it aside for you.” You call back on your way in, hearing a muffled thanks as the music from inside hits your eardrums.

There’s a decent crowd tonight, and you have to push past a few people to reach the sticky top bar.

“Oh, she showed up! Surprise, surprise.” Simon makes his way over to you, ignoring the calls of indignance as he passes other customers. He slings a rag over his shoulder, which makes you bite your lip, attempting to hold in a laugh, remembering how he’d practised that move in the mirror when he turned twenty-one and landed the second most coveted job of your teenage selves.

You shrug nonchalantly, despite your cousin knowing the exact reason you’re here. “I ended up doing inventory ‘till late. Thought I may as well drop by before catching the L.”

Simon flicks your nose, your retaliating slap missing him as he moves to pour your drink. You thank him with a forced smile when he slides it across the bar, picking it up and turning to find a spot in the crowd.

“No tip?”

You call over your shoulder, “Yeah, take it easy on the cologne.” You smirk, not even having to turn around to know he’s probably sniffing his shirt.

You take your usual spot leaning against the wall, up the back and away from most of the crowd. Your rule was front row or back. None of that squished in the middle, view blocked by the tallest guy you’d ever seen crap. Either it was front and centre, immersed in the moment, or your own space with a view of it all.  

You’d never be up front for a band you didn’t know, and tonight was no exception, no matter how large the butterflies in your stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, apart from the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. Maybe it was something in his presence. But when he walked up to the counter earlier with a record you’d just been talking about and a shy smile on his face – you were a goner.

The murmurs of the crowd quieten when the house lights are switched off, a yellow glow on the stage and above the bar now the only sources of light.

There are a few enthusiastic cheers when the band appear from a door behind the stage and a smattering of applause as they take their place. You take a sip of your drink, ignoring the feeling in your chest when Eddie steps up to the mic and adjusts his red Warlock guitar. He smiles and you duck your head, trying not to look too much like the girl who’s just fallen for a lead singer when he addresses the crowd.

“Evening. Hope you brought your earplugs, this one’s new.” The quiet, reservedness of his introduction and the boy you’d met earlier is undone with the first crashing of cymbals and thrash of power chords.

Stage Eddie isn’t what you were expecting, but still somehow makes total sense. He’s more comfortable, more himself up there as he thrashes back and forth, hair whipping wildly. And they’re good. Really good.

Maybe you’d write about them after all.

The band are almost through their set when he spots you. Your back straightens as his eyes lock onto yours. Normally you hate making eye contact with someone on stage, but you can’t seem to look away when his chocolate-brown gaze twinkles over the heads of the rest of the crowd. In between songs, he gives you a wave, and you nod, returning his small smile.

When they finish, you move back to the bar. Waiting for the lingering fans to clear over a rum and coke. You’re only on your second sip when you feel a burning hot presence behind you.

“You made it.”

You turn around, and Eddie leans an arm on the bar beside you, moving in closer as the growing line pushes him forward.

“I did.” You nod, taking another sip of your drink.

He clears his throat, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“So, uh, what did you think?”

You smile, “I think you’re going to fit in very well here.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” he chuckles.

“Oh, it is. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the dark side, Eddie.”

His eyebrows raise, the ghost of a smirk kicking up when you’re interrupted by your cousin.

“Man, that was sick! What can I get ya?”

Eddie thanks Simon, then looks back at you, “What are you having?” He holds up two fingers when you answer, signalling for another round, then starts playing with a beermat while you wait. Your eyes are trained to the glint of silver on his fingers.

“How are you liking Chicago so far?”

Eddie looks back at you and puffs his cheeks up as he exhales. “Honestly?... I didn’t know life could be this good.”

You feel a sharp tingling in your nose as your eyes well up a little for the boy standing in front of you, his cheeks dusted with pink as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Trust me, things are only gonna get better from here.”

“Yeah?” He beams at you then and you inhale deeply as you fight the urge to reach out and wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah.”

***

Eddie had seen you a few times since the gig at The Allied. Dropping into the record store when he could. In small crowds at gigs in the city. You’d greet him with a hug or a squeeze to the arm that never failed to get his heart rate going.

Today, he’d gotten off early from his temporary new gig at the auto shop and he found himself parked outside the record store.

It was overcast, but there was no bite to the air. A balmy wind tousling his hair as he ran across the street to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, avoiding the fat drops of rain that had begun to fall sporadically.

He spots you through the window when he makes his back to the store, bobbing your head along to whatever’s playing as you fill the racks. The now familiar bell jingles and he smiles when he recognises Joy Division over the speakers. He’d seen you in their shirt on more than one occasion.

He meets you as you're walking back to the counter.

“Oh, hey Eddie.” You smile and do a double take, taking in his greasy coveralls, and suddenly he’s wishing he’d gone home and showered. Even if it was an hour out of his way.

“Hey.” He places a coffee on the counter along with a white paper bag. “Thought you might like a mid-afternoon pick me up. I’ve uh, I’ve seen you with one of those cinnamon things before.”

Your eyes light up as you inspect the inside of the bag. “Oh my god, you’re my hero! Thank you, that’s so sweet.”

He shrugs, taking a step back from the counter, his own black coffee still clutched in his hands.

“So, this is the day job then huh?” You gesture to his outfit.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah for now. Until the music starts paying off. If the music starts paying off.”

You nod, taking a bite of your cinnamon scroll and he can’t help but smirk at the way your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head. “It will.”

His free hand goes to his pocket, face hidden slightly by his hair as he tucks into himself at your confident statement.

“Thanks.” He turns around to start perusing the aisles.

“Oh, we will be getting the new Metallica album on the day of release by the way. I’ll put a tape aside for you.”

“Thank you.” He offers you a smile over his shoulder, and you tip your coffee to him.

He takes his time flicking through the rows, a few customers coming and going as he does, although he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Once the store is quiet again, he walks back over to you, selection in hand.

“Lee Hazelwood?” You take the record from him with a look of surprise.

He nods, “Yeah, I liked that song on that pre-goth mixtape you gave me. It’s like the kind of thing my uncle would listen to but…”

“Sinister.”

“Yeah.”

You smile, “It’s cool isn’t it? You know he actually wrote These Boots Are Made For Walkin’. Helped save Nancy Sinatra’s career after the teeny-bopper thing didn’t work out. They made a couple of albums together actually, and you know the first time he retired from the music industry was because the success of The Beatles’ made him depressed.”

He leans his arms on the counter as you talk. “Wow, you really are a wealth of knowledge for this stuff huh?”

You shrug, “What else is there?”

“Apart from books.”

You nod, “Good movies.”

He smiles, “Pizza.”

“Dumplings.”

“DnD”

You frown, “That nerdy board game?”

“No, uh d–dumplings like you said, and uh– dough–doughnuts?”

You scrunch up your face, “Okay,” and giggle at Eddie’s strained smile.

“So uh, what–would you–“ Not screwing this up at all Munson. “Would you maybe wanna do that together sometime? The pizza and dumplings, or probably one or the other I guess, and a movie, good music–“ he blows out a puff of air, scrunching up his face.

“Are you asking if I wanna go see a movie?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, “that and dinner. If you want.”

“I do like both those things.” You smile. “How about Thursday? I finish closing up at six.”

“Yeah. Cool. Thursday sounds good.” The guys and their weekly standing appointment for band practice would not agree.

***

Thursday rolls around faster than Eddie’s prepared for. Predictably, his bandmates all made fun of him for cancelling practice for you. But he just ignored the high-pitched ooohs and went to make sure his lucky Sabbath shirt was washed before he needed it.

He’s wearing it now as he paces outside the movie theatre, twisting his rings, oblivious to you sneaking up behind him until it’s too late.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ.” He jumps and twists around, your hands that had reached out to scare him still on his hips, his arms float in the air for a second before landing on your shoulders.

“You’re on edge,” you tease before your face sets a little more seriously. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just uh, you wanna head in? It starts in like five minutes.”

You nod, your hands leaving his waist as his fall back to his sides. “What are we seeing anyway?” You look up at the black lettering above you, smiling just as Eddie reveals your viewing choice for the night.

“Thought we could see Young Frankenstein. Saw they were doing an old-school horror weekend here in the paper.”

“That sounds great.”

He lets out a breath of relief when you bump his shoulder affectionately, and you begin walking into the theatre side by side.

“Now the real important question Eddie Munson. What are your go-to movie snacks?”

His hand twitches when it accidentally brushes the back of yours.

“Well, popcorn obviously.”

“Obviously.” You nod.

“Sour Patch Kids and you gotta add a packet of Reese’s Pieces in there too.”

“Wait, in there as in–?”

“In the popcorn bucket. All of it. Like a good version of a trail mix.”

You grin, “Very interesting.”

“Just wait till you try it, sweetheart, you’ll never do it any other way.”

You laugh, “Okay, lead the way.”

He bows, gesturing his hand towards the confection stand. “After you m’lady.”

Your giggle, Eddie quickly finds out is his new favourite sound. When it appears again in the movie theatre, he can’t seem to keep his eyes on Gene Wilder, only watching you light up with laughter.

He can’t quite believe how well it’s all going. That is until you’re sharing a large pepperoni, on the bench outside the place you insisted served the best “pies” in all of Chicago, and your confusion stops his heart for a second.

He groans when he takes the first bite of cheesy dough.

“Good right?”

He nods, chewing and swallowing quickly. “My uncle told me pizza wasn’t a first date kind of meal, but we don’t have anything like this back in Hawkins.”

You’re sitting so close that he notices you still right away.

“Wait, this is a date?”

“Oh,” he swears his heart drops to his stomach as he sees the surprise on your face. “Oh well, yeah I thought it was but I guess I–it doesn’t have to be, sorry.”

You reach out to grab his arm when he instinctively moves away, “No! I just didn’t realise you were asking me out, out. You kinda just kept listing food.” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “I want it to be a date.”

He bites his lip, looking back at you with eyebrows raised, “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, squeezing the arm still in your hold. “Of course. I would love to…be on a date with you right now.”

He beams, “Well, it’s your lucky night sweetheart.”

***

The date (once it’s established as one), goes so well Eddie finds himself back at your apartment, admiring your wall lined with records while you find the both of you a drink.

His eyebrows marry together when he notices Dusty Springfield next to the Sex Pistols.

“What’s the system here?” You hand him a beer when you reappear by his side. “Not by genre?”

“No. Autobiographical.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How–?”

“Well,” you step forward, reaching out to pick a plastic sleeve as if from memory, “if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 but didn’t give it to them…for personal reasons.” You show him the white cover of the album.

“That sounds…”

“Comforting.”

He nods slowly, “Yes.”

“It is.”

God, you’re weird. And cute. And cool. And, shit he was going for it, you said you wanted to be on a date with him. You invited him back to your place. No one’s ever done that before. He should go for it. He’s going for it–

Your lips feel even softer than he imagined, and he can’t help but give himself a mental high-five when you immediately move closer to him, face melting into the hand that cradles your cheek. You taste almost vanilla-y with the combo of rum and coke still sitting on your tongue when his meets yours. He places his beer down on the coffee table, and your lips follow him when he has to dip down slightly before his free hand comes to sit on your waist.

You part for a breath, “Didn’t realise vinyl categorisation would get you so hot.” You tease him, lips plump and eyes slightly glazed over, and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to keep you looking at him like this.

“Yeah uh, really love that Dewey Decimal system.” He leans close to capture your lips again, but you pull back, leaving him to chase you.

“The Dewey Decimal system is for books.” You shake your head.

Eddie huffs, “I really don’t care.” He finally finds your lips again and he swears they taste even sweeter the second time, despite being tainted by his own.

You guide him back to slowly sit on the couch, bodies falling a little clumsily together before you situate yourself in his lap, legs straddling his. You both stay like that for what could be hours for all Eddie cares, lips clicking in the silence.

“Fuck, I could kiss you all night.” He leans his forehead against yours, heavy breathing synced with your own, as you finally come up for air.

You shake your head, eyes soft and reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie.”

God dammit, is he glad he left Hawkins.

Tagging: @storiesbyrhi (I hope you like the coffee shop across from the record store 😉), @bettyfrommars (I finished it!)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #she writes #Spotify

[leonardcohenofficial]

vinyl + turntable basic info / general tips

while i am by no means a real audiophile or vinyl expert here are some tips that have worked for me over my almost two decades of collecting!

turntables + speakers

do not buy suitcase players. i cannot overstate this enough. do not buy suitcase players. the all-in-one players are generally cheaper, but there isn't enough support from the platter because they are smaller than 12 inch LPs. this can lead to shitty sound quality, the needle can fall out of the groove, and you can actually break your records. save up and pay a little more and get a proper turntable

there is a lot of debate about belt vs. direct drive turntables (belt drive turntables use a belt to spin the turntable while direct drive turntables have the motor directly under the platter) and which is better. very generally speaking if you want better sound quality, belt drive is the way to go; if you want a player that's a little easier to use that's also a little more durable, direct drive is a better option (most DJ turntables are also direct drive, as a side note)

i currently have three turntables and they are all audio-technica, which is a well respected brand (especially for beginners)—i have an AT-LP60X ($149) which is a belt driven player, as well as two AT-LP120XUSB ($349 each) which i use for practicing DJing/selecting. i also have a stanton M.203 mixer (insane to me that it's listed for $350 on amazon, i paid eighty bucks for mine on ebay), audio-technica ATH-M20x headphones (they were a gift but are listed for $49 on amazon) and a set of edifier R1280DB bluetooth speakers ($149). the speakers are hooked up directly into my mixer, but because both the speakers and the AT-LP60X are bluetooth, i can also play records on that turntable too

change your needle! general rule of thumb is to replace your needle every thousand hours of listening; for the average person if you change it once a year you should be good, i'm on the cautious side and change them every six months

i really like my setup; it's on the cheaper side when it comes to "grownup" gear but true audiophiles would probably scoff at my basics. regardless of what you end up getting, a decent turntable that doesn't have the speakers built in that fits within your budget and a good set of speaker or headphones is all you need

buying records

any time that you can, i recommend buying vinyl directly from the artist! whether it's through bandcamp their website or at a show i think it's better to buy direct when you can (and often times it's cheaper than buying through a third party)

when you can, buy local. not only is it good to support independently owned shops, developing a relationship with local music people is great and if they're good they'll start to know you/your tastes. it also allows you to get good at crate digging, because you never know what you're going to find in a dollar section

utilize listening stations if the store has them! people can be pretty fast and loose with grading used records, so it's better to listen to it and see if the audio quality corresponds with the price (i don't always buy mint/nearly mint records and can tolerate a fair amount of noise but not if i'm being ripped off lmfao)

look things up on discogs to see if you're getting ripped off. not only is discogs great for keeping track of your collection (also you can friend me here!), the online marketplace is great for checking average sale prices for a given release. also handy for seeing how rare a release is!

buying records on discogs can be a crapshoot, ebay even more so. read seller's reviews; if there's feedback that they generally grade conservatively, that's a good thing

i have such a large collection that maintaining a record of what i have is really necessary; discogs is really fantastic for this. you can even scan barcodes on specific releases to find them through the discogs app! it's super handy for me as sometimes i forget that i have certain albums already and end up buying multiple copies and having to get rid of them (i need to get better at cataloguing immediately after i get new stuff, i currently have about forty five records i still need to add lmfao)

storing + maintaining records

keep your records clean! get a good cleaning kit and have microfiber cloths on hand to keep your vinyl as dust free as possible. also use those storage sleeves, it makes a different in keeping your records cleaner longer

a general rule of vinyl storage that i learned from the owner of the shop that i've been going to since i was nine years old is to store them in less than 70 degrees F environments with less than 70% humidity (funnily enough this is apparently the same rule for cigars)

i recommend those ikea square storage bookcases, as they're generally study, aren't too expensive, are pretty easy to put together, and hold a lot of records (do not store your records in milk crates long term)

actually listen to your records! there are very few releases i keep sealed for the sake of keeping them in mint condition. vinyl can be a very expensive habit (800+ records later i am living proof lol) but it's no fun to keep them sitting around. have fun collecting and play your music!

#vinyl #music #records #sorry this took a minute ben lmfao #also folks are welcome to share / please feel free to friend me on discogs!

[haunted-headset]

WILBUR MEETING YN AT A VINYL STORE.

Thats it. THATS THE REQUEST 🤭

HOLY SHIT!!!! MY FIRST ASK!!!! YES!!!!

☆ We Fell in Love in October ☆

Summary: You work at a vinyl store near Wilbur Soot's apartment. One day, he comes in & asks you where a specific vinyl is. You compliment his shirt. He compliments your voice. & the rest is history.

Pairing: Cc!Wilbur x gn!reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of soulmates

Word count: 556

Genre: Fluff

Tags: @joviepog (mutuals/followers, let me know if you want to be tagged in the next one!)

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting this! Sorry if it isn't good :p

You exhaled softly as you stared at the clock in the vinyl store. 7:45 pm. 15 minutes until closing time. Thank God.

"Maybe I'll be able to get off of work early," you mumbled to yourself.

& that's when he came in.

He was a tall man, with perfect chocolate brown curls & a gorgeous face. He had simple glasses & a guitar on his back. He looked very out of breath.

"Are you still open?" he asked, breathing heavily. He had a lovely British accent that sounded like music to your ears, like a song that you would play all day every day for a week straight.

"Yeah," you said with a smile. "What can I help you with?"

He smiled softly & said, "Do you have any Los Campesinos vinyls?"

You nodded. "Right over here." You walk over to where the Los Campesinos vinyls are. You motioned toward his Arctic Monkeys shirt. "I like your shirt, by the way."

He smiled again. He had such a gorgeous smile. "Really? You like Arctic Monkeys?" He sounded so giddy & it killed you.

You nodded. "They're one of my favorite bands. I got to see them live once. The lead singer's kind of an asshole."

He laughed. "I've heard that he was a jerk." He paused before saying, "You have a really nice voice, by the way. That probably sounds weird as fuck, but your voice is really lovely."

You felt your cheeks heat up & you smiled. "Thank you. Your voice is nicer, though."

He laughed again. You could listen to him laugh all day. "Your voice is nicer."

You laughed. His smile got wider.

"You have a really nice smile, too," he said. "& a very nice laugh."

You laughed again, not entirely sure what else to do. He laughed with you. You both stood there for a moment before he turned over to the vinyls & grabbed the one he wanted. Breaking the silence, he asked, "What's your favorite Artic Monkeys song?"

At the same time, you both said, "My personal favorite is Do Me a Favour." He laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

"We're practically soulmates at this point," he said jokingly.

"Are you flirting with me?" you replied with a smirk & a raised brow.

"Maybe," he said with a shrug & a smile.

You chuckled & walked over to the counter. "Ready to check out?" He nodded & placed the vinyl on the table. You told him the price & he paid, leaving a few extra dollars in the tip jar. When he asked for a receipt, you quickly wrote something on the empty space on the receipt.

"Bye...what what your name?" the man asked.

"Y/n," you said. "What's your name?"

"Wilbur," he said. "Wilbur Soot."

"Well, I'll see you around, Wilbur Soot," you smiled. He returned the smile as he walked out. As he walked out, you smiled to yourself, knowing that he'd like what you wrote on the receipt.

As Wilbur walked home, he looked down at his receipt & his face flushed. At the bottom of the receipt, Y/n had written "Call me <3" with their number below it. He knew that he was going to call them tomorrow for sure. & come to the vinyl shop again.

& the rest was history.

#fanfic #wilbur soot #wilbursoot #creative writing #wilbur soot fanfiction #wilbur soot fic #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #fluff

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [10]

Description: Marc finds out the truth about Dove, and pays the mortal price.

Word count: 12.6k

Trigger Warnings: okay so; HEAVY TRIGGER for drug use and overdose/ accidental suicide. guns. blood. gore. abusive relationship. poverty. HEAVY ON THE ANGST PEOPLE. suggestive tones in parts.

authors note: I'm sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, I had planned to upload on valentines day however life got in the way in every way it possibly could and so this got put on hold for few days, I hope that's okay! enjoy!!

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Boys, get down here. Dinner’s going cold.” She called up the stairs, her voice already that of a tired mother. Mathew practically skidded past her bounding down the stairs, god knows that boy knew how to eat, even if the parsnips were stone cold he would still devour them whole, “Where’s Mikey?” She yelled after him, her tattered apron tied around her waist, greasy fingerprints dragged down the whites. 

“In his room,” Joey said, his bulky glasses deep in his new crossword book, “Nine down, a second chance at life?” 

His sister looked up the stairs worried, her natural expression whenever Mikey wasn’t under her constant watch, before she met his gaze, adjusting fake pearls around her neck. 

“Huh?” 

“Second chance at life. Nine letters.” He repeated, scratching the light smattering of facial hair he had only just been able to grow. He felt her fingers deftly begin to fix the tie around his collar, the golden fairy lights wrapped around the bannister illuminating where her red nail polish chipped around the edges. 

“After life?” She guessed, straightening his shirt out for him, fussing like she had always done. He shook his head, wincing as she screeched over his shoulder into the dining room. “MATHEW, PUT THE ROAST POTATOES BACK- THOSE ARE FOR EVERYONE,” She tutted under her breath. Sometimes he forgot she was only seventeen. “Sam, can you get the stuffing out the oven,”

A grunt of agreement from the second boy, before a six foot tall, moody boy shuffled past the open door with bumblebee oven mitts on which took every ounce of attitude out of him. 

“One word,” Joe said, his eyes flicking over to the vinyl player that stuttered on its eighth run through of ‘Fairytale of New York’. 

The tinsel she’d braided into her hair rustled, eyes identical to his own watching his mouth quirk in thought. 

“You’re supposed to be the genius of the family,” She teased, her finger nudging under his chin affectionately before she released him, pecking his forehead as he passed her to go take a seat at the table. She fussed some more over the baubles hanging from the tree on her way to the kitchen, straightening out the few stragglers, her pruning fingertips brushing over the fleece blankets covering the back of the sofa, as if she needed to feel their home to remind her where she was, “How about Migration?” 

“Good, but it ends in T,” He called out to her, watching his eldest brother look up guiltily where he had a dollop of mash on a spoon, his mouth already full.

It seemed their sister caught onto his greed as she sharply smacked him over the back over the head, ripping the spoon from his hand, “Pig,” She spit at him, not that it seemed to phase him too much as his eyes already set on the small beef loin, the fat dripping off the plate tenderly, “I’m going to get Mikey. Resurrect?”

His eyes lit up at the suggestion, scribbling it down in his book. The cinnamon candle burnt strongly in the centre of the table, warm and spicy, just how Christmas should smell. 

It didn’t negate the fact they had all had to go easy on showers for the week, or that the house was freezing at night or that it was obvious all of their “Fancy day” clothes smelled like a charity shop. 

Joseph was only thirteen and already he’d noticed how exhausted his sister seemed every day. He’s stopped thinking about it so much, seeing as she’d always been that way, but the drain on her body was clear as anything nowadays. 

Joey was just a kid, but so was she. 

It wasn’t long before the final two of their little family came traipsing down the stairs, Mikey’s hand tight in his sister’s. At twelve years old, he was still a dot of a boy, scrawny, practically all ribs she would say, and he was a weepy one too. It wasn’t a surprise the kids at school were so cruel, even their own father, when he bothered to drag himself home from the pub or his friends’ sofas, would say the fire had died out a little more with every kid that came out of his ex-wife. His sister was so fierce she could melt the world’s core if she wanted to, Joey was convinced of it. Matt simply was untouchable despite the kids at school taking digs at him just as often as they did Mikey, as if he knew from birth he was getting out of this hell hole, that he was made for better than this. Children could sniff out the ones among them that were struggling like a cadaver dog onto a corpse, and once they latched on they rarely let go. Then was Sammy, and well, one look at him and he spoke for himself. At fifteen he was already broad enough that the kids picking on Mike turned to deadly silence when he was around; grumpy as a mule, cold as their mother, a boy with a bitter face. His sister would rub her thumb over the scowl that marred his brow, trying to flatten the crack where his nose met his forehead, where the anger seemed to settle. She hated seeing them upset; had the unshakable need to fix them. 

Joey was her smart boy, trying to fly under the radar and cause her less anguish than he saw the rest of the boys gave her. He thought sometimes, when she would come home at 2am in her clothes from the club, bruises on her arms, when she would make them both a cup of tea and help him with homework, he thought then that he might even be her favourite. They all vied for her attention, only her and Matthew even remembered their mother, it only made sense that she was the next best thing for her boys. 

But she was more than just a stand in for their mom. She was their everything, even with the fights over who was doing laundry, the yelling between her and Sammy when she would have to pick him up from the station for the nth time that month for petty thievery, even when Matt started wolfing down a rogue handful of carrots that had fallen onto the dinner table and she had all but dragged him by the ear into the kitchen to go get them drinks. 

They revelled in their little bubble, knowing the only thing they’d be given for free in this world was each other. 

And when they had finally sat down for christmas dinner, the smoke from the DIY Christmas crackers tiny Mikey had made lingering with a sulphur bite to their nose; when Sam flashed them all a rare laugh as she read out the terrible jokes hidden inside, the paper hats falling down over their eyes as they laughed, their full tummies hurting, plates polished of every scrap, Matt ofcourse eating the left over yorkshire puddings as if they were crisps. When they’d sat in front of the TV that only had four channels and a hefty video player underneath, Joey fiddled with the only film they ever bothered to watch on Christmas Day. 

The sepia scene met the soft orange of the fire she’d lit for them, every light besides the ones on the tree turned off for their movie. Joey and Mikey sat practically two inches from the screen, a somewhat stale bowl of popcorn passed between them. 

They watched in awed silence as Dorothy ran down the country lane, Toto at her heels, her auburn hair jumping behind her in bunches as she looked over her shoulder. 

Running away, always running away, same as she was every year they watched. 

“She isn’t coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you?” Judy Gartland fawned over her pet, the gingham dress bunching around her knees. 

Worried, always worried. Always preening. Always fixing.  

And by the time the twister came to rip her away from her family and send her to Oz, the girl who wasn’t Dove just yet was already asleep on Sammy’s shoulder, the grumpy boy knocking his head against hers affectionately, silently, the crunching of popcorn and the slurping of an off brand Cola the only things that cut through the sound of the movie.

Unaware, naive to what was about to happen to her. 

—

Dove and Steven had a glint in their eyes that she was sure would never be wiped off as they walked beside one another, their pinky fingers clasped tightly together. 

He had a dopey look on his face, not even watching where they were going as he stared at her side profile, seeing the warmth meeting her eyes for the first time in a while. Her cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiling, biting her bottom lip like she had a secret. 

She would glance back at him every so often, only to see him already staring, his brown eyes softer than a cup of hot chocolate, swirling with adoration and melting at the sight of her meeting his gaze. 

After the fourth or fifth time, she reached up to brush her nose gently, “Do I have something on my face?” 

He didn’t even answer, he just pulled her in for another kiss, his free hand tugging at the fat of her hips, squeezing gently as he kissed her with a greed she felt high on. 

She held back a whine, the hands on her body kind and loving, overwhelming, invading, saturating her with something so entirely like home she felt her face run hot. 

She giggled into his mouth as he released her, her hands finding the sides of his neck, thumb running over either side of his jaw as she felt him smile under her touch. 

“Steven?” He seemed dazed, eyes never leaving her lips as she said his name again, giddy like his brain had malfunctioned and slowed, “Do I have anything on my face?”��

He mumbled something wordless, shaking his head slightly, looking back at her goofy smile as she waited for a real answer. As if it had only just caught up with him, his brow creased, meeting her eyes with a bit more clarity than before. 

“Huh?” He asked, to which she giggled and kissed him some more. She was sure her heart was pounding out of her ribs, and that he could hear it from how closely he was pressed to her front. 

“You’re staring, I thought I had something on my face,” She said, his nose brushing against hers as he dipped in to kiss the laugh lines of her cheeks, “Do I?” 

Steven shook his head, his gaze fanning over the entirety of her face and landing where he wanted her the most, back to her lips that smiled at him in content. 

“No, just,” He stopped himself from kissing her again, worrying he was smothering her, though some part of him knew she craved the touch as much as he did. She told him as much by the way her fingers intertwined in the root of his hair, pressing into him like a cat purring under his hand, “You make me really happy,”

Her throat bobbed, the smallest of tears springing to her eyes as she kissed him one last time. She wished she could meld her body to his, couldn’t wait for them to have a moment alone when she could take him fully if he would have her again. Truthfully, selfishly, she couldn’t give a damn about Harrow all that much anymore, her entire being hollow the moment she pulled away from him. He’d changed the epicentre of her world the moment she’d heard those three words. 

He loved her. 

She didn’t deserve it, but he loved her. 

Shuffling away from him, not entirely unaware of how his hand was reluctant to drop her waist, how his lips chased hers, how he seemed to pout when she put some distance between them. 

“You make me really happy too, Steven,” She said, her voice mellow and buttery, moving to hold his hand properly, the two of them setting off back to where Layla seemed to be fiddling with something from her backpack.

She knew she would never be good enough for him, that he deserved someone so much better, but it was difficult to hear the horrid thoughts that whirred around the abyss of her head when she heard him softly chuckle, smiling to himself as if he couldn’t believe the words out of her mouth. 

Sometimes it’s not about deserve. That’s what Marc had said. And maybe she could start believing him. Because it was Marc, and Marc knew everything. Marc would know what to say, know how to soothe the feeling of rot that threatened to ruin Steven’s sweet words, his soft kisses. 

Marc would fix it. Marc would understand. She was sure of it. 

–

“We’re going to belay down there,” Layla explained, securing the mountaineering rope to the clasp on her waist, tightening the notch and giving the cable an experimental tug. 

The two of them blanked, looking at one another in their own sets of gear that the woman had them step into with little explanation. 

“I think we should be right on time, Harrow shouldn’t be too far ahead of us-” Dove started, only to be cut off by the older woman with a scoff and an eye roll.

“Belay. It means we’re going to lower ourselves down using our own weight.” Dove’s face fell in embarrassment, smiling sheepishly as Layla shook her head with a hidden chuckle. 

“Right, got it.” She held her hands up, nudging Steven’s when she saw his smile widen, if that had even been possible, “Floor is yours,”

Layla hid her laugh with a cough, taking one confident step off the ledge and down into the tomb, the rope gently dropping her into the darkness. 

Dove and Steven watched with bated breath, the former leaning forwards to ensure she had reached the floor safely. Her eyes squinted, not seeing all too much other than the broken steps that would have once been functional, that were half buried in sand by now. 

“Be careful love,” She felt his fingers loop into her harness, keeping her safe even though they both knew she could survive the fall and much worse. 

She smiled, ready to reply when she saw a flash of Layla’s torch from below, and the woman’s face returned.

“Alright, it’s safe. Come down one at a time,” She instructed, the younger woman sticking a thumbs up at her and moving back into a hard chest where Steven hovered over her. 

“I’ll go first,” She said, reaching for the clip and tightening it to her harness the way Layla had. 

“Wait, shouldn’t I go first? Make sure it’s working properly?” Steven said, though his voice hardly matched the chivalry of his words. She smiled toothily at him, tugging on the rope once to set it in place. 

“Put it this way, honey. I can survive broken legs, but I need every bit of you to function or else I don’t know how I’m going to repay you,” It was new. It was flirty. She had a cheeky twinkle in her eye that reminded him she was able to be girlish and happy and tease him and call him honey and it all felt normal and he wanted more of it by the bucket load. He’d not seen her like this perhaps ever. He fell in love with her even more. He didn’t even think he could.

His mouth moved in an attempt to say something, his face tinging red at the implication of her words. 

“You don’t have to repay me,” He murmured, feeling her fingers loop through his belt, a heat to her gaze that had his skin prickling. 

“I know,” She pecked his lips one more time before they had to be parted even if it was only for a matter of a minute or two, “I just really want to,” She drew back when she heard his breath stutter, his cheeks growing all the more darker in their cherry red shade, and gripped the top of the rope the way she’d seen Layla do. 

“Ok-kay,” The man stammered, his palms sweating, nose tingling with heat. 

“See you in a minute,” She quipped with a deep breath for courage, stepping into the darkness as her body weight tugged against the rope. 

Her feet met the sand faster than expected, stumbling a moment before she steadied herself, fingers quickly undoing the harness that sat around her thighs and waist. 

Taking in the small entrance to the catacomb, she saw Layla crouched over the foot of a statue, her own torch clamped tightly in her grasp. Figuring she was conducting her own search, she chanced a look back up to where Steven’s dopey grin looked down at her, as if cartoonish pink hearts swirled around his head. 

“It’s safe!” She called up, as she fumbled with the latch around her harness, “Just need to get this off-”

The wind was knocked out of her as a body crashed into her own, two startled voices filling the cave, two hands pinning either side of her, landing on her back with a shooting pain through her brow. 

She groaned in unison with the heavy body atop her, feeling where his head had banged against hers. 

“Guess you could say I’m really falling for you,” Steven’s joke melded with a grunt as he pried himself off her, feeling Marc huff in annoyance from inside the head. 

“Huh?” Her voice was muddled, her face scrunched in pain. She barely heard what he said before he had stumbled to his knees, holding his hand out to lift her off the floor. 

“I said- Nothing- Sorry love,” Steven stuttered, his hand pawing at his aching temple, pulling the girl back to her feet, “Guess I just need a bit of practice at that Belay thing,” 

“A bit?” Layla scoffed, though she watched the pair with a hidden smirk, the bumbling mess of limbs as they dusted themselves off and unhooked their gear, “You okay?”

“I’m aces,” He said, turning to where Dove had dirt collecting in her hairline. Reaching a hand up to help her brush it away gently, he was distracted by the huge statue of big cat, most likely a lion, engraved into the stone, “Look at you,” He murmured breathlessly. 

It was her turn to warm under his brazen words, stilling her movements, fingertips rubbing away the traces of sand clinging to her clammy skin. 

She laughed with more shock than anything, though it sounded more like a choke, swallowing heavily as she braved to meet his gaze. 

Her brow furrowed as she flicked a glance over her shoulder at the artwork along the wall, untouched for hundreds of years, the paint lines a thick and dark umber red as if sketched only yesterday. 

Looking back to him, she crossed her fingers he hadn’t seen her flattered expression, knowing better than to be embarrassed around him yet she couldn’t deny those three words spread the heat back through her gut that he had satiated only moments earlier. 

Clicking her torch back on, she threw her attention away from those soft brown eyes, back to the sculpt of the lions, the stone cracking as chalky under their years of solitude, but striking nonetheless. 

“If they just sprang to life right now and asked me a riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled,” Steven said, his voice that of a boy at Christmas, “I’d shit myself, but I’d be thrilled,” 

Giggling behind besotted eyes, Dove moved to head further into the tomb, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw freshly drawn initials in the sand. 

Glancing back to where Layla seemed to shrink in demeanour, she gestured to the markings with her light, “Did you do these?” She asked, curious to her motives. 

“Yeah,” She cleared her throat, averting her eyes to the wall opposite them where vibrant blues and sunflower yellow strokes stared back, “Yeah it’s for my father. He would have loved to be here,”

“Big history buff is he?” Steven asked, the three of them setting off through the tunnel, leading them further into the crypt.

“So much worse,” The El-Faouly woman replied with a smile, falling into step with the duo, “Archeologist with a mission,”

They all breathed a laugh, the air stagnant and musky around them, the smell of a place only the dead seemed to know the past few thousand years. 

“And to him it was a dream worth dying for. And he did,” She went on, Dove’s face falling into solemn sorrow. She knew, if Layla was anything like she was, she would hate the idea of hearing an apology, would hate the idea of someone feeling sorry for her. She had barely been treading water the past day or two, fighting to stay in Layla’s good books, she feared if she were to show any remorse now it would only earn her a slap to the face. 

“Did he dig it?” She asked, her face forlorn and wary as she toed the boundary between their friendship. Casting a glance back at Layla and Steven, she gulped, “So history, you could say he dug it?” 

The light bulb went for both of them, Layla frowning with a defeated grin. 

“That was awful,” She playfully shoved the younger woman, who took it with no bother, smiling back in relief her joke had been taken kindly, “That was the worst-”

“I quite liked it,” Steven inputted helpfully, also earning a bash to the shoulder as Layla laughed. 

“Not a word from the two of you now unless it’s something useful,” She scolded, leading the way through the tightening corridor, the darkness encompassing them in something that felt like comradery. 

“Did you want to hear the one about the dinosaur’s dog-” Dove started, the words echoing around them as they headed further in, only to be stopped again by Layla’s softened voice. 

“Do-you-think-he-saurus rex!”

–

She stared at the house, the one she’d been born in, the light in her room long since switched out. She wouldn’t blame them if they’d taken over her room, it was the biggest one, though that wasn’t saying much. She could see it now, Mathew shotgunning the double bed the moment she left, there was more than enough room for Billie’s small cot next to him. She’d grabbed what she could the day Oz had taken her away, but she wouldn’t bat an eye if they’d sold the clothes she’d left, or even thrown them on the fire to stay warm. 

No, she wouldn’t blame them for erasing all memory of her. She’d been the one to leave, not them. As far as they knew, she’d not made contact whatsoever. Her letters had never been sent, never even left the house. 

She’d not seen home in three years. It was smaller than she remembered. Darker. 

The duffle bag was clutched tightly in her hands, wringing the fabric of the handle between her fingers. The accelerator had been to the floor the entire way here, the blood was still caked thick in her hair, under her nails, stained parts of her skin. 

Frank’s blood. She wondered if the neighbours had called the police yet, if they ever would since he kept them so isolated. Wondered if she was already a suspect in his murder. 

She shook in her shoes at the thought, though that may just be the December night air. 

A figure came storming out of the front door, hands in his pockets, his coat thin and moth eaten. 

Mathew had never been a tall boy, not even at eighteen when she’d last seen him, especially not now at twenty. He was always thin in his face, despite devouring the most out of any of them, his eyes always tired. Though, becoming a dad at such a young age would do that to someone. 

He stopped in front of her, his eyes roving over her with a grand mix of anger and worry. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, as if he’d seen a dog returning home with its tail between its legs. Which was sort of how she felt. 

“Matty-” She breathed, her exhale clear as day in the freezing night, only he scoffed at the words. He may as well have spat in her, “I don’t have time to explain-”

“What?” He growled, lip sneering in a way that looked too much like their mother, “Where the fuck have you been?” 

She baulked, eyebrows furrowing in a way that she willed herself not to burst into tears. She wanted to head inside, wanted to curl up on the old, ratty sofa they’d had since she was young, wanted to feel Sammy’s head knock against hers affectionately, the only sign the grumpy boy ever gave that said he loved her, despite the fact she knew. She wanted to scold Matty for eating all the bacon out the fridge, help Joey finish his sudoku, wanted, no, needed to see Mikey, see he was okay. Last time she’d been here, she’d found him stashing pills for his friends she knew had a one way ticket to juvie or the streets. 

She’d left for all of them, left to get them a better life. And now she was standing outside her childhood home, drenched in bloodied clothes, her body used, beaten, betrayed. Grace was gone. Frank was dead. 

This was all she had left. Her boys were all she had left. 

“I don’t have time,” She repeated, forcing the duffle bag into his hands, hoping he missed the way the blood collected beneath her nails. She’d scrubbed off what she could before she left, but she knew had it been daylight he’d notice the red ichor immediately, “This is for you,”

“Wha-” Matty looked as if he could swing for her, and she knew she deserved it. She’d left them. Her bottom lip trembled at the very thought. He said her name, only now it seemed dirty, filthy, tainted, like that name had been said by so many awful men she felt as though it was muddied even Matty when he said it, “You leave us to rot for three years, and all of a sudden you just swan in here with presents-”

“Mathew, be quiet,” She barked, hearing his voice grow louder and louder, echoing in the silent street she used to run down to catch her bus, “I have to go,”

He stopped, staring at her teary eyes for a moment, and then laughed. Loud and cruel, and she knew his vitriol was still ongoing, knew she wouldn’t even stop him if he wanted to throw a cruel hand across her face for running away. 

She was such a coward. She was a liar. A murderer. But she was a coward above all of that. 

“Did we stop being good enough for you, huh?” He spat, trying to hand her the bag back, “I don’t want your pity or your little presents, take it-”

“It wasn’t like that,” She pleaded, wrestling with him to keep the bag strap in his grasp,  “Mathew, just take the bag,” 

He shoved her away, but she didn’t relent, her mind set on getting him to take the damn money, the fucking notes that mean nothing to her anymore. There had to be at least thirty grand in there by now, probably more. 

“We needed you, and you weren’t here,” Matt stumbled away from her as she forced the bag into his chest. His voice trembled in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy, since she used to bathe him with that damn toy boat, wash his hair with dish soap, “Social Services know about Mikey and the pills- they want to take Billie away-”

She stopped at that, the two of them looking at each other for the first time since she’d shown up. His eyes were watery, where hers were empty. His sister had always been strong, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen her cry in all the years of shit she’d trodden through for them. She had always looked exhausted, as if her brain was fired up every moment of the day, as if she could go for a three day nap and it wouldn’t so much as touch her. 

But this was worse. She wasn’t tired. Wasn’t thinking hard. His sister didn’t even look alive. 

Whoever it was staring back at him was not the girl he remembered. Someone could tell him a wraith had crawled into his sister’s skin and dragged her back here with the sole mission of getting him to take the damn bag, and he’d believe them. 

She looked dead. She felt it too.

“Is that-” He stopped himself, a bitter hand reaching up for a mark on her face that glinted under the moonlight, “Blood?” 

She froze, and for a moment neither of them said anything. 

Her breath rattled in her chest, the stickiness of Frank’s blood clinging her clothes to her skin, and he realised once he’d actually taken the sight of her in, that she smelled metallic, that she had a thousand mile stare that had not been there the day she’d left them. 

“Everything I’ve done, I did it for you.” She said after a moment’s reprieve and the anger brewing in his frown wiped immediately, the words soothing his fury into a simmering guilt. 

He tried to say her name again, only to have her cut him off, shoving the back into his arms with finality, her eyes blank, leaving no space for questions, for retaliation. 

“Get Mikey a lawyer. Get him to rehab. Read the letters, or not, I don’t care,” But she did. She cared more than anything. Cared so much she needed to run, now, cared so much she knew every moment she spent talking was more time for him to be incriminated in what she’d done. “I have to go, it’s not safe,” 

He wanted to hug her; he’d never been the affectionate one, she usually saved her cuddles for the younger ones. He wished he’d hugged her now. Wished he’d dragged her back inside, gotten her warm in front of their fire, forced the truth out of her. Anything to tell him what that look on her face had meant. Anything to make her stop seeming so dead it scared him like a child. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not even as she all but sped away in a car he’d never seen before, a limp he’d not noticed through his anger fogged brain as he’d stormed down their front path. 

He barely caught Sammy, filling their entire doorway with his form that had only grown tenfold, if that had even been possible, since his sister left, looking like a kicked dog behind angry eyes that glinted with rare tears. 

“Come on, Sam,” Matty said, brushing past his little brother, though he towered over him for a nineteen year old, heading inside their small house that had felt colder since she’d abandoned them, “We’ll sort it out in the morning,” 

But Sam didn’t. He watched the broken tail lights of the car speed off into the distance, until they were no more than a sound rattling around the silent neighbourhood. Only then did he let himself begin to cry, hoping she came back for them soon. 

–

“It’s a maze,” Layla said, as the three of them traipsed through the tunnels that certainly looked like they had seen better days. Dove startled a bit at the bugs that skittered up the walls as the light hit them, no doubt a little frightened themselves at the rude intrusion from the trio, though she stuck behind Layla. She’d fought demon jackals, men with guns, lived a double life but bugs were what scared her. 

“It’s a-maze-ing,” Steven replied, snickering to himself, which had her giggling too, shaking her head at the man behind her. 

“She means there are six paths, Steven,” D ove clarified, and he hoped the light covered the way his cheeks rouged. 

“Right, yeah, yeah,” He replied, sticking his head down one of the thin alley ways to scope out the labyrinth they’d found themselves in, “Six points,” 

Dove hung back as Layla went towards another one of the pathways, eyes clocking a stone surface planted directly in the middle of the antechamber, the sand laying thick over the top, yet uneven as if the stone wasn’t entirely flat. 

Her brows furrowed, and she traced her finger deeper in the dust, carving out where the ridges grooved into the table. She made an almond shape, an arching line parallelling it, before she realised what the marking was, her brows shooting into her forehead. 

She saw a torch flick over where she worked, felt Steven’s body press against her side as if he’d forgotten what personal space was exactly. 

“You don’t think…” He started, watching how her soft fingertip swirled around into a spiral the two of them had seen a million times walking past the exhibits on the way to the gift shop, “This whole structure is-”

“The Eye of Horus,” She finished, curving around to create the iris. As if proving her point, Steven’s light reflected off the the shiny stone of the table, producing the identical symbol on the ceiling of the room, which had her nudging his hand, pointing to the light, “Look at that,”

“Wow,” He hummed, his eyes flicking between the eye and the wonder on her face as she smiled wryly at the stone, “It’s the royal symbol, protection in the afterlife.”

“I mean the resources needed to build this-” Layla added, looking between all of the corridors that had certainly not been crafted in a day’s work, nor had it been done cheaply, judging by the quality of stone that surrounded them. She stopped, her eyes wild with excitement as she looked at the two of them, “Her final avatar was a pharaoh,”

A breath whooshed from Dove’s lungs, jaw gaping, feeling Steven practically buzzing in his shoes beside her. 

“A bloody pharoah,” He repeated, the joy coating his words like a kid on Christmas. He and Layla chuckled between one another, before their gaze fell on Dove, who stared at the drawing in the sand as if it would outright speak to her.

“So you think it’s a map?” Layla asked, her fawn eyes dropping to the girl who bit her lip unsure. 

She nodded, gaze scanning over the drawing again, as Steven’s rough finger followed where her own hand had traced just moments before. 

“Right. So the eye of Horus is also the Eye of mind, yeah?” He asked, his face now more serious than she’d ever seen him, as he thought harder, “Representing the six senses, six points.” He gestured to each of the corridors that lead away from the chamber they huddled in, “So you’ve got the eyebrow that denotes thoughts. Pupil, sight obviously.” He followed each of his words with his calloused fingers, the same ones that had been down her trousers not so much as a few hours ago. She felt her stomach writhe at the thought, “This point here is, uh, hearing. Smell. Touch. And this long line ending in a spiral is the tongue,” 

She felt her eyes train on his lips as he said it, his gaze falling to her face where she stood besides him, watching every movement on his lips as if she could barely hold herself back from meeting their mouths then and there. 

“The avatar would be Ammit’s voice,” Layla murmured, entirely unaware of the heated thoughts racing through the girl’s mind as she stared at the man, his own expression indiscernible, meeting her eyes with his own chestnut hues, “We should head this way,” 

Layla took off towards the route the tongue pointed them to, the two of them hanging behind for a moment, unable to rip their eyes from one another. 

“What’s that look for?” Steven asked, chuckling nervously as he tried and failed to pull his gaze away from her where she licked her lips slowly. Leaning towards him, her fingers found the front of his jacket as she pulled him closer, kissing him gently, though there was a subtle bite to it that went straight to his trousers as he melted. 

Pulling away, she looked at him with a spritely kind of excitement, as if she loved every moment of looking at him like that. 

“Did I ever tell you how amazing I think you are?” She asked, her face warm with adoration, and the words had his cheeks blazing instantly. 

“You mentioned it once or twice,” He joked, both of them knowing full well the girl was known to give him every compliment she could even before they had been brave enough to admit how they felt for one another. 

She snickered, pulling away from him to follow where Layla had wandered off too, looping a pinky finger in his own to encourage him to follow. Had she not, he was sure he’d be rooted to the floor, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, or even for his cock to calm enough that he could move without feeling it press against his trousers. 

He cursed himself moments later, when his brain caught up to him, that he hadn’t told her just how amazing he thought she was. 

Yet Steven felt his jeans tighten again when he thought of one other way he could show her just what he felt. 

-

The heavy panting was the only sign either of them were even there as they walked through the narrow corridor, the smallest slither of light meeting them at the end, not unlike when they had trudged into the Great pyramid. That had seemed weeks ago, when in reality it had only been six days, how her life had been flipped upside down all the more since then. 

Her head rattled on her shoulders, thoughts flitting over Layla and her whereabouts as they stepped through the hallway, dust thickening in their lungs with every pant. Her ears were alert to the smallest of movements, her heart pounding in her chest, the image of that thing, the resurrected Heka Priest, replaying in her head, the screech of its rotted vocal chords keeping her arm hairs standing in goose flesh. 

“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Dove asked solemnly, her brow creased so tight she reminded herself of Sammy, knowing they had always looked the most similar out of all of her brothers. She knew, by the way Steven blanched at the sight of her worry, that she looked as guilty as she felt, “I shouldn’t have left her-”

“We didn’t have much choice, sweetheart,” He sighed, grabbing her hand tightly in his own, stopping in the middle of the darkened chamber to look at her properly. She tugged her lip between her teeth as she averted his gaze, the disappointment in herself shadowing over her chest, “We did everything we could- it’s Layla, she’s done this a thousand times with Marc. She’ll know what to do,” 

Though he was more convincing himself than anything. He wasn’t so sure from the way Marc scoffed inside the headspace that she had in fact not run from undead creatures that threatened to rip her limb from limb a thousand times. Not even once. This was new territory for all of them. 

She didn’t seem convinced as she nodded, her lips quirking as if she was about to say something, only for him to kiss her forehead before she could. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if something happened to her,” She confessed, after he drew back, watching her thoughts swimming behind sad eyes, as if he could see the way she bit her tongue to stop herself from calling herself the worst names imaginable. 

He stroked her cheek gently, tilting her chin to meet his gaze, his chocolate gaze warmer than summer and he smiled at her sadly. 

“None of this is your fault,” He said, though she said nothing, chewing her cheek silently, “The faster we get the ushabti, and the faster we can go find Layla. Deal?” 

She nodded again, and he squeezed her hand, pulling her towards the end of the corridor with a small smile. 

Steven Grant was not a brave man, not by any means. But for her, he would be. He thought the same as she had, worried for the El-Faouley woman more and more with every step they took towards the tomb, his own body on high alert for an incoming attack from one of those creatures. 

The end of the hallway drew near, the path widening out to accommodate an entrance, water trickling between the tiles in a silent stream, and he held her hand tighter as they navigated over the stepping stones, her boots slippy over the moss that clung to the rocks. 

It wasn’t until he reached the end, where the corridor opened out, that he let go of her hand in favour of flicking his torch on. His entire body froze at the sight, satiated in awe of the tomb before him. 

She hopped the final stepping stone, hands grabbing onto the wall and his shoulder for support before she followed his gaze to the room, and her jaw dropped too. 

“First ones in, tomb fit for a pharaoh,” Steven hummed, stepping further into the antechamber, and he wasn’t wrong by any means. The walls were all but covered in bright paints that had yet to wash away, the tales of heroic battles and armies surrounding them like one huge mural. Solid gold plates, figurines, vases scattered neatly around the room, each one shiny and polished as if the death bed had never been touched since the day it had been sealed. Four bronze horse statues the size of her watched them enter, carefully avoiding the water that surrounded the sarcophagus in a deep pool, stepping between cracked slabs towards the coffin.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding as she saw the sheer amount of engravings on the sarcophagus, each one proving the power the dead king had held over his people when he’d died. It was more than she’d seen even on one, more than she would ever see. 

This was a wealthy, wealthy pharaoh, she realised, her brows flicking into her hairline

“Thutmose II?” Steven guessed, leading the way to the coffin, the excitement blaringly clear in his voice. He couldn’t so much as catch his breath behind his smile, “Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the bigg’uns, Dove,” He said, flicking a grin over his shoulder as her eyes scaled every inch of the tomb. Her jaw hung open, ignoring the dusty task of musk in her mouth, the stagnant smell of water, her eyes pure wonder of what she was seeing. 

This was the stuff of movies, of adventures she read to Joey and Mikey before bed, never did she think she would be part of it, let alone with Steven Grant, a man so quiet he apologised to pigeons, who jumped at his own shadow, who missed his bus every single morning. 

“Must be, I’ve never seen so many offerings,” She replied, willing her feet to hold steady as they stepped between the stones and water carefully. “The engravings, there nothing like I’ve studied before,” 

“Oh wow, look at that,” Steven gawped, taking the final step onto the centrepiece, heading towards the sarcophagus with ravenous eyes, “Look at all these relics,” 

She was hot on his heels, quick to hop over, and expand her search with an eagle eye as she closed in on the sarcophagus. 

“Hold on, Macedonian?” Dove stopped in her tracks, clicking her torch on and nearing the engravings with wide eyes, “It can’t be right-”

“That’s Macedonian,” Steven echoed, kneeling next to her with wary fingertips. He brushed over the markings, a gobsmacked laugh coming from his chest, “Well-b-but the only pharaoh-” 

She grabbed his arm with a clawing strength, head drinking in the facts before her, gently hands following the engravings as if she needed to touch it herself to believe what she knew to be true, “H-He insisted on calling himself Egyptian,” She swallowed, standing on shaky knees to behold the rest of the coffin, her heart hammering. The two of them approached either side of the king’s burial place. “Steven, I think we found the long lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” 

Taking a moment, if not to catch a nervous breath, their eyes met across the top of the sarcophagus, an identical expression of astonishment on their faces. 

She couldn’t help it then; she started laughing. Nervous and yet amazed, she was lost entirely for words. 

“We have to open it, Steven,” She said, her chuckles dying out, a hand flying to her forehead when she realised what a desecration they were about to cause, “The ushabti has to be inside, we have to open it up, oh goodness-”

“Everything inside me is screaming not to touch this thing,” Steven agreed, shaking his nerves out through his hands while watching her also fret over the slight grave robbing they were about to commit. 

“You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” Marc snapped from the glint in the cursive gold writing across the sarcophagus’ chest. He seemed to have roused from his silent protest and come back swinging, Steven thought with a bitter huff, his hands coming up to the side of the opening. 

“Alright, alright, alright,” He replied, a nervous grip settling on the cold sandstone. His eyes flicked to her again for reassurance, though she herself looked to be coming to a sobering understanding they needed to disgrace the burial sight to get what they wanted. She nodded, her hand drifting to clutch over her mouth in shock, like she needed to stop herself from protesting his actions, and with that he pushed. 

The smell of death invaded her nose, choking her for a moment as the stone slid to reveal the mummified corpse of the man historians had been babbling about for decades. 

This had once been a conqueror, a king, a pharaoh everyone whispered about, a man who’s name was spoken a thousand times a day on the guided tours in the museum.

And they had found him. 

A plated scarab sat across his chest, one she assumed was a sister to the one they had used to find him, the one Harrow took, below it; a huge, solid battle axe with engravings the entire length of its sharp edge. An offering to a man so revered for his wars. 

A shiver trickling down her spine, she looked up at Steven through wide eyes, the two of them entirely stumped for words at what they were discovering, the thousands of years they had just peeled back with one fell swoop. 

“Oh man,” Steven shook his head, barely ripping his eyes away from the mummy for a moment as she moved to stand at the head of the sarcophagus.

“Where’s the ushabti?” Marc spoke again, this time from the fresh golden sheen on the axe, seeing no other offerings or trinkets inside the coffin besides the weapon. 

“Well, if you’re going to hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look,” Steven replied, his heart a hummingbird behind his chest, almost, almost as excited as he had been when he’d been kissing her against that post. 

Almost, but not quite. 

She stayed silent, attuning her ears into keeping watch for Harrow’s men approaching, or hopefully even figuring out where Layla was, while Steven’s brain whirred, conferring with Marc. 

She hoped he wasn’t mad at her for Steven pushing him out of the headspace, for throwing that mirror into the sand the moment he’d gotten his lips on hers. She hoped he would understand. Marc always understood. 

Steven’s face smoothed out in realisation, whether he had come to it on his own or Marc had helped she wasn’t sure, but she grabbed his wrist gently nonetheless. 

“What is it?” She murmured, his eyes trained on the tightly wrapped linen, an almost horrified look on his face. 

“Alexander was the voice of Ammit…” He trailed off, his hand coming to rest on the corpse’s jaw, “All right, I’m gonna try something, I’m gonna do something here.”

His fingers found the lip of the cloth where the head met the body, weaving their way under and tugging them away carefully. 

Dove released a shaky breath, her hand returning in shock over her mouth, knowing that this was technically known as grave desecration, let alone ruining thousands of years of history. 

“Steven, oh my god-” She gagged as the smell hit her, the man beside her writhing in sickness as his fingers touched the mummified skin beneath. 

“Oh god- so sorry- sorry, Mr Great,” He choked on his words, the disgust running over his skin when he touched something cold and wrinkled. 

He tore the bandages with more force, the linen coming away easily, but they both shuddered hearing something crack under the weight of his hand, something she could only imagine was a bone.

Steven pulled the cloth away to reveal a perfectly mummified face, and the sight wasn’t so uncommon as she’d thought since they had two preserved in the museum. But seeing it so up close, without the temperature controlled glass, it made her want to vomit and stare in awe all at the same time. 

Steven took an unsure breath, before he went even further, his fingers resting on the lower mandible, pulling back whatever remained of the lips to slip between his teeth, his other hand holding his cranium still. 

She forced herself not to wince as he started tugging the mouth open; the look on his face was torture for him enough. 

“All right, open up. Oh, sorry, Mr Great,” He bit out, bile rising in his own throat at the sensations beneath his hand, the jaw cracking and ripping down with a nauseating crunch. His hand reached down the gullet, and she had to turn away then when he started rooting around the throat, resisting the retch that fought her own mouth, “Oh, sorry, oh god, I couldn’t be more sorry,” 

It wasn’t until she heard a squelch they both heaved, Steven’s own noises of disgust filling the tomb as his entire upper arm wormed its way into the chest cavity, and she thought he might just be the bravest man she’d ever known. 

His arm twisted for a moment, before he started pulling it out, not without some resistance from the collar bones, only for it to come away with one final tug, and in his hand producing a small ceramic figure of an alligator headed woman, and two audible gasps filled the silence. 

“Steven-” She started, turning to him with something warm and gooey and close to pride in her eyes, “Steven, you did it!” 

She threw herself at him in a hug, ignoring every morsel of her that cringed when she imagined where his hand had been, feeling him squeeze her to him just as tightly.

“We did it, we did- I could never have done any of this without you,” He replied, nosing her hair for a moment before he pulled her away to look at her face, beaming with glee. It didn’t matter then, that he had been chased by that creature, or that he’d been shot at, or that he’d been digging around a dead man’s throat. It didn’t matter then that his life had been turned upside down, or that he was actually one man split into another, or that he’d lost his job. He didn’t care. Because seeing how she looked at him, as if she’d just watched him solve string theory or win a nobel prize, healed every wound he’d ever had. 

He only needed her; only ever wanted her. 

“I really do love you,” She said, and he wondered it she’d heard his thoughts, fought the urge to kiss her then and there. 

Her head snapped to where they had entered the tomb, something wary in her gaze until he saw Layla appear in the doorway, looking entirely scraped up, as if she’d just been dragged through the caverns backwards. 

“Layla!” Dove called, bounding over the stepping stones, “Layla, are you alright- we got the ushabti-”

“Layla, look! We won!” Behind her Steven held up the figurine, the pair of them with billion dollar smiles on their faces, watching the woman approach on shaky legs, “And the ushabti goes to; us. I had to go digging down old Alexander the Great’s gullet, but we found it,” 

Dove giggled at his teasing, shaking her head, and fighting the urge to yank Layla into a hug of her own. They had done it, they’d won. Now they could get out of here and away from Harrow, she could go home, go home with Steven-

She was quick to notice the stare Layla pinned on the man behind her, something visceral and in pain beneath her skin, something raw, a wound ripped open. She knew it well, knew it like an old friend. Layla was the pure image of betrayal. 

She stalked forward silently, not paying the younger woman a scrap of attention as she approached, stepping over the cobbles with not a single hesitant foot. Her eyes gleaned with unshed tears, something rageful keeping them bay. 

Dove stopped still, her eyes trained on the woman, her smile dissolving into confusion. 

“Layla, are you alright-” 

“Can he hear me?” Layla cut her off, not giving a shit for her soft lilted voice or her concern. She only cared about Marc, Harrow’s words rattling in her head like a foghorn calling every shred of anger she’d ever felt for her ex-husband to arms. 

“Alexander? No, I don’t think so, god I hope not,” Steven snickered, and Dove winced. Layla’s eyes darkened, her honey tones near black in the lowlit antechamber, and the younger woman knew whatever had happened in the moments passed since they’d parted, Layla was now out for blood. 

“What happened to my father?” The El-Faouley woman spat, her hands shaking with anger, and Dove could do nothing but wait for Steven to understand that she wasn’t kidding around.

She dared a glance at the man who stood there like a lost child, whatever celebration and relief they had felt swept away in a matter of moments. Seconds. 

She knew from the silence that lingered Layla already suspected something. 

“I’m talking to you,” Layla seethed, stepping towards the man without a bat of an eyelid at the woman who watched whatever progress they’d made swirl down the drain like yesterday’s newspaper. 

“What?” Steven murmured, a frown on his face as Layla’s hands came up to shove him in the chest hard. 

“I’m talking to you, Marc,” 

He barely stumbled, barely blinked, but she saw it. Saw the way the innocence melted away, and his frown became cold and distant. She saw the moment Marc took the body, and her heart dropped at the flash of guilt that glinted in the crook of his eyes as he saw his ex-wife’s expression in the flesh. 

“Come on, let’s go, let’s go-” He tried to pull her away, but Dove knew it was his own brand of avoiding the subject. She’d never hold it against him, who was she to judge someone for running from responsibility, but she knew. And so did Layla. 

“No,” The woman dug her heels in as he tried pulling her to the exit, her empty fist weakly beating on his wrist while he yanked on her coat. 

“We have to go right now,”

“No, Marc, no,” She fought, the venom in her tone only growing. He tugged her harder, the two of them all but grappling with one another for control. 

“We have to go, right now,” He repeated, eyes flicking to where Dove stood still, her hands playing with one another nervously, “Come on, we gotta get out of here-”

Layla forced his head back to her, away from where the younger woman moved between each foot, watching it play out like a tragedy. 

“What happened to my father?” She said again, louder this time, and it was clear no amount of deflection would stop her from getting an answer.

“Listen to me,” Marc said with a seriousness Dove had never heard, real life panic in his tone that had her shifting to check the doorway for signs of Harrow’s men following closely behind, “We need to leave right now, I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go,”

“Did you kill Abdullah El Faouley?” Layla’s voice cracked, because the answer would break her if it were true, if it was what she feared. 

“Of course not. Of course I didn’t,” And it was the first honest thing Marc had said to her in years. The pain in his eyes at the accusation said it all. 

Layla sighed in short lived relief, running a hand over her face. 

“But you were there,” She said quietly, and the four words cleaved Marc’s resolve right down the middle, his brow furrowing in agony, “You were there, right?” 

“I was- I was there,” He confessed, Dove’s stomach turning over in anguish. She wanted to hug both of them to her in entirely different ways. Wanted to grab Layla, stroke her hair the way Grace used to when she was upset, hold her to her chest and tell her how sorry she was that her father was taken from her so cruelly. She wanted to pull Marc in, slot him right over her heart and tell him he wasn’t bad, not even now, not ever, that he was good, pure, golden goodness, just as good as Steven. That he wasn’t guilty, he was just unlucky. 

“My partner got greedy, he executed everyone at the digsite. Shot me too, I was supposed to die that night,” Marc spilled out, his expression bleak, distraught. 

She knew better than to interrupt, than to get in between the two of them when they fought like this. That is, until her ears pricked up with her inhumane senses, the sound of guns cocking and creeping footsteps dragging through the sand stones they had just come from, whispers between comrades that they were getting close to what they had been searching for. 

“Someone’s here,” She said, before she could think better of speaking. Their heads turned to her, as if they’d forgotten she was there, Marc’s face a picture of a tortured soul. She angled her head to distinguish what the men were saying, try give her some pointers how long they had, “Harrow is getting close, I can hear his watch-”

“Who’s Grace?” Layla asked, her tone guarded, as if she’d begged the question the entire time she’d known the girl, “Marc’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets,” 

But Dove was frozen. Entirely frozen. Not so much of a breath in her chest, not even a blink.

Because hearing that name again, her name, hearing Layla take everything close to her and toss it around as a conversation piece shattered her into a million small pieces, floating down neatly into the water right then and there.

He saw it.

When her eyes glazed over, as if hearing the name pressed play on a movie she’d not seen in years, and she no longer stood there, with them, but she was transported somewhere else entirely. It was the same as when she’d been in the car, staring out that window, he wanted to yell out to her, grab her delicate face and scream Where do you go? Come back to me, take my hand and come back to me. Where are you where I can’t follow.

Because she wasn’t there, inside her own body. And she feared she would never be again.

She was back in that room, in that window sill, replaying every single night she’d spent in Grace’s room. Who’s Grace? She was opening that door, the one Frank told her not to go in, she was staring at the body, the unmoving one, the cold corpse, frozen in pain, what was once her entire world ripping away from her soul, pulling her apart right down the middle, the empty bottle staring right back at her from the bedside table as if to say ‘I won, I won.’ Who’s Grace? She wasn’t there, wasn’t in the tomb at all, she was rotting in her bed, lying still and waiting for death to take her too, because it seemed impossible that the person who had been made as her mirror image in every way but looks could be culled but not her.

How could she explain who Grace was? How do you even begin to explain to a person what every cell of your body is?

“Harrow said you let her die,” Layla said, and she knew she’d hit a home run with whatever that look on Dove’s face meant, knew that everything he’d said had been true, “He said you could have saved her and you didn’t-”

“Don’t,” It was a snarl, something unearthly and rotten, but the grief in the single word was clear as a bell, “Stop it, Layla,”

She hadn’t ever spoken to her like that, had snapped and rolled her eyes, but never had such a clear threat to her words.

The woman blinked in response, the hairs on her arms standing on end at the voice that was entirely not Dove’s coming from her throat. It was monstrous, and part of her wondered if it was Seth who had in fact taken her body, only to see the eyes she knew well staring back at her with the image of a deer at the barrel of a gun.

Vulnerable. Ready for slaughter. Ready to be laid bare on the butcher's block.

Layla thought twice before she opened her mouth again, second guessing pushing for more answers, but something in the way the girl looked told her there was a truth to it.

“And Frank?” Layla asked, watching Dove’s hands shake. With anger, Layla guessed, anger that her little secrets were being poured out on the cobbles for her precious Steven to see.

Layla was not a cruel woman, not by any means. But she despised liars. And Dove was one of them.

“You and Harrow seem to be best pals, Layla, why don’t you ask him who Frank was,” Dove hissed, and it was like Marc was looking at someone else entirely, like he was watching a mutt backed into a corner snapping at everyone who approached, like watching game gnaw at its own leg to be free of a trap, “He got what he deserved,”

And Marc didn't doubt it. Not even when he reeled back in shock at her tone of voice, not expecting it from his peaceful dove, but then again Layla had ripped all sorts of wounds open in the interest of her own search for answers.

Marc opened his mouth to reinforce their need haste, only to hear for himself the footsteps draw nearer, and the three of them swivelled to look at the direction they came from.

“They’re here,” He said with a pit opening in his stomach, right around where his heart had fallen, springing into action as Layla paced across the stones, searching for a hiding spot.

“There must be another way out,” Dove said, though she felt her brain wrestling with images of that day, that last day, the feel of the mirror beneath her fingers, the scars that to this day marred her palm from the glass as she’d driven it into his chest.

“You find it, I’ll hold them off,” Marc ordered her, backing on himself to grab the battleaxe from inside the sarcophagus. Layla followed orders without protest, heading for the small alleyway she had come from, knowing she couldn’t go back that way with those creatures lurking behind the walls.

Crouching behind a pillar, she watched them with doubtful eyes. She knew they could find her in a matter of seconds. She was beyond angry at both of them for their deceit, yet she watched Dove summon the claws of her suit around her hands, ten blades sprouting over her natural nails in a small motion.

“Get out of here-” Marc waved her off, trying to nudge her body towards where Layla crouched, only for her to gently brush his hands away, careful not to scratch him with her talons.

“Marc, I’m not letting you do this alone- you don’t have a suit-” She argued back, hating the way he was still ready to go down swinging for her, hating the way he’d brushed off what Layla had said because it was Layla and Layla had every reason to throw her under any bus coming.

Her heart plummeted even more, dragging her shame down with it, and she understood then what it was.

He didn’t believe she’d done anything. He didn’t believe something was wrong, something was wrong with her. Didn’t believe she had lied, and kept things from him, didn’t entertain the idea for a single second that she was not the Dove he thought she was.

She knew if he would ask, she wouldn’t have the heart to lie to him to his face, knew she couldn’t keep betraying the undying loyalty he had to her. Knew he would take Steven away.

But she also knew he wouldn’t ask in the first place. Because to Marc, she was innocent of everything everyone accused her of, no matter how true.

She felt even worse than before, if that had even been possible.

She could only steel her face over as Harrow entered the room behind her, the infuriating tap tap tap of his staff against the floor giving him away.

And in a split moment, twenty armed men followed him, crawling out from the corners of the room, their rifles loaded, torches trained on the two of them, the red aimpoints hovering over their chests. She tried to account for every single one of the guns and their wielders, but she couldn’t. There was just too many.

The only way they were getting out of here alive is if he ran, if he ducked out with Layla and left her here to fight alone. But she knew he would never. Not unless she were to throw her body over his, take every single round of ammunition in her suit, keep him protected until they had run dry, but even then she knew he would fight against having her in front of him.

She couldn’t just stand by, couldn’t just let him go, no matter how much she dreaded what was coming next, how much he would hate her once she told him. But maybe he could understand, maybe he would. He had killed people before, she knew he had, he never hid from that. Killed those who deserved it. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t treated her differently when Hellhound had slaughtered those men. She wished she was back in that bathtub, back in their hotel room, the room full of lavender and vanilla, wished his hands were back in her hair telling her she was going to be okay.

She wished. Because that was all she had left.

“Just you two?” Harrow asked, his voice a wisp of smoke in the dark tomb that seemed to be closing in on them as the men steadied their aim, fingers resting on the triggers, “The rest is silence. I remember the first morning, I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating,”

Harrow pocketed the scarab that nestled in his palm, stepping carefully towards them, his damn stick tapping at the floor like death had come knocking.

“And you, little dove,” Harrow turned to her, her eyes a cold glare, twitching with every knock of the wooden cane against the floor, “The truth can be just as liberating as being rid of the voice that controls you. But maybe, you already know that.”

She couldn’t disagree more. There was nothing liberating about what she’d done to Frank. She was a woman haunted, forever tainted by that day. She was ruined, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought she could be fixed.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Harrow goaded, her insides shrivelling as she saw Marc’s chocolate hues flick to her for a moment, “Ask her, Marc.”

“Marc, I can explain-” She said, eyes locking onto where he clenched a tight fist around his weapon, Harrow's words cutting her off.

“You’re a free man. And ofcourse with that freedom comes choice.” Harrow continued, “You can choose to pretend not to see the guilt writhing under her skin like a serpent. Or, you can choose to keep dear Steven safe,”

“Safe from what?” Marc snapped, his hackles raised at Harrow’s words, as if there was ever a moment of doubt he would choose anything over Steven’s wellbeing, or perhaps it was the way he questioned her that did it.

“Safe from the woman who slaughtered her own boyfriend, maybe?”

Harrow’s tone was soft, gentle, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb upon the room, a tidal wave of cold overcoming the space between them.

“What?” Marc scoffed, almost a genuine laugh emerging at the levels Harrow was willing to stoop to in order to get the ushabti, including making up ludicrous tales, “What kind of shit is that, you can’t honestly think I’d believe that-”

He looked back to her, expecting confusion, aghast, anything except the deep pools of guilt encompassing her entire being as she stared at him.

He went cold.

No. No, please, no.

He said nothing, did nothing, not even when she tugged a lip between her teeth to keep it from wobbling.

“Please,” She whimpered, stepping towards him with empty hands, “Please, I can explain,”

Only he stepped back, and with it ripped whatever remained of her soul away from.

His eyes no longer were warm nests of mousy brown, his expression no longer soft as he took her in, his jaw tight and feathered with hesitation.

“I can explain, please listen to me,” She begged, she wasn’t above sinking to her knees and pleading against his knee in tears, “I was going to tell you, I tried-”

“You lied to me?” Marc bit, his face empty of whatever it was that he’d regarded her with before. The hands in her hair as she bathed were a million miles away, the kindness that had shone upon her like a warm summer now pelted her like hail in a storm.

“It wasn’t like the others, I had to-” She said, her hands shaking as she dared another step towards him, only for him to take another step back, “I thought you would understand,”

“I killed people because it was service to Khonshu, or-or because people's lives hung in the balance, not because I chose to,” He snapped, drawing his hand away from her like she’d burned him with her very being, “You killed your own boyfriend? You told me you stole- you lied to me,”

“No.” Steven’s voice was a whine, a bleat of agony inside the headspace, a man who was watching the only thing he’d ever had for himself slip away, “No, she wouldn’t Marc, she-”

“Please, just listen,” Her eyes had welled now, “Please, I- Marc, watch out!” She jumped at him, not missing the way his knuckles had quivered on the axe at her sudden movement, only for her to shove past him and descend onto a figure that had been moments away from grabbing the Ushabti.

It was like a switch had flickered then, and the rest of the room was invited into their conversation.

Marc slashed at one of the men who dived for her, snapping his forearm clean in two, the rifle falling from his grasp, and she clawed at the guards wrist, ripping through tendons and flesh like it were fabric.

He heard another of the men squeal as she slashed his face, he cut down another of Harrow’s men with a swift blow to the arm, ichor spurting over his hand at the contact.

He barely even blinked an eye as he threw the battle axe at the next one in his path, though he hadn’t even felt the handle leave his palm as it hit its mark and another one of the men went down.

He knew it made him somewhat of a hypocrite. But it wasn't just the blatant lie that had caused his walls to clamp down around him. That man, whoever he was, had been her boyfriend. And Steven... If he hadn't known something so telling about her, how could he be sure she wouldn't flip and do the same to Steven.

She wouldn't. He wanted to say he knew she wouldn't lay a hand on the man clawing at his brain in torment, but Marc felt he didn't know anything about her anymore.

She had killed someone. His dove, his innocent dove, that he had spent weeks feeling like filth for so much as touching, feeling as though he had ruined her, only to find out she was just as tainted as he was. She had lied to him. She had every chance, every moment he showed his soft underbelly, to tell him the truth, and she hadn’t. He was supposed to keep Steven safe, and he was dropping walls left right and centre for someone who could have had him lined up as her next target.

Dove’s head whirled around when she heard him grunt, fearing he had gotten a barrel to the face, or even a rogue fist. She took a sweeping glance at him from head to toe, the relief tangible in her bones, seeing he was rattled and angry, but not bleeding.

She needed to set this right. She was a liar, she knew that, she was a murderer, she knew that aswell. She didn’t deserve any of the kindness she’d been shown, she’d known she was on borrowed time the entirety of their friendship. She had known this was coming any day now.

It still hurt like a bitch to be confronted with the truth. And the truth was Marc glared at her like hated her. Marc wanted nothing to do with her, as liar, a con, an actress. A whore.

She had to fix this; if she even could. She had to try. For Steven.

Dove had gotten all of one step when Harrow pulled the pistol out of his jeans.

It was like a slow motion picture from there, like she was in the back seat trying to steer the wheel, sitting front row of the audience as the movie played out in front of her.

Harrow lifting the gun at Marc’s chest, pulling the trigger once, his aim true enough that a crimson hole bloomed through the man’s sweater in seconds, spraying out of the wound and onto his outfit.

She heard herself scream, heard his name coming from her in a deafening squeal, something weak and horrified in the tone. She heard the second bang of the bullet leaving its chamber, puncturing in the gut in a second deadly hit, Marc’s body stumbling back as the wound poured faster, harder, his eyes glazed into an entirely empty concoction.

She heard herself call him again, didn’t realise until it choked through a sob that she was crying, inconsolably actually. He swayed for a moment, before the weightlessness took over and he tipped backwards on his heel, and his cold gaze fell to hers for a split moment of reprieve of what she knew was coming.

She didn’t even realise until she had crouched over where he’d fallen into the water that she was sobbing, didn’t realise until the tears started falling on his face that she was crying over him, over every word she was supposed to say to him.

She didn’t realise until the heartbeat she adored so much, the one she’d planned to spend every morning pressed up against, had stopped beating, and Dove was swept up with a feeling she despised.

In all of two seconds, Dove was all alone again, and Marc and Steven were dead.

TAGLISTS.

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST 

@shirukitsune @s-u-t @ahookedheroespureheart @willowseason @imonmykneessir @acceptedbyace @broadwaytraaaaash @mythicalmo @stevenknightmarc @avery88 @fandombrackets @thelostlovedone @raythecomputerart @nyctophile-moon-child @unknownduck0 @emily-roberts @cheshirecat484 @lockleywife @strangeobsessed d @thebestrouge @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @dumbhxeredrose @badbishsblog @jvexoxo  @sxftie-mari i @mythical-goth @cillmeslowly @wildwallflower24 @ameliashideout @moonsua1 @latenightcravingz @blackqueengold @jesfreedark @uncle-eggy @onefinnedwonder-fm @homuraak3mi @animechick555@1800-get-alife @peachipeachy @hoemadegrace @raineisms

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #moon knight x reader #moonknight imagine #moonknight x reader #steven grant fanfiction #marc spector smut

[desertdollranch]

Opening and reviewing my first Australian Girl doll

She spent more than a month in a box, making her way halfway across the world to her new home, and now here she is! I'm so relieved that she arrived safely. It was the longest I've ever had to wait for a doll, and through much of her journey I didn't know where she was or when she would be here.

I don't want to drop too big of a spoiler, but listen to this........ she was so worth the wait, and the money. This doll instantly won my heart with how exquisite she is in every way.

Australian Girl dolls were specially made for Australian children, by Helen Schofield, a grandmother who loved dolls. She created the brand when she couldn't find an age appropriate doll that was locally available or good quality. So she created these dolls to help children feel pride in Australian culture, while teaching them about friendship and empathy. There are five girls to befriend--Amy, Jasmine, Emily, Bronte, and Matilda, each representing a different region of the country, ethnicity, and lifestyle.

The company itself has quite high standards. They strive to reduce waste in their product packaging, and they use a factory in China that treats its workers humanely and does not use child labor.

If you've been around my blog for a while, you know how much I love collecting diverse brands and types of play dolls, especially international dolls. Also, this one will be extra special because I actually have an Australian grandmother--she's also a doll collector, and I'm looking forward to showing her my new doll the next time I see her.

After the cut, I'll show you who she is, and talk about why I chose her. I'll compare her with similar-sized dolls as well, and have her do some dressing up.

Before we get to the unboxing, let's check out the little goodies included with my doll.

First is a little pamphlet explaining why the dolls are special, but also represent real girls growing up in Australia.

There's another pamphlet about how to care for your doll.

All of the dolls come with a fun freebie: this cute pair of thongs.

Another freebie (a $30 AUD value) is this very sturdy doll carrier with pockets for accessories.

I also bought a pair of sneakers for my new girl. I figured her feet would be a bit larger than my other dolls, and these are cute, so she now has three pairs of shoes to wear.

Anyway. Enough of the small stuff. Let's let her out of the box.

It's Amy from Adelaide!

I chose Amy after three entire years of being indecisive and going back and forth on exactly which Australian Girl I wanted. They're all equally adorable, so I picked Amy because her personality seems very sweet, and I love that she has mixed heritage. According to the Austrlaian Girl dolls website, Amy's family tree is a mix of Aboriginal and Dutch on her mother's side, and English and Indian/Fijian on her father's side. Very representative of modern Australia!

I have no regrets. She is perfect!!! Just the most charming little angel. I am officially WOWED.

I'm seriously impressed at the superior quality of her construction. I understand why she was priced a bit higher than similar dolls. She is, from head to toe, beautifully made, with so many sweet details. Her dress and shoes are also impeccably made and feel very durable.

Her hair is flawless. It's a Kanekalon wig with loose curls, in a gorgeous shade of brown. Her eyes open and close. She has both painted and attached eyelashes.

She has a gap between her big toe and the next toe, so she can wear her sandals and thongs.

Her elbows are dimpled and she has subtle blush color on parts of her skin, including elbows and hands.

She has a crease across her palm.

She has articulation at her shoulders, hips, and neck. Her limbs, head, and shoulders are vinyl, and she has a huggable soft tummy. I don't really have a strong preference for either cloth torsos, vinyl torsos, or half and half like Amy. They all have pros and cons. This specific construction is nice in that she can wear low-neckline clothes without showing a cloth body, but it does make her harder to repair in case she has to be fixed.

I have a pretty good idea of what she'll be wearing when she's ready to change out of her pink party dress.

The first photo shows her in a dress I made. The second is a Maplelea dress and hat. The rest are all American Girl brand clothing, except for the shoes. Amy can comfortably wear most stretchy clothes by AG and similar brands like Our Generation, but her feet absolutely will not fit AG, OG, or Maplelea shoes.

The exception to the clothes is some of the tighter pieces. This AG shirt did not fit well. Amy's shoulders are a bit more broad than smaller dolls, and so without some extra give this is too tight.

Amy is 20 inches/51 centimeters tall. Here she is next to my Our Generation doll Jordana. I'm using an OG doll because they're actually available locally in Australia. Whereas American Girl dolls, which I usually use when I compare brands, have to make an overseas journey. So it's only fair that I consider any Australians reading this now who are wondering how Amy compares.

Amy is tall, but not the tallest doll in the family! Here she is next to Fernanda, my Karito Kids doll, who is about an inch taller although slimmer. Karito Kids dolls are in fact just slightly skinnier than American Girl dolls, so they have a much easier time sharing clothes.

In conclusion, I highly highly recommend this doll. She's absolutely sublime! I'm so thrilled to have her here, and I'm looking forward to having lots of adventures with her.

Obviously I'm far from Australia, but my Amy will still live her life as if she were in a suburb outside of the city of Adelaide. I've been looking at pictures of the geography of the state of South Australia, and there are some places in the mountainous parts that look pretty similar to the desert southwest where I live. So Amy will have no idea she's actually in the USA. Don't tell her the truth!

#australian girl dolls #20 inch dolls #international dolls #doll review

[lokischocolatefountain]

Mercy

My entry for the Haunted Hoedown created by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. Day 7- stranded au or slasher / summer camp au + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: 18+ (Major character death, stranded in the woods, post apocalyptic life, non con, mentions of previous experiences of non con, suicidal reader)

Summary: Stranded alone in the woods and left to die, all you can ask of Joel Miller is the mercy of a quick death. He is willing to give it to you, but he needs something for himself as well.

A/N: It’s another Joel Miller weekend here at lokischocolatefountain. I have a husband!Javi locked and loaded, ready to go. But Joel demand my attention once again for the haunted hoedown. So Javi has to wait another week.

You were safe.

Well, safe from the men who had captured you. But other dangers awaited. If you were lucky, it would just be starvation, an encounter with a wild animal or a fucking heart attack. But you didn’t think your good luck would stretch that far. You were already that the raiders who killed and raided the belongings of the men who captured you did not seem interested in you. It was a goddamn miracle.

Ropes bound your arms behind your back and your legs to each other. Either the ropes were tied too tight or you had become weaker over the past ten days of captivity. They didn’t have much food to spare you. Only the small pieces of rotting meat that they fed to you on the condition that you suck their cocks.

It wasn’t as though you had a choice when tied up the way you were. There were other women held captive with you- younger, prettier, less willing to comply and more appealing to the men as they liked a challenge. You were one of the older models, beaten ragged by life both before and after the world fell apart. For them, a woman was a woman. No matter how broken you were, there was always more to break. No matter your age or how fucking crazy you’d gone from survival, you had a pair of tits and three holes. For most men, it was more than they could dream of. For you, separated from your group and all alone, it was the only thing you could barter.

Now there was no need for any of it. You would decay on the ground along with the fallen leaves and the blood you’d spilled when the men cut through your clothes. The last of the women after another one decayed just a couple feet away from you. Yours was a fate better than the girls who were taken away by the raiders. Experience had taught you that. The last time you’d been in the hands of such a group, you were younger. They used you to their heart’s content and then sold you to a man for a good price- a whole goat, a bag of rice, a record player and a couple of vinyls, and a leather jacket. Pretty good stuff. If you had to valuate yourself now, you’d probably go for a small fraction of that- maybe just the leather jacket.

You would no longer go for the same price. You no longer had the strength to kill the man who purchased you like you were just a thing.

You swallowed, your throat aching for water. But all you got was the piercing pain of a hundred jagged pebbles scratching your throat. One of the factoids from an old encyclopedia popped up in your head: It takes x days for dehydration to cause death. Unfortunately, your brain hadn’t thought to pay more attention to the number, leaving you with no information.

What you knew was that it took one day of dehydration to wish for death.

Daylight withered away and darkness descended in the woods, matching the darkness of your thoughts. In the pitch black night with no stars or even a sliver of the moon, whether your eyes were open or closed did not matter. In the times before, it was advised for women to return home before nightfall. As though danger only lurked in darkness. As though men did not behave atrociously in broad daylight. Shaking on the ground from the cold, dehydrated, near death, your biggest fear was still man.

It was why the snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves under a heavy footfall struck more fear in you than the sight of the infected ever did. Man.

Measured. Careful. Not infected. Man.

He could just be passing by.

It could’ve been delusions inspired by dehydration and starvation, but the footsteps sounded just a little louder as the seconds passed. He was getting closer.

Joel Miller didn’t know, but your body already played to his beat, your heartbeats responding to the sound of his footsteps. Pills from Atlanta passed on to him from his contact rested in his backpack, the currency with the highest value in the QZ. His hand itched to take one pill for himself. Just one. The nightmares of losing his child flashed before his eyes even before he could succumb to the weariness of the journey and sleep. A pill would help.

Don’t get high on your own supply.

He needed to be at his best state of mind since he was traveling alone now, his companion having been taken out by a clicker on their journey. But God was it tempting.

Darkness enveloped the woods. The moon and stars had abandoned Earth for the night, afraid that if they shone their light on the land, they’d see its haunting wreckage. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but it still played tricks on him. For a second, he believed he might have seen a figure move on the ground.

Leaves rustled and crunched beneath his feet. His hands immediate grabbed the gun he had at the ready, the muzzle pointed to the ground. It hit something— someone, he realized when it gasped.

“Please,” your low, shaky voice begged. “Please shoot me.”

He would’ve thought he misheard. Who’d ask to be shot when threatened with a gun? But such was the world in which they’d lived. Death was sometimes more desirable than whatever horrors life had to offer. Joel had survived, somehow. Violence and the sheer human instinct for self preservation kept him around until now, even a decade and a half after the collapse of society.

He brought a lighter close to the ground and lit it, the little golden flame illuminating your bloodied and bruised. He noticed that your arms were bound behind your back and legs tied together at your ankles.

Joel understood you didn’t have long. A day maybe. Longer if you were fed and hydrated. He himself was not interested in charity. If someone else happened by you and you were able to convince them to toss you a piece of bread… But you didn’t want charity. You asked for his bullet, not sustenance.

Bullets didn’t grow on trees.

“Good news. You’ll be dead by daybreak.”

“Please,” you whimpered in a low gravelly voice, mustering up all your energy to beg for this small act of mercy.

You hadn’t asked for his precious rations or water. Only that he finish you off with the weapon he pointed at you. He dropped his belongings somewhere in the vicinity, not bothering to dignify your request with a response.

Joel lied down on the ground in the vicinity in a sleeping bag, his pack serving as a pillow. Sleep did not come easy. He merely rested his eyes, his sense attuned to his surroundings even when he was meant to rest.

When the sun rose, he rolled his sleeping bag and set it inside a hollow tree before heading to the pond nearby. He returned, having washed up, ready to resume his journey back to the QZ. Curious about you, he went to the site where you were last night.

“Please,” you begged once again. “Before you leave. Please.”

He nudged you with his boot, your weakening body rolling to the side and giving him a good view. One bullet. But what a waste of a good body. He could help you in return for something for himself. There was a brothel in the QZ, of course. The oldest profession carried on right under FEDRA’s nose. They pretended to not notice. Sometimes, they’d conduct a raid and arrest some women under the guise of maintaining the law. An excuse for the FEDRA guys to have the women for themselves for the night.

Joel did not indulge in such services. He didn’t see the point in spending precious ration cards just to get off. His spit and left hand were enough for him to get by. But you were free of cost.

“Since you asked so nicely…” he drawled, withdrawing his knife from its holster. He sliced through the ropes that bound your ankles together. You didn’t know his intentions though you’d come to expect it from men over the years. If he wanted to take advantage, he surely would’ve gone ahead with it last night. Sure, Joel hadn’t intended it at first. But now that you were available…

Reliable contraception had died with the world. Too risk averse in this specific matter, he’s contented himself with the rare blowjob. Pussy was a delicacy he hadn’t had in a while. You didn’t protest as he tore your pants off of you, finding skin beneath.

“Be good and I might just kill you in the end, darlin’…” he promised and you spread your legs, cooperating, being good so he would consider it. You didn’t know when the next person would pass by this place. Even if someone did before you could die a slow death, there was no assurance that they’d kill you rather than prolong your miserable existence.

“Wha’s your name?”

“Joel.”

Joel. Joel brought a damp cloth to your face, wiping the blood and dirt off you. It was…strange. It felt as though you were being taken care of. It wasn’t the case of course. But it felt good to believe he was taking care of you. It was the first bit of humanity you’d experienced in a very long time.

The blade slipped under your half torn t-shirt, cutting up the fabric that had done a poor job so far of giving you any dignity. His large hand roamed your now naked torso. Calluses caught on your somehow soft skin. The sensation was the first pleasant thing you’d felt in a long time. You attempted unconsciously to lean into his touch, but your weakness kept you glued to the ground. Even the cold blade of his knife felt good. You’d gone mad, surely. This was definitely a stage of delusion caused by your dehydration and starvation.

He cupped your cheek and leaned down, capturing your lips with his. It was as though you’d forgotten to kiss. The men who took interest in you were less concerned with making use of your lips for a kiss. If Joel had put his cock between them, you would’ve known better what to do. It seemed he’d also forgotten. He wasn’t kissing you. He bit and sucked and devoured.

Your hands were still tied behind you. They dug into your back. But it didn’t hurt as much as Joel’s hand supping your tits. Even the animals who last had you under their control were gentler than this. But you weren’t too offended. It hurt. But there would be sweet death at the end of all this pain. So you embraced it fully, letting out nothing but a little whimper as a sign that you were at all affected by his touch.

Even in your state of near death, you could tell that he was a handsome man. Grey interspersed black curls on his head. Patchy beard hid rugged, sun damaged skin. His aquiline nose would’ve inspired sinful thoughts in you had you been further away from death. In a normal world, he would’ve been getting a drink at a bar and you would’ve noticed him.

Joel spit on his hand and rubbed it around on your dry cunt. With his thumb and forefinger, he parted your cunt lips before inserting his middle finger. Inch by painful inch, he penetrated your unwilling body that was attached to a very willing mind. There was no water left to be spared to wetten your cunt for the man.

“C-cut me,” you suggested, desiring the penetration to be smoother. If this was the last time you got to be fucked, it wouldn’t hurt to hurt a little to enjoy the last few minutes on the mortal plane. “Bl-blood.”

He seemed to understand your weak implication. You hissed as the sharp edge of his knife cut through the top layers of your skin. Red blood oozed out and he swept his hand over it, collecting the blood and smearing it over your cunt. He slipped a finger inside you, lubricating your hole with your own blood.

He knelt over you, his knees on either side of your body. Then he unzipped his jeans, the teeth of the zipper making a scratching metal sound. He was a good length, girth and veiny. He stroked himself as he stared at your bloodied hole.

Fucking a dying woman using her own blood as lube. Of all the messed up things he had done, this was easily on the top ten. Not that he maintained an actual list. Despite her decrepit state, she looked welcoming with her legs spread out and eyes on his cock. He bent your legs at your knees, your body pliant in its weakness. You were a thing of rare beauty in his journey. Nature had reclaimed its place, growing between abandoned cars and splitting into giant overpasses. This, you, were another part of nature to him.

Woman, all beautiful in your vulnerability, laid out to be claimed.

He guided his cock between your legs and forced himself in. Red lube you’d given up for him to use on you coated his cock, reminding him of the violence of his desire. He twitched inside you as he pushed in, a perverse sort of excitement stimulating him.

He brought the knife up to your neck and rested the blunt edge against your throat. You gulped. Your eyes widened. Your breaths quickened. Your cunt clenched around his cock and Oh God how divine you felt this way.

You’d asked for death, practically begged for it. But fear was not something you could prevent. Your wretched mortal body was programmed with the foolishness of wanting to stay alive.

“Been so long,” he muttered when he bottomed out inside you. Though you’d had many men inside you, it’d been long since any stretched you out so good. You took a deep breath and wished you had your hands free. You were overcome by a sudden urge to touch him. To run you hands down his sturdy arms and solid chest. It’d been so long since you wished.

“Good?” You asked, squeezing his cock. He smiled and bent forward to kiss you. Your lips, your chin, along your jaw. It was tender. Too tender for sex in the woods with your clothes torn off and your thigh bleeding into the soil.

He began to move, pulling out just a little before pushing back in. He savored it. After all, this could be his last chance at a cunt for a very long time. He grabbed on to your tits to use as handles, making you squeeze around him. Your lips let out a painful little whine, but he didn’t feel guilty. What bad did a little more pain do? You were going to die anyway. If you weren’t making use of your tits and cunt, at least he could enjoy them.

“So good…” he praised and you responded in kind, thrusting back weakly. “Yeah? You like that, cunt?” He asked, using the crude word in place of your name. He didn’t even know your name. But Cunt was appropriate for the purpose you served. You nodded. “I really struck gold in the fucking woods of all places, huh.”

“Good cunt,” he praised, the words shooting straight into said body part.

“Feelin’ good?”

You nodded, unable to say much else under the assault of the sensations. You didn’t have to for he claimed your lips once again in a kiss. He was better this time and so were you. Your lips stayed connected with his just like your pussy with his cock, devouring each other in desperation for a taste of something good in all the wretchedness.

Joel’s cock drilled into you. Merciless, fast, painful. All you knew before was hunger and suffering. With him, it had all disappeared. It was just Joel now. He consumed you, turning you from a discarded body passed from one raider to the other to Good Cunt. You liked the sound of those words on his lips.

“Just like that, Cunt,” he hissed as you milked his cock, your thighs cramping as your muscles contracted. Something pulled somewhere and you screamed in pain and your cunt tightened for him. Warm cum spilled inside you, the sensation a distracting relief in the midst of the pain.

Tears slipped down the sides of your face, cooling your skin.

“Did well. Did so well, Cunt,” he praised as he tucked himself back inside. He hadn’t felt so good in forever. Such a relief. Such an unburdening of stress and anxiety over his smuggling and its chances of success. He zipped himself up and bent over to retrieve his weapons.

“How do you want to go?” He asked, weighing the gun in one hand and knife in another as he looked down at your debauched body.

You made your choice, thanked him for his mercy and closed your eyes.

.

.

.

My Masterlist

#joel x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller one shot #joel miller imagine #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal character fanfic #tlou x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x ofc #joel miller x oc #haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown #all that i've inflicted on the world

[fictionalmenxyn]

From anonymous,

Heya! hope ur doing well and i love your work and was thinking if i can request where y\n's a small girl member of tf 141 and they knew her for having cute stuff and they react to hearing you listen to rock\metal songs (like they didnt think she would be into those genre cos she's always on cute things 😂) That's all Thank you 💖💖

—

Of course I can do this for you, this is a good idea! I love this consent as in person many friends of mine don’t know I actually listen to rock/ heavy metal since my father listened to it and I grew up on the music genre! I’m also doing well thanks, hope you are ok too :)

Ghost

His reacting would definitely be shocked

Like you literally have no band shirts, posters or anything that could show your into the music genre. Your room has loads of soft toys from the team from past Christmas’ and birthdays’

So it wouldn’t make sense if you listen to rock/metal???

If you were his s/o. Feel like they way he’d find out is that he’s casually laying on your bed while your showing and he hears Metallica blasting in the bathroom with you singing the lyrics word for word as if your James 😂 (Metallica’s lead singer)

If your not s/o then it probably be something like your both on a run and feel like he doesn’t find having music on is concentrating as he focuses on his surroundings and his heart beat as he is too paranoid

So while you two were on a jog he could hear your music as you like it loud and almost deafening which is always makes Ghost confused

Once you’ve finished listening to music he’d definitely ask ‘since when did you listen to that type of music?’ You tell him how long you have been listening and he’ll ask you types of stuff like what bands you listen to or what specific genre you like

He is very interested and invested in this once he’s found out and for your next Christmas or birthday depending on which comes first he’ll definitely buy you your first band shirt

Soap

Feel like he would definitely gasp!

Like when he hears the strong strumming on the guitar or the heavy beats of the drums he’ll gasp loudly and say ‘you listen to that music?!’

He’ll like Ghost ask when you started listening to it and he’s so shocked it’s like he just found out he won a million pounds

He loves spending time with you in your room as he says it’s the comfiest room cause of the toys or fluffy blankets and yet he’s never noticed your music taste

The man’s flabbergasted that’s all I say 😂

He’s like those type of people who gasp loudly and place a hand on their heart

He honestly thought you were the type of person to listen to One Direction or k-pop (I’m not trying to hate on the bands just giving examples)

Gaz

Honestly thought it was Ghost at first but when he heard your voice singing along to each lyric he ran to your room and knocked on your door

He’d say something like ‘since when the fuck did you listen to that type of music?!’

He honestly digs it. Cause I feel like he secretly listens to a few rock bands to but not metal (there is a difference)

He’d sit in your room or in the break room and ask if you went or wanted to go to any of bands/singers concerts and you told him a few

So that night he’d look at any available concerts and book tickets

Let’s say he became your favourite team member for a long long time

Price

Feel like he wouldn’t be surprised. Also feel like he wouldn’t be shocked cause he knew you were the type of person to have many interests but wouldn’t tell people

He like a few bands like AC/DC and Black Sabbath so when you two are alone you’d definitely offer to put a vinyl on or music on your phone

Feel like he’s a bit like Ghost. He’s invested on your obsession with the music genre especially for the person most people see you as he’s definitely asking at least ten questions

Buys you a few small trinkets or a poster as he wants you to show off your cool ‘hidden’ obsession as you like to show off your fluffy blanket collection or your obsession with plushies

Loves the idea of how your such a kind and cute person but listen to the most rock and roll/ metal music ever

Alejandro

He’d probably be like Gaz with the hand on heart followed with a gasp

He’d say ‘didn’t know you were into that type of music, mi amiga (my friend). Are you a metal head?’ You nod and he’d say something like cool or since when

Definitely gets you to list the bands/singers you listen to and notes them in his head so he could get you something relevant to the band/singer

Loves how you can talk for ages about the music genre and how facilitated you are with it

Also love the fact that you have more stuffed toys in your room than you have pillows and you have a lot of pillows

Rudy

Flabbergasted. He’s like another hearing their child swear

He’s like ‘since when?!’ Then you laugh and tell him about it and when you’d tarted listening to the genre

He then gets it and likes how you are ‘diverse’ going having a load of TY toys and a hella collection of fluffy socks and being so polite yet listen to the most strong and loud rock/metal music

Actually is impressed when you can to the scratchy voice (kinda like if you were singing korn, megadeth or Metallica maybe Iron Maiden songs)

Only things he doesn’t really enjoy is standing in HMV all day as you look through cds/vinyls. You take in everything when you go and search everything (much like my dad and I’m the one standing there forever, although I do look it’s just I can’t get vinyl as he won’t let me use his vinyl player 😖)

Thanks for making a good suggestion. If anyone wants to feel free to message or ask me any requests you’d like. Don’t be shy! It just will take a it if time to do it so don’t expect it exactly that day or the next.

Hope you enjoyed, have a good day/night :D

#task force 141 #task force 141 x y/n #cod x reader #platonic task force 141 x y/n #cod mw2 #cod headcanons #cod modern warfare #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #rudy x reader #alejandro x reader #platonic tf 141

[clownboymcchucklefuck]

🌹Eternally Your's And Mine 🥀- Chapter One

Ayo let's good Corpse Husband Zachary AU. It's taken me a while to get this written out but I'm liking how it comes out so far. ♥️

Word count: 2k, holy shi-

Fic starts under cut:

Just how lucky did you get? After getting in an argument with your ex you had decided to finally pack your things and leave even if it was a bit….difficult to do so. You spent your time sleeping in hotels for about 2 weeks as you searched online for a place to stay that was preferably not close to your old place.

Your efforts finally paid off when you found an old victorian house for a surprisingly cheap price. The pictures you had seen looked like the house would need just a little bit of work but also appeared to have kept itself together and tidy all throughout the years. It was quite a drive but you would take anything to get out of this town.

Your thoughts of the house were interrupted by the sound of the radio, it was some radio show and the two hosts were discussing some paranormal activity in the past “So, Crybaby Lane is up next on the list! Those who visit the spot of the wreckage claim to smell burning woods and hear voices. One may also see a shadow guarding the entrance to the trail. Look closely and you'll see rubble from the former orphanage. This all due to an incident back in 1958 when-”

The voices were put to a stop when you reached down and changed the radio station. “Dumbasses….” You muttered to yourself as he kept your eyes on the road. It was so stupid how easily people would fall for some myth made to keep kids from doing stupid shit. Even if it wasn’t, it was probably because of the high electromagnetic field making people paranoid and seeing things. Everything had an explanation after all.

Your hands would clench tightly before unclutching around the wheel to keep your body moving somewhat, driving for almost 7 hours straight probably wasn’t a good idea…. But it paid off when you finally entered the neighborhood you had seen in the pictures. The neighborhood had good reviews from what research you had done with all the neighbors being nice, you had seen there had been an incident back in 1884 but with that being almost 200 years ago there was no bothering to dig deep into it.

There was a slight change as you pulled up into the driveway while driving over the gravel. You sighed softly once the car was finally parked. You rubbed your eyes before glancing up at the house and to put it short….it was way more beautiful than what you had seen in the photos.

It was a beautiful victorian house, the decor and the style seemed to be a mix of dark blue and red with gold. It had at least 3 floors from what you could tell, the website had also mentioned a basement too. Walking around the yard of the house to admire it, you walked into the back yard and your breath was taken away by a beautiful rose garden. Most of the roses had been wilted however. Oh well, you knew there would probably be some work to be done anyways.

After a few minutes of walking around the house and finding the key, in a pot next to the door like the landlord had told you, who oddly wasn’t here to give you a tour of the house or anything. You shrugged it off and put the key into the lock of the door before pushing it open. You took a few moments to let your eyes adjust to the lighting of the house as your hand felt the wall until it turned on the lightswitch. Well that was good, for such an old house it had modern electricity. Wouldn’t have to worry about wasting money to have somebody come in and do a little bit of wiring for a fortune.

You took a few minutes to look around the area, the decor seemed to have a theme of blue and gold and it was quite pretty. There was an old record player with some vinyls on the shelf under it, and a grand piano in the corner of the corridor. Most of the furniture was what you expected with it being old fashioned and fancy. You were surprised at how clean and tidy it had been kept after supposedly being left alone for almost 200 years. But eh, less work for you. You would have to do some more exploring after getting everything settled.

Sighing softly, you walked back out of the doorway and towards your car and started to start taking in boxes of things, the sun was setting and so it was better to just go ahead and get this all over with so you could go lay down after driving for so long. It was going alright as you just brought your bags of clothes in first and set them down in a guest room you found that was suitable to sleep in for tonight until you got fully settled. The problems came as you started to bring in the boxes of heavy things, you had already been pretty tired from driving. Grabbing a box of books, you stumbled as your arms threatened to accidentally let go.

You just about did when there was the sudden feeling of another pair of arms on the other side of the box, helping you lift it up before you dropped it.

Surprised, you jumped and stepped away from the box immediately out of fear that it might be somebody possibly trying to steal all your shit, you hadn’t really thought that would happen since this was a nice neighborhood but maybe this was the opportunity to let out some anger if this mf was actually trying to take your stuff. Your thoughts of beating a bitch up were interrupted by the person clearing their throat quietly before speaking up, his voice soft and mellow.

“H-Hello, Y…Y-You’re the….uhm… new t-tenant here, right?” He stuttered between his words and appeared very nervous but also had a soft and kind demeanor at the same time. His hazel eyes that were averted away to the ground seemed to glow slightly with the way the sun shined down on them as he spoke. He had dark green hair and was wearing a light green shirt with some comfy looking tan pants.

You raised your eyebrow in slight suspicion, why the hell was he asking this as if he hadn’t just spawned out of nowhere? The man seemed to notice the look on your face and he quickly tried to explain. “S-Sorry- I forgot to….introduce m-myself, I-I’m Simon, I uhm….I live in t-the house b…beside you. I’ll be y-your neighbor.” Simon explained softly as he gestured over to the house right beside your new one. It was a nice cozy looking one and you could see many plants growing around and inside the house.

You calmed down a bit as you realized the situation and nodded your head. “Name’s [MC], nice to meet you, Simon.” You responded while you started taking the rest of the boxes out of the trunk and setting them down on the ground so they would be easier to pick up later “Say….You wouldn’t happen to know where the landlord is right? They were supposed to give me a tour, or…at least I thought they would.”

Simon perked up a little, he seemed like the type of person that just liked to help people but had been walked over by a lot of people. “O-Oh, uhm….I-It’s a bit w-weird I guess, they'll p-probably be here a-around uhm….n-nighttime? I don’t t-think I’ve seen them in the d-daytime at all….B-But! They’re r-really kind s-so you w-won’t have any p-problems!” Simon assured as he adjusted his grip around the box in his arms. You nodded and gave him a kind smile, picking up another box off the ground, you two started to bring the boxes inside and into the room you had picked.

You two had just finished bringing all the boxes at last and you flopped down on the fancy couch in the living room. Fortunately for you, Simon had brought some pastries and some homemade lemonade as a housewarming gift so luckily you didn’t have to worry about making food or anything.

“Gonna be honest with you Simon, I can’t cook for shit so you can be expecting me to be coming over more often for some food.” Simon looked a bit surprised at your words before he smiled shyly and glanced down to the floor. He seemed a bit…nervous to be in the house almost?

“I-I’m glad you e-enjoy it…..” Simon responded quietly as he rubbed his arm in a nervous manner. “Have….Have you h-heard a-any of the…uhm….rumours before you moved in?

You raised your eyebrow at that. Rumors? You hadn’t seen anything and if there was anything about it you were too focused on getting out 0f your past situation to care about any dumb old rumors. It would probably stay that way too.

“light on. After saying your goodbyes to each other, Simon walked back towards his house right beside your new one. Rumors? No…? Should I have? I’m not the superstitious type really.” You responded as you took another sip of the lemonade. Simon shifted his weight from one leg to the other nervously before finally speaking up again.

“Back in about…the late 1800s there was a man that lived here….I-I haven’t h-heard exactly what h-happened but there was an incident with a camera and it ended up killing his partner and he died in the hospital later that day. There’s rumors that say you can see him in the upper stairs windows or the uhm…rose garden….The most popular one is that if you take a picture of the house then your camera will explode too just like what happened to him…” Simon explained with a solemn look on his face as he spoke. “I-I’m not s-sure how true i-it is….I keep seeing him stare at me through the window when I go out.....B-But I j-just wanted to let you know.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his words. Simon’s face instantly went from solemn and worried to confused as he looked up and his eyes darted onto your laughing face. You quickly stifled your laughter before trying to explain. “Sorry, but like I said, I’m not the superstitious type and I don’t believe in all that. I mean….I’ve been interested in it back when I was little and had my own encounters but all of those ended up having reasonable explanations. I appreciate you for telling me but I think I’ll be fine.” You assured him with a smile.

Simon looked surprised but he nodded his head nonetheless at your words. “O-Okay….Y-You’re very b-brave, [MC]. N-Not that t-there’s anything t-to be a-afraid of, like y-you said!” Simon responded as his nervous smile came back on his face and he twidled with his thumbs as he spoke. You stood up and set your cup down on the table before walking over to Simon and putting your hand on his shoulder. He slightly tensed up for a second at the sudden touch as he looked up at you. It was about 9pm at this point so it was already dark.

“Thanks Simon, and also thanks for the food and helping me with my boxes. I think I’m going to be heading to bed though soon. I had a really long drive here.” You explained to him as the two of you started to walk back out onto the porch where you had already flipped the porch Once he was finally gone you let out a loud sigh as you closed your eyes and leaned against the door for a minute to collect yourself. It had taken a lot out of you to just hold that conversation for that long especially with everything you’ve been through in the past month overall.

You walked back into the bedroom down the hallway where boxes had accumulated in the corner of the room. Scouring through the boxes for a few minutes until you found your bag and changed into something a bit more comfortable so you could lay down. You got underneath the rose imprinted quilt and sighed softly, pulling the covers up to your chin because of the chill in the house. You’d have to bring that up to the landlord when you met them. You reached over and turn off the light from the lamp before closing your eyes for the night.

………………

“What a shame…” He thinks as he looks at the figure laying in the bedroom from the end of the hallway. Don’t worry, my love. You’ll meet me very soon.

____________________

Zachary and Simon belong to: @clrdgaze

#Curse my good writing skills of wanting a setting set up #I wanted him to be in chapter one but yall just gonna have to be patient cause this shit is already at 2K WORDS #But we're #Planning on making multiple chapters so stay tuned 🖤 #yandere vn #yandere visual novel #yandere #male yandere #visual novel #coloredgaze #yandere male #clrdgazevn #colored gaze #coloredgazevn #Please please let there be no mistakes or i will [REDACTED] myself

[aloysiavirgata]

Prompt: Scully caught Mulder buying condoms. Thank you😊

Dana examines the coupons in her little vinyl pouch, squints at the price of the Paul Mitchell conditioner. It’s a splurge and she has med school debts, but what the hell?

She catches her reflection as she passes a display of hand mirrors. The temporary brown rinse is rapidly fading from her hair and she feels an itch to do something new. Blonde? Something short and sporty? Bangs?

She must call her sister first. Melissa always knows the right thing here.

Dana puts a jar of Noxzema in her basket, a tube of Evyan White Shoulders lotion. There’s a Cosmo in there too, an occasional cheap thrill, which promises to analyze her seasonal color palette. She rounds the corner to peruse the lipsticks and walks face first into someone’s tie.

“Scully?” Mulder says, as though HE isn’t in HER Rite-Aid on a Friday night.

She notes him switch the basket to his other hand. Sees a box of Trojans peeking out from a heap of Slim Jims and bags of his stupid sunflower seeds.

Dana does not smirk, though she’s heard salacious things about him from Holly and a few other women. “Hey,” she says.

They stand there awkwardly, Friday-night colleagues with dirty little secrets.

Mulder coughs. “Gotta go home and get my curlers set,” he says at last, patting his hair. “Otherwise I won’t be able to do a thing with it.”

She smiles up at him, grateful for the effort. Neither of them wants to be the first to unpack their private lives in front of the other on the speckled Formica counter.

Dana remembers she has a coupon for two pints of Ben and Jerry’s, another splurge, but ice cream and her trashy magazine sound like heaven tonight.

“Forgot something,” she says, relieved for a real excuse. “See you Monday, I guess.”

“See you Monday,” he echoes.

She heads for the frozen section and watches him in one of the security mirrors. He’s good looking, Fox Mulder, in an assholish professorial way. He has nicer clothes than her and maybe he does put curlers in his damn hair. He has lashes like a fawn.

In the reflection he piles his items on the counter, chats with the clerk as his snacks crinkle. Dana blushes when she realizes she’s squinting to make out the size of the condoms. She’s seen him in the pool before.

Mulder pays and exits, leaving her staring at Wavy Gravy and Cherry Garcia.

Holly made it sound like he had Bond Girls lining up at his door all weekend, like he fucked the way he swam and ran, like a matter of simple physical exertion. If there’s a serious girlfriend no one has made her aware.

But Dana thinks back to his hotel room a couple of weeks ago, knows he could have gotten her terrified ass in his bed if he wanted to. Jack Willis hadn’t had to do much, and that makes her blush again. But Mulder was a gentleman and told her about his baby sister instead. Or maybe she isn’t his type, she thinks.

She takes two pints of Cookie Dough from the freezer and adds them to her other items. She pulls her cell phone from her coat pocket, enters speed dial number 14.

“Holly?” she says, when her friend answers. “Guess what?”

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #pilot #prompt

[katz-chow]

you can meet me at my hotel

with nothing on under your trench coat

synopsis: price gets a glimpse into your line of work as the unlikely two of your careers cross paths for a mission. aka: price goes undercover and convinces you to be his femme fatale agent

warnings: suggestive themes, actually, very suggestive themes, gn! reader, poisoning, espionage, Florida.

a/n: GOD I AM DELULU, I had a dream of this like a few nights ago and while this ain't my fav piece nor is it very good, i had to write it

The American sector was all Laswell’s territory, but for this one, it became an international threat as a Bosnian mafia leader was said to be planning a visit to Miami. Which so happens to be where you were also staying as there was a press conference for your new movie. Laswell, sweet matchmaker she is, knew that you were in town, so she specifically requested Price for this assassination mission. Gaz came along too, only because she wanted him to have a break. 

Laswell called you two weeks before, informing you about the man and Price will be tracking down, using your press conference to get close to him. The plan was easy, you finish your conference and lure him into a conversation, invite him to LIV, and from there it was all Price. One thing she forgot to mention, however, was that Price didn’t know you were involved until he landed and you greeted him. This “American undercover agent” was you. 

“Love, what are you doing?” He whispered calmly, yet demanding in your ear as he nuzzled into you. From everyone else’s view, it was just two lovers reunited after months of waiting, which was true anyway.

“The eagle has landed.” You mumbled as pure bliss wrapped his strong biceps against your ribs. 

Laswell laughed in your earpieces, “Surprise John, you get an easy mission and see hot shot Hollywood queen too.”

Out of the corner of Price’s eye, he sees Gaz sitting with a woman, both with two cups of coffee on the table they shared. “Bastards you two.” He should’ve seen it coming with you wearing one of Gaz’s hats and Laswell’s sunglasses as your disguise from the paparazzi.

“Get on with it.” Laswell and Gaz cheered and laughed at the two of you with Price’s sour expression ruining this heartwarming moment as you giggle at him. 

The press conference went great, though Price’s anger and utter annoyance at you wrapping your arms around this very violent and dangerous man did make Laswell tease him the entire day until you two got to the club. 

Price wraps his arms around your waist as you stand in front of your mirror as you finished up doing your hair. “You’re so pretty, Love. My star of the show.”

You giggle and kiss his cheek, turning around and using your thumb to rub his cheek and groom his beard. “Are you ready?” You pat his suit jacket lapel and feel the glass vitals of white snake root extract. 

“Always.” His hand caresses your thigh to feel your holdout, a small handgun. Price insisted that you have one with you at all times throughout this mission, and just with you in general because he knows about hidden vendettas against celebrities. 

“Tarik? Right? We spoke today?” You purred as you slide into the VIP table next to the target. You lean your chest forward towards him and cross your legs. 

A few tables away was your own VIP table with some of your costars and their dates. Price leaned back against the vinyl booth, a glass of Don Julio Real swirling in his hand. The booming bass shook through his bones as his eyes stayed trained on you, Gaz’s voice in his ear as he instructs him to move to the bar on the 5th seat. He sees you reach for the man’s chin and drags it to your face. You whisper something to him, close enough that even the DJ couldn’t drown out the fake lust that dripped from your words. That was enough for him as he let you go and grab two drinks for the both of you. 

Walking up to Price in the 3rd seat at the bar, you wave down to the bartender and asked for a bottle of Remy Martin. Price paid and smirked at you. “Having fun here, Sweetheart? Never seen you before.” 

You giggle at his charades, “I’m usually filming or at E11even though. I like that accent you got going on.” 

“Worcester, Darling. I’m sure you’d love it more when it’s right in your ear, hm?” His breath felt hot on your ear lobe as your fingers moved to his chest, taking out the vital. “Have a drink with me instead, it’ll taste better.” 

You smile and roll your eyes playfully. As you stand with the two glasses, one filled and one empty, and the bottle in your other hand, you whisper something nonchalant to him. “We should film it then. Actress after all, right?”

John bit his cheek to cover up his growing smile as he stayed at the bar counter, thinking about the hotel room that he’ll be bringing you back to. Laswell gags, and Price rips out the ear piece and shoves it into his pocket.

#cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #cod #fanfic #katzwrites #captain john price #price x reader #john price #price #captain price #141 #cod mwf2 #john price x y/n #call of duty mw2 #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x y/n #john price x you #captain john price x reader #call of duty modern warfare #mw2 #mwii #call of duty price #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #task force 141