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dark dilf delinquent season cillian lusting after the new neighbors daughter; who not so coincidentally has a penchant for undressing with her curtains open 🫣 & sneaking in guys who kinda (definitely) maybe resemble cillian? from her club nights 😭

he’s dark & like kinda pathetic but we love him anyway

i feel like this is too specific but I can’t get the thought out of my head 🥲

it is very specific but I'm not mad, and I love writing a pervert <3 but a dilf AND a pervert?! yes please!! obviously I love this concept cause I went a liiiiitle overboard with it, oops...

length: 3.3k

warnings: m and f masturbation, voyeurism, slightly dark but not very much, unspecified age gap, infidelity

When it first started, he really was just trying to read. It wasn't his fault that the book was boring, or that your curtains were open, or that he caught a glance of you in your window.

It was innocent then, too— he liked watching you do normal things, like put on jewelry or laugh on the phone with a friend. It made him smile... he wasn't sure why, but it just made him feel a little better after a long day, seeing you up there, reminiscing on his younger days as he got a distant view of yours...

But it had been months since it started, and it was far from innocent now. He'd become an expert at compartmentalizing the shame; he'd become addicted to the cycle, to the watching and the waiting and the sick anticipation— not to mention the fear that someday, you'd notice him watching. The fear, and yet, the hope.

"Fuck," he panted under his breath as he wanked himself— not too fast yet, but certainly much faster than the slow and teasing strokes he liked to start off with. You were taking off your shirt, pulling it over your head and folding your arms in that crazy origami way girls do that he'd never totally understood; he bit his lip as his eyes dragged over your back, trying to imagine how it would feel to run his fingers up your spine until you arched it just right—

He heard the kids yell downstairs and he stopped for a second, heart pounding with nervousness as he feared they might come up and knock at the door. He used to only do this when they were gone... but he couldn't pass up an opportunity like this, a perfect view of you stripping in the window.

The noises stopped and his movements started again, fisting his cock with a stifled groan as you reached behind your back and undid the clasp; even having seen your tits probably a dozen times by now, his mouth was slack and dry in anticipation of you turning around and letting him see them again.

You teased him for a while longer, messing with your hair and stretching your arms up until he found himself mumbling between panting breaths: c'mon, baby, show me— lemme see, sweetheart, fuck, please...

Sort of like willing a stoplight to turn green, it's obviously not possible but it will work at some point: you turned and faced the window, your eyes shut with a sigh as you started to open your jeans. He had to grip his cock's leaking head tight just then, too overwhelmed with the view of your breasts— he was afraid to come too soon.

He'd never had to hold himself back like this before, never delayed his gratification— because, normally, it's totally antithetical to the point of masturbation. He only ever jerked off for the gratification, and he only ever watched porn to help get there a little faster... but you, you were so much better than porn. The thrill of doing something wrong, the longing of knowing you (if not very well) in real life, the lack of control over you and being, in a sense, at your mercy as you undressed as slow as you wanted... it was all just terribly erotic. And he refused to let himself come until you let him see a little more.

You slid your jeans down your legs and he actually bit his lip, just to muffle his moan. "Yes," he whispered to himself, cock pulsing in his grip as he watched you step out of them, turning around to lay them over your bed— and giving him the perfect view of your ass in those cute cotton panties as you did it. "Fuck," he grunted, twisting his hand over his tip and feeling his hips jerk instinctively— he couldn't think of the last time he was so sensitive. "See what you do to me?" he chuckled to himself— he wished you could see it, but then again, he had his lights off in the room for a reason. All you could see was a dark window, and for now, he preferred to keep it that way.

You laid back on your bed, looking relaxed and contented as you ran your hand down over yourself— fuck, is she about to--?

You slipped your hand into your panties, and he tilted his head back with a heavy sigh, only allowing himself a second to shut his eyes as his balls tightened up, threatening to blow it all right then and there. He'd never actually seen you touch yourself before— though he had seen you take a vibrator out of your bedside drawer and, infuriatingly, go to take a shower where you presumably got to use it with complete privacy. The image in his head had been plenty to get off on that night, but seeing you now as your fingers moved under the thin fabric, your lips opening for what he hoped was a quiet little moan? It was almost too much to bear.

You spread your legs a bit, the angle giving him a hint of a view of what you were doing; he sat up in the chair, leaning to the side a bit, desperate for a better look at how you were touching yourself. Were you just rubbing your clit, or were you going to put a finger or two inside? "Baby," he panted to himself, watching your tits get harder as your hand moved, "baby... y-yeah, just like that, fuck..."

The sight of you playing with yourself was just too beautiful; he had to keep reminding himself to shut his mouth so he wouldn’t make too much noise, but then it would just fall right back open again as you arched your back.  

“Feels good?” he noticed, raking his gaze over every sign of your pleasure.  “Tell me how good it feels…”

He wanted to imagine your voice, then, the way you’d respond to him: feels so good, Cill.  You’d never actually called him that, you always called him Mr. Murphy.  He tried not to acknowledge how much that turned him on, but anyways, he couldn’t conjure your voice in his head anyways.  He hadn’t spoken to you in weeks, not since you’d babysat for him and his wife… he tried not to acknowledge how much that turned him on, either.

Seemingly out of nowhere, you took your hand out of your panties and expanded your cheeks with a big sigh; he knit his eyebrows together, watching you roll over and grab your phone off of the nightstand by your bed.  His sicker side instantly assumed you were going to find some porn to watch, but your lackadaisical attitude about the whole thing made it seem more like you’d had a sudden mid-masturbation urge to check Instagram.  Kids and their phones, he thought to himself, even though you were far from a kid— he was just much, much further from one than you were, is all…

And, this should come as no surprise by now… that turned him on too.  He’d come to be weirdly fascinated by his own perversion, finding it just as shameful as he did sexy.

His phone vibrated on the desk and his screen lit up— he wasn't going to answer it at first, nothing was more important than watching you right now... but then it went off again. He looked at it and back at you, seeing you getting up suddenly and walking around the room... surely you hadn't come already? It certainly didn't look like it.

Even though he couldn't imagine why you'd stopped so abruptly, he figured it was a good opportunity to make sure the messages weren't important. He awkwardly got up and grabbed his phone, feeling a bit strange about walking around with his jeans open and his erection poking out. Unlocking his phone to read whatever was sent, he felt a massive sigh leave his chest as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

He never even saved your number, but he recognized the previous conversation you'd had-- just a few texts back and forth about a little backyard gathering your parents were having, and some question about when you needed to come over to watch the kids, but you usually messaged his wife about that kind of stuff.  But since he’d committed those brief conversations to memory, it took him only a split-second to know it was you— and, obviously, seeing that you'd just texted him, he thought his heart might just stop right then.  He had to blink some blurriness out of his vision to even read them, with how fast the damn thing was beating.

hi mr. murphy.

turn on the lamp on the desk.

He whipped his head around to look back at you, only to find you smiling around a bitten lower lip, staring right into his window.  Fuck.  Fuck!

He set his phone down, not sure what to do— and quickly locking the screen as he realized you’d probably seen the glow of it.  He groaned softly again as he watched you sit down on your bed again, facing directly towards him, those pretty legs spreading nice and slow as your hand moved over your panties again.  Fuck.

He felt like he was in a dream or something as he flipped on the lamp— maybe it was an out of body experience.  If he was out of his own body, he at least knew whose he wanted to get into: he never took his eyes off you as he slowly walked back to his chair, sitting back down in it and meeting your half-lidded gaze as you tossed your phone away and used your free hand to toy with one of your hard nipples.  “Fuck,” he said aloud this time, seeing your eyes trail down to his cock— it was still out, of course, sticking up proudly against the black shirt covering his stomach.  Maybe it was proud, but he was a little bit terrified, his face getting hot as he snatched the throw pillow nearby to cover himself with; he saw you laugh, sighing through his nose dreamily as he wished he could hear the sweet sound of it, and then shake your head with a grin.

You stood up then, turning around and bending over as you ever-so-slowly pulled your panties down, making him purr as he got a thorough look at your bare ass.  You looked too damn good bent over like that— what he would give to stand behind you, pushing your shoulders down with one hand as he gave that cute arse a good spank with the other—

He saw you looking back at him, a proud smirk on your face; “Dirty girl,” he scolded under his breath, watching you stand up straight and sit on the bed again.

Your legs were pressed tightly together, and when he look up to your eyes, he found them focusing on the pillow in his lap; you met his gaze again, a pink tongue darting gently over your lips.  A silent promise: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.  With the way it made his heart pound and his palms clammy, he felt like a schoolboy all over again.

He grabbed the pillow and slowly moved it away, your legs opening at the same pace in perfect time with it; he groaned through a tight jaw as he stared at your pussy, one of your hands running down to spread the sticky lips even wider for him.  “Fuck,” he moaned, holding onto his cock tightly again as he felt totally helpless to the sight of it, unable to look away.  “So fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbled, starting to stroke himself as you bit your lip again and rubbed your clit with two fingers— the nails still had that baby pink polish, the one he’d watched you paint on a few nights ago.  Why was something as simple as that so sexy?

Your mouth fell open, and your head tilted back; he tried to imagine how you’d sound, your sweet voice a little darker and deeper with pleasure.  You rubbed yourself a little faster, a little harder, and he felt his lips curl into a sneer.

“Good girl, like that,” he panted, “play with it for me.  Play with that cute little cunt— f-fuck, yes—”

You looked at him again, eyes glued to his cock, and he felt it flex in his grip as if it wanted to wave to you; he saw you smile, an oddly sweet smile for something so dirty, and he watched your fingers slide down to your tiny, seeping opening.  He nodded in encouragement, watching your face fall into a shockingly innocent gasp as you slid a finger into yourself.

“Yes, baby,” he moaned, “y-yeah, s’it warm inside, sweetheart?  Bet you’re so fucking tight, baby, I know your pussy is so goddamn tight—”

You pumped the single finger in and out, head falling back for a moment, and he squeezed his cock tight again to try to hold back another close call— he’d feel pretty stupid coming so fast with you watching, but he’d been doing this a lot longer than you had… fuck, how long had you known he was watching you?

Your mouth opened wider as you pushed another finger into yourself, and his hips shifted roughly in the chair, his hand moving faster as he growled.  “Fuck, it’s not enough, is it?” he hissed.  “Two little fingers isn’t enough— you need my cock, fuck, you need my fuckin’ cock— I’d fill you so good, sweetheart, I’d be so fuckin’ deep inside you—”

He was almost bucking up into his own hand now, his whole body suddenly pulsing with energy— it was a good thing you weren’t here now, even if he wanted it more than anything: he would’ve treated you awfully if he could’ve gotten his hands on you, fucking you hard and rough, tossing you around, pinning you down… he needed you so bad, he couldn’t imagine having the patience for anything but one of those nasty, fast, rough, animalistic fucks.  He’d fucking ruin you right now, if he could.

You were rough about it, too— roughly pinching and tugging on your tits, roughly fucking yourself on your fingers… you even pulled your hand out and gave your clit a little smack at one point, and he choked on his loudest moan yet as your body jolted.

“Dirty fucking slut,” he growled, “fuck, come for me.  Please, baby, I need to come, I need to fuckin’ come—”

You were saying something, obviously he couldn’t hear a damn word of it, but the shape of your lips made him pretty damn sure you were chanting over and over: yes, yes, yes—

“Come, baby,” he begged, knowing he couldn’t hold himself back much longer, “let me see— show me how you come, sweetheart, show me that pretty face when you come on your fucking fingers— soak them, honey, come for me—”

You were shaking all over, legs quivering and tits bouncing with the force of it— you pulled your fingers out and he could fucking see it, see that cute little hole flexing, and obviously he was done for pretty much instantly.  He moaned roughly as hot ropes of come painted his shirt, rolled down his shaft and shaking fingers, one drop even finding its way down his balls which was sort of pleasantly ticklish…

You looked so gorgeous coming like that, your hand and pussy all shiny with your arousal, your eyes heavy and your lips swollen from all the biting… he blinked quickly as he tried to catch his breath, letting go of his slowly-softening cock and leaning back into the chair.  You smiled at him; funny how, even now, that could make his heart skip.  He watched you stand up and wiggle your fingers in a cute little wave at him as you approached the window, and his tired smile fell quickly when you reached for the curtains.  “N-no, don’t go,” he pleaded softly, leaning forward as if he could stop you somehow, “please, wait—”

You slid them shut suddenly, and he whined a little as he fell back into the chair, running his (clean) hand over his face as he contemplated what he’d just done.  When his phone vibrated again, he jumped up to grab it, but frowned in disappointment when he saw it was from his wife.  Be home in a few, please come help with the groceries.

He tried to type a quick reply, only to grimace when he realized how filthy his hand was.  He wiped it off on his shirt— but his shirt was filthy, too.  Sighing, he set the phone down and took the whole thing off, balling it up to toss into the hamper, leaving him in just his undershirt.

Going straight back to his phone, he opened the conversation with you, praying to see that little grey bubble pop up or something; he started to type a few times, things like will I see you tomorrow? or come over next time the house is empty, but he always felt like an idiot and ended up erasing it.  He didn’t get a chance to think of a good thing to send before he heard a car pulling up in the driveway.  Shoving the phone in his pocket, he sighed and made his way downstairs, navigating around the pillow fort in the living room to get out the front door.

“Just help me with the bags in the boot, will you?” she asked him, not even looking at him, as she rifled through whatever was in the backseat.  He opened it, sighing as he looked at them.  Nothing like a bunch of brown bags to bring you back to reality.

His eyes widened when he heard his wife say your name, and he poked his head around the car to see you standing there, wearing a zip-up and leggings.  “Good evening, Mrs. Murphy,” you smiled, and he figured he looked like a deer in the headlights— if a deer could hold a paper sack full of pasta and biscuits— as your gaze fell on him.  “Hi, Mr. Murphy.”

He opened his mouth to try to respond, but nothing really came out; “Looks like you’re going for a run,” his wife noticed, saving him for the time being as your attention turned to her again. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “figured I could use some exercise.”

He cleared his throat, just a way to try to fight the lump forming in it, but it unintentionally caused both women to look at him again— once again, he found himself uselessly floundering for a response, and only getting out a soft ‘er’ before you said something.

“Aren’t you cold in just a t-shirt, Mr. Murphy?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“It’s fine,” he choked out, “I was feeling kind of hot anyway.”

You smiled at him, then waved goodbye to his wife as you pushed your earbuds in and continued walking down the street— you were acting so innocent that he started to feel like he’d dreamed up the whole thing.  

She probably saw him staring, watching you jog down the sidewalk, that ass looking terribly familiar covered by the athletic leggings; but she didn’t say anything, only shutting the car boot to get his attention as he finally carried the paper sacks into the house.  "She's sweet, isn't she?" she broke the moment of silence as they walked up the driveway together.

“I-I guess,” he tried to sound as non-committal as possible.

“You don’t think so?” she pressed, apparently noticing his cryptic answer.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “maybe she’s not as sweet as she looks.”

whose the worst jojo villain from parts 1-7?

Capitalism

Hey guys just found out I didn't have asks on, now I do. Feel free to make yandere headcanon requests for resident evil,ff7,dc and silent hill. ❤️

I’m just super fucking bitter that once the flint water crisis got it’s 15 minutes of fame people stopped giving a shit. The water is still poisoned, people! Donations have plummeted and people have been forced back into drinking and bathing with the water! The medical effects of this are astounding, cases of legionnaires disease have skyrocketed, people are having seizures, people are having weird rashes break out over their body, people (including me!) are having their blood poisoned, and it’s not just lead! it’s coliform bacteria! it’s THMs! it’s all in the water and it gets into the bloodstream and breaks down blood vessels, causing bruising and petechiae and internal bleeding and no one gives a shit anymore and it’s only gotten worse like how many people are going to have to die until people realize this is still a problem

This is Amal and her family. My children are living under bombardment in the war 😭 Please consider them your children and help them 🙏🙏 Stand by my side to save and protect my children. They haven't gone to school for a year 🙏😢😢 Donate to save my children's lives 🍉 🙏🇵🇸 We live in very difficult and desperate circumstances, and what is worst of all is that the fear that haunts me increases day by day. Help me provide them with basic life needs. @gazavetters is verified, my verified number in the list is (#55)

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Hi still alive, will be posting

Best Served Cold

V

Vulpes Inculta x Courier reader/female!courier.

Warning: Allusions to SA, self harm mention, sexual comments.

The rock was a faint weapon in your hand, once, it had been a tool of your brief freedom in the desert. 

With that, you used the remainder of your strength, you stand to score your twenty-first tally into concrete wall, the pale grey dust falling at your worn boots. 

All you had for company was a grim lavatory, a sink that dripped with poisoned water, and piles of empty water bottles they rolled into your cell. 

No food though, they didn't want you to die in here, only suffer. 

Your stomach cried with hollowness. The only thing that kept you company were you memories and the hollow plastic bottles. 

You had nothing but the remainder of your clothes, and the rays of sunlight that would trickle in from the small rectangular slot. 

You had initially fought, you did press-ups, sit-ups, high knees, tension exercises all to try and keep your muscle mass. But now, with your shrinking skin, you had only the strength to delve into your memories for company and sleep. 

You thought of the Big Empty, those strange gaggle of scientists who blessed you with your memories back, albeit unintentionally, when they put your brain back in your head. 

You could have kept their augmentations, yes, but Dad found a human baby, not some strange cyborg. 

“W-wait, really?” You recall Dr 0’s response when you requested to go under the knife for your viscera back. “You’d rather have your old parts back? You sure? they're so… breakable, squishy, not to mention the scar in your brain.”

“Oh course she would want those beautiful squishy visceral organs back. To have them, inside you. I am happy to perform the surgery,” said Dr Dala. She made a groan you'd rather forget the sound of. 

Drowsy from sleep, you had been woken by a ray of light, and kisses of heat on your dirty face, as you had been many mornings before. Your throat was dry and your stomach had long shrank to a peppercorn, you lean into the wall, your head awash with dizziness. 

Your wall, for these past three weeks,

Three weeks. Another and you may die. 

The strange thing was, in this stony hell, was that you no longer felt an appetite for food. At day five, you dreamt of it, of consuming.

But now, you only felt the sharp main of hunger, yet no desire to eat

Arcade spoke of it before when you tried to feed a freed Legion slave. 

“She hasn’t eaten in some time, but she can’t eat something like pork and beans just yet. Her stomach, it has shrunk.” He told you. 

The trousers you had on were held up to the last belt loop. You didn’t want to know how much fat and muscle you have lost, your muscles were no doubt eaten away too by the hunger. 

This was the longest you have went without being fed. 

The cell lit light yellow, to orange, to purple then black and had done so twenty-one times already. 

They rolled a water bottle in before slamming the door shut.

Scrambling to it like a dwarf to glittering gold, you drank it down greedily, the tepid water, a balm to your empty stomach. It rolled down your chin, leaving clean marks.

The only thing you could feed yourself was your memories. You recalled times of power, of when you were in control, of times you were safe, any time you were not here. 

You ate the Big Empty, inhaled the red miasma of the Sierra Madre once again. 

And feast on those diaphanous memories you did.

You sat cross legged in the centre, and felt your fingers fizz as you breathed deeply. 

As you feasted on a memory that tasted like wood ash, you longed to be anywhere but here.

-

It had been the first time you wore heels. Black with red soles that Mr House told you was “all the rage” back before the war. It was a year or so ago, an epoch far gone. 

Loeee betons? Looooieee Bestons? You can’t remember what they were called but Mr House assured you they were expensive.

They ate your feet and elevated your frame, made you walk graceful and slow. 

You loved them, in truth, their glossiness, the chic lick of red at your sole. Veronica was playfully jealous of you.

Jane gave you some tips on how to “seduce” a man, to get what you wanted from them. The tips were given in clipped quotes as she led you down to your room. 

It seemed that Mr House had fancied you to be a femme fatale, rather than the ragged tomboy that entered the penthouse suite. 

“There could be something lovely underneath all of that filthy Wasteland dust and radiation. Jane will take you to your room, help you get cleaned up.” 

And help you she did. 

You were scrubbed raw and smelt of caramel and coconut, two things you would never have the pleasure of eating. 

Standing spotless and wrapped in a white towel, Jane rolled in, a silky black dress in her meaty metal arms. 

“Mr House says that this should fit you perfectly, its Chanel darling, 2055, very vintage now!”

She giggles and turned around as you slipped the fae fabric on. You were shaved for the first time too, so you felt truly naked, especially without your man’s clothes. 

Slipping on your heels, you cleared your throat. Blushing. 

“Wow sugar! You look just the bee’s knees, I’ll have to keep an eye on you in case Robert starts looking elsewheres,” she let out a tinny robotic laugh. 

“Don’t think I’m enough metal for him, if I’m honest,” you thought. 

“You just sit right there, and the beauty-atron will do your make up for you. Not that you really need it sugar, you sure do look lovely all cleaned up!”

In truth, you loved it, being a woman, being pampered, looked after. It was something you never experienced before. 

A few piercings later, and a string of pearls around your throat, you were sent before Mr House. Who approved -you thought- a bit too much. 

“That should do nicely. You should have no issue getting the Chip from Benny like this. Has Jane taught you how to speak to a man yet?”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Hm good, you know what to do," his frozen green face glared down at you. "Get me my Platinum Chip.” 

When you walked into the Tops casino, it was like you were a wide eyed water nymph from that old painting you saw back at the Sierra Madre.  Beckoning men to their watery doom. 

“Woah woah woah baby-doll,” a well groomed dark haired man had pulled you behind the counter, halting you in your red pursuit of your killer.  “Now I have never seen you around here before. I know ‘cause I’d remember. Name's Swank baby."

You swallowed, seduction dying in your throat like a blue winged butterfly in a radioactive vacuum. 

“Cat got your tongue, I’ll happily put mine in your mouth honey baby.”

Your throat closed up. Before your emerald eyes could narrow into a disgusted squint, you stopped. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you baby.” You said, your voice airy and lilting. “Mr House sent me for Benny you see…”

You brush your clean, soft, jewelled fingers down his shirt sleeve. 

“A gift for his hard work thus far," you grinned, hiding your disgust at yourself. Orders were orders. 

“You sound like a dick, Lucky,” you thought to yourself. 

“Hey now, ain't that one lucky bastard, say, what’s your name?”

(Are real men really this easy?)

You gave one, a stranger's name you heard years ago, the name of a girl you don’t know. 

“Pretty name for a pretty face, come on, I gotta show the boss his prize. Lucky bastard.”

The casino was the ring of greed and gluttony, and you suspect Benny’s suite was the ring of lust and wrath. 

You remember worrying, the switchblade in your clutch bag burning a hole through the shiny leather, the fool, Swank, was too enamoured to even check your bag.

“Yo Benny,” Swank unlinked with you, gently gesturing you to Benny. 

He was cleaner this time, free from the filth of the Mojave, His chequered black and white square suite was dazzling. His skin was tanned and clear, it was threated veal leather in its smoothness, with a straight delicate nose. 

Inhaling white smoke and exhaling, Benny had turned with his men. 

“Yeah? What is i-”

His chocolate brown eyes met your own and he was speechless. 

You remember how your heart tightened in your chest, how dry your mouth grew and sweaty your hands became. How on earth did he recognise you? 

Then he grinned, dazzling white. 

You hated him, the surgical scar Doc Mitchell made, which wrapped around the left side of your head, itched even more so than usual. 

“Now who’s this swinging pussy cat?” He grabbed you hand and kissed it, You feigned a giggle as you gave your “name”. 

“Cute name, but I think I’ll call you pussycat, seems more fitting if you ask me.” 

He cocked his head at Swank, gesturing him to leave. 

“Mr House sent me…” You technically weren’t lying. 

“Really? The old man sends me some Gomorrah girls from time to time, how come’s I never seen you yet. I’d remember, sweetheart.”

“I’m new you see lover,” you answered smiling. “He wanted you get…” You wanted to gag (“Keep it together Lucky!”) “the first taste.”

“Well,” he purred, stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray “No complaints from me here.”

He smelt of aftershave, of cinnamon, spice and death. 

“How abouts we go somewhere, private pussy cat," his hot breath against your ear made you shrivel. 

You had filed through your memories for entertainment, times where you were in control, times of happiness. 

As you sat and starved, you meditated on them, recalling every smell, every wrinkle as Benny grinned, every gap in his stupid white teeth. 

You kill him in every dream you have of him, decapitation, emulsion, poisoning, drowning, every death you dreamt was never as satisfying as his real one. 

You could never let go of what he took from you then. Dooming you to a life of some elf that sprouted from the dead tree above your grave. Simple, existing, borne of the cancerous Gaia below. 

You recounted this memory a hundred times before. What number were you at now? You had to in this cell, explore and mourn what you once were, before you went insane. 

Your heels were made for carpets, that much you remember as you revisit your thoughts, they weren’t made for where soldier’s boots would trod, lest you chip the red soles. 

You were a statue in the elevator, his arm around your waist, caressing your soft flesh. 

His suite was gaudy, and he had tried to kiss you, pressing a hand to his lips, his brow furrowed. 

“What gives baby, cold feet? I ain’t no Legion creep. Leave, I don’t care I’ll get another girl. I've killed men for hurtin' girlies like that in my Vegas."

The switchblade burned in your bag. 

“Just like to put on lipstick first.” You said, fidgeting in your clutch. 

“Oh you still down pussy cat?”

He cut across the room, grabbing your face gently, as if he were holding a glass rose. 

“Your lips will be covered by mine baby, no  need to worry about no lipstick.”

Your manicured fingers curled around the blade. And you put it to his throat. 

“Now that, I shoulda seen comin’," he chuckled, barely flinching. ‘Specially since I have what House wants. By the looks of you, I have something you want too. You're too pretty for your own good, Swank didn't check you, stupid fink."

“Don’t you recognise me?” You pressed the blade into his tanned throat. “Game was rigged from the start.” 

Pulling back your fringe, you showed him your scar, an arm of it reached an inch down your forehead, with a length above your ear reaching your cheek bone, 

“How the in the goddamn?” 

He pulls back, you press the blade till you saw a red pearl on the silver.  

“I don’t remember shit thanks to you. So lemme cut you a deal. I can let you go if you tell me who I was," you lied.

A nervous chuckle from Benny, sweat rolled down his tanned flesh, his lacquered hair springing out of place.

“Listen… I don’t know sweetheart,” he said steadily, hands gesturing to pacify you, it didn’t work. 

“I just thought you were some kid courier. Didn’t know you from Adam, didn’t even realise you were a woman," his voice was littered with panic. Pure fear of being outplayed, falling for a pretty face. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah honest baby,” he reached behind him, no doubt grabbing for the gun that killed you in his trouser pocket. “Real honest.”

Lurching, you grabbed Benny pulling him back. Switchblade still at his throat you pulled him down. You were deceptively strong afterall. 

“Motherfucker, you’re gonna pay," you hissed into his ear, his cologne intoxicating. 

With that, you had your revenge, you opened his throat and watched him die on the floor of his suite. Clutching at his open neck as it stained the white carpets. 

You looked down, and felt... nothing. Just another outplayed man twitching and dying beneath you. 

There was neither a catharsis nor crescendo. For you, at that point, were a nothing child, borne of lead and evil. A girl-man with no past. 

As Benny died, you rifled through his expensive silk lined pockets. 

And there it was. 

The thing you almost died for. The Platinum Chip. You stole it away in your clutch bag.

-

You had left the way you came, they didn’t suspect a thing. 

The sun was drank down again, and the sky was purple. Some stars had peeked their way through the darkening veil while the moon was a ghost of herself.

“You dropped this, sweet lady.”

The voice of the Reaper, a skeletal beast of cold breath from the ashes of corpses drunk in. 

Vulpes Inculta. 

You felt you hair grow grey, your throat dried and you sweated icy saline. 

Shuddering you turn. To meet his cerulean gaze. 

He was sans dog-head. Dressed in a three piece suit and a white shirt and tie, his hat was tilted slightly as he slung his jacket over a shoulder. But you recognised him, there is no washing out the reek of a body burned. 

He handed you back your switchblade. A shaking hand you took it. 

“Th-thank you.” 

Did he recognise you? The “boy” who branded him monster?

“Sweet lady” was a mask to his sentence, a ploy to fool you into thinking he himself was fooled. 

“A young lady such as yourself is right to carry a blade in this city.” He covered your hand gently as he squeezed the closed blade into your palm. 

“Especially this city.”

“With men like you, you mean.” You thought. 

You swallow dryly and wet your lips. You nod frantically. 

“You are correct, good sir.”

“Asshole." You told the truth to yourself.

“I am pleased Vegas has some good men in it still," your voice was sweet and breathy, just like Jane taught. 

He smiles, it even reaches his sharp eyes. 

“If it pleases you, may I ask you your name?”

He brought your soft hand to his lips and kissed it; you had to pretend you weren’t kissed by Pluto’s cadaverous lips. Cold yet scorching acid.

You gave a fake name, the same one you gave Swank. 

“A lovely name indeed. I am Thomas, Thomas Fox. I’m here with a trading caravan and thought to see the Strip with my own eyes while I conduct business.”

“It is a sight to see,” you said meekly. 

Humming in agreement, he smiles again. 

“I, so happen to have accidentally double booked the Ultra-Luxe, it would please me if such a lovely young woman were to join me.”

He held out his clean hand, strange there were no damned spots on it from all the corpses he’s made. 

You thought, no turn and run, go back to Mr House with the Platinum Chip. What if he knew about it? Was he another Benny to come and slay you?

But…

Curiosity nibbled at you like a toothy molerat.

He had no weapons on him, and the Ultra-Luxe would not allow them inside. Your sneaky self could conceal a small pistol or a switchblade easily. 

If he tried anything you could take him, you’ve killed larger men before, despite the enchanting grace in which he carried himself. 

You could find out more from this Frumentarii head, something that Mr House should know for certain. 

Your hands were cold from nerves at seeing his face again. 

“That would be swell, Mr Fox,” you wore a winning smile.

He flashed his canines, you swore they were fangs. Fitting for a vampyre like him. 

“Call me Thomas, my dear.”

His soft lips were cold as they pressed into the back of your hand. 

-

“Trading in Arizona is quite fruitful, I have to say,” Vulpes held his knife and fork delicately as he cut into his bloody meat.

“I don’t agree with everything Casesar’s Legion does of course, but the trade routes have been incredibly safe.”

He said it. Seeee-zerrr. The sibilance of the dud name he gave, he must have swallowed the Kai and Zahr when the wore this skin in the Strip.

“All you gotta do is look pretty and smile sugar,” you recall what Jane said. “Men like to talk, they love to share their opinions. Some like it even better when you agree with them.”

Safe to say, you didn’t agree with him.

The aged wine (“Ah yes, it’s a pre-war vintage my dear, over 200 years old, untouched by radiation I assure you”.) was sweet and fruity. 

You liked it quite a bit, you have to admit you could get a taste for it. With your new healthy pay-check from Mr House, you’re sure you could book a few tables here for your friends. For the alcohol.

You watched Vulpes eat the meat. 

Perhaps you would choose a vegetarian option next time, with the rumours of what the White Glove society used to partake in. 

Your chicken was picked at, and the leafy greens blanketed it, you sipped the wine. 

“That’s what I heard,” you lie. “The Legion is a mighty foe, no raider would dare challenge them.” 

“You are the raiders” you thought to yourself. 

He dabbed his mouth and hummed in agreement, sipping the red wine himself. His hair was burning gold in the candlelight, a visage of Phoebus. 

In the light, your notice that his nose was slightly crooked, it had been broken at one point. 

Ironically, Boone’s was the same, a friendly punch-up with Manny one night while they were in the NCR army, he recalled to you over drinks one night. 

Boone Boone Boone. How you betrayed him for hating the thought of his memory. Betrayal by your sentiments, betrayal by the tip of your index finger. 

Perhaps you should take the steak knife opposite you and cut it off. Throw the bloody thing at Vulpes' stupid perfect face. 

So engrossed you were in this meditation to prevent your insanity, that you would bend space and time for your own catharsis. To mourn during a time when Boone lived.

But, unsevered your trigger finger remained, save your future hysterics when things finally sunk in for you. Perhaps.

“See, you think like a businessman, or lady rather,” he poured more wine into your glass. 

Despite your Wasteland wandering ways, you were quite a light-weight, much to the amusement of Raul. (“Pobrecita mija!”) 

You felt flush, no, this one would be your last, fuck him and his load of caps. 

“You see, I’m here on business, as you can probably tell since you are a smart young lady. I’m from the Southern Eagle Caravan Company, we’ve had some fruitful deals in Arizona yes, but Vegas…” He looked around, the lights twinkling in his pale eyes. “That is where the caps are.”

“Ask him questions about what he loves sugar, normally they love themselves.” Ja es voice echoed.

“What do you hope to get in New Vegas?” Playing in his false game. 

“Ahh, you see,” he leaned forward, the air fogged with secrecy. “I hope to get in touch with a young man. Courier Six.” 

You choked on the wine. 

“Have I shocked you dearest?” he said sweetly, his speech weaved with light laughter. 

“A little I must admit. Courier Six… Won’t he be hard to find?”

“Ahh,” he grinned. “I have my ways, I’m not quite wet behind the ears. He likes to think he is stealthy, but he often makes grand gestures.”

“Noted. Be less dramatic.” You thought again.

“He would make for a good caravan guard out here, he and his merry band, what with the war, raiders, fiends and God knows what else.” 

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen him,” you lie again, you could see him, the ghost of him, in the reflection of your dinner knife. “I’ve heard of some stories, about the rocket ship outside Novac.” 

“You are correct, but there is a lesser known fact about him that some don’t know. He has seen death, shot twice in the head and buried in a shallow grave. Yet, he lives.” 

The scar along your hairline itched.

The pain, the flash, the half-moon white smile of Benny, the black hole where your memories went. You swallowed, your tongue, a weight of damp sand. 

You try to meet his gaze, try not to give the game away, try not to jam your knife in his white throat and kill your second date tonight. 

“Sweet girl, you aren’t eating, is something not to your liking?”

You’re thankfully pulled from your ruminations. 

“In truth, I'm nervous,” you stammer. “I guess I never been on a…”

You neglected to say date. He laughed again. 

“Such a rare thing,” he clinked his glass against your own. 

"To Vegas maidens."

-

The moon shone down on you both, as Vulpes walked you back to your "motel". You had orchestrated a backstory for yourself on the fly. You were new to Vegas, and were an up and coming singer. You were quite good at it actually, if you do say so yourself. 

“That vault motel? Surely a lady such as you deserves far more than that," questioned Vulpes.

You went red, partially due to your lightweight nature. 

“It’s fine for me, just got to the city, figured I’d sing my way to the top… At the Tops,” you let out a nervous titter. 

Under the light of the lamp-post, he towered over you, all sinew and lean-ness. 

Looking down at you, you blush further. 

When Victor found you, you were in men’s clothes, a tradition you continued for your safety. That and Doc Mitchel only had a small woman’s vault suit for you to wear. Too small.

You assumed, and you would be correct, that you never even kissed a man before you were shot twice. And you weren’t looking to start tonight.

Grabbing your chin with feathered fingers, Vulpes forced your gaze to meet his. 

He leant forward. 

You shuddered. Oh to be kissed by Death. 

Then you felt something tickle your pierced ear.

A purple wildflower. 

Chucking like a little boy, he smiled down at you, playful.

“Ah pretty as a princess, purple is a royal colour you know. Saw it in the vase on our table, thought it would look better in your hair than dying at some restaurant.” 

“Th-thank you.” 

Kissing your hand again, he said your fake name. 

“Goodnight, princess.”

With a blink he was gone.

-

You had curled onto the floor, weak with hunger, your hair had grown a bit and you were filthy with sweat and dirt.

You were a Fresside orphan, slovenly and starving with a shrunken stomach. 

The clattering of your cage door failed to rouse you. Your lips were paler than your original colour, your skin, a grey hue and not like its original either. 

“Lucky?” The voice was faint. As the sun rose on your sorry self. 

Once again, strong arms lifted you. You smelt disinfectant and medicinal herbs. 

Arcade.

He always was deceptively strong. Your weak red heart fluttered at his voice, the warmth of his board chest, the medical smell of him. 

“Oh God… She needs fluids.” 

In the haze of your blurry eyes, you saw two dark legs, sandaled feet, with a white robe. 

The Healer. 

She rapidly moved her hands as Arcade watched her, her visage was knitted with concern, her intricate tattoos on her face waving with emotion. 

The patterns she made with her hands were purposeful, repetitive. 

“I agree,” said Arcade, though nothing was spoken. How can someone talk with their hands? 

He picked you up, cradling you like a poor orphan-child. 

Your sorry cell shrunk in the distance, and Arcade shielded your eyes as the dry heat of the Mojave greeted you again. 

Howdy! I'd love to request Yandere Tifa Lockhart with a s/o that tries to escape her. Thank you!

Ok!!

Sorry this was an little angsty, but I really wanted to explore how her experiences led to her yandere trait's. Trigger warning for don coreno, nothing explicit, just trauma from the event.

Tifa had many admirers, alot of whom where in high places. There was nothing she hated more then those men who wouldn't stop. Early on in your relationship you told her that she was started to adapt the behavior of her abusers, her possessiveness sometimes rubbed you the wrong way. She broke down crying. She explained that this was different. She did everything because she loved you so so much, that she was scared to loose you because you were the first person who genuinely seemed to love her for more than the surface. Who didn't see her as an object to be won. The guilt from your accusation caused you to fall into an flurry of self hatred. You both blamed it on your self destructive nature, hurting yourself because you hated yourself. She held you with your head burried in her lap, kissing the top of your head "just let yourself be happy, you deserve to be happy". She just wanted to protect you from all the people who saw her as an prize, who wanted to break her down and mold her into someone else. Who wanted to hurt her because she looked pretty when she cried.

All of that made you feel even worse for what you where about to do. It's not that you where trying to leave her.. you just wanted to check up on a sick friend. Tifa would only let you leave 7th heaven with her by your side. If you asked her she would have taken you, but it was an busy day for the girl. You needed to check up on your friend now and you didn't want to give her another thing to do. You waited till she was in an deep sleep and slipped out of the bed. You ran over to your friends house for an quick visit. They where unable to sleep due to their painful symptoms, so you stayed well into the night, watching movies to distract them.

Your eyes caught the sunrising from the window "fuck, I gotta go home" in a rush you gathered your things. You looked at your phone to check the time, "7 missed calls from tifa" shit. You opened messenger, but your phone died before you could type an single letter. You ran out of the apartment and towards 7th heaven. "Tifa" you shouted as you opened the door. "Y/n" an sleepy small voice whispered. Marlene was standing by the pinball machine, clutching her pink blanket. "Sweetie, what are you doing up" you bowed down to her level. "Tifa left" "oh, okay, just go back to bed honey it's alright" Marlene nodded , you waited until she had left untill you sprinted over to the bars phone. Dialing tifa as fast as you could. "Hello" tifa's voice was shaking, "tifa baby I am so sor-""were are you" she interrupted "I'm at 7th, are you okay" tifa hung up. You sat down, preparing your explanation.

After a few minutes tifa burst through the door, tackling you with an hug. "Why, why did you leave" "I just went to check up on an friend" tifa grabbed your shoulders, "without me" tifa scolded. "I didn't want to bother you". "You never bother me!!" You sighed,"I don't get why this is such an big deal, I'm a big girl tifa, I can take care of myself" "you can't!!" Anger bubbled inside of you "I'm not an idiot tifa!". "You just don't understand, the type of people out there" tifa cried out. Tifa continued "there are people out there who want to do terrible things to me, to you. What if HE got you" now you understand her paranoia. "Sephiroth's dead tifa" tifa looked up confused. "I know, it's someone else y/n" "who?". "Don coreno" she said his name like each letter of it burned. Pulling you close to her she elaborated. "He didn't get the chance to do anything, but he would've, and he will if he gets it." Guilt twisted your heart, seeing her like this broke you. "Y/n, my baby, I don't want you to ever experience those types of looks, you stay up at night haunted by what could have happened, I'm strong so I can save myself, but you. It could actually happen if I'm not there to protect you".

You held her for an while, her hot tears ran down your neck as she cried , her face buried in the nape of it. "Let's get some sleep" she nodded.

You where able to hobble out of the bar,her body leaning on you. Collapsing onto the bed the two of you drifted off to an light yet peaceful sleep. Which was quickly pulled away from you when Marlene crawled between you. "Had a nightmare" "why you crawling in with us" tifa's voice was slightly raspy from crying. "Daddy's to big, I'm crushed" Marlene pouted "he snooooores to loud" you drifted off to sleep, the sounds of Marlene describing her nightmare to tifa. Their voices muted and words distorted