Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
pregnancy and demons and sex and idk yet I haven't written it. i got this idea about 8 hours ago and I'm already having the lovely @brutalbluerazz (my muse) making art for this concept fic.
(See this ask for detailed concept if you don't just want to read and see. but beware, spoilers.)
agains, concept to paper to tumblr in 8 hours. grammar, typos, misunderstanding of critical lore can be pointed out... but forewarned that i will cry.
stay spooky <3
There will come soft rains. When the earth has frozen, and mankind is gone, the rains will begin. The tides will rise as they must. Life will return as it always has. And Zayne will relish the day he no longer has to feed off of the desire that humankind kills this planet with.
He's been fixated on a man, which wasn't unusual per se. He wasn't picky with his meals. Desire was desire was desire. But this man⌠no, this man was unusual.
He had encountered celibacy before. Never something he had a problem breaking down relatively quickly. But he had spent a year and a half watching this man. Waiting for the opportunity to strike.
You see, the man had a woman. Well⌠not quite. The man had a woman long ago, and in the eons since they had been together, the man had dedicated himself to finding her, and to chaos. Not so unlike Zayne. Though Zayne preferred⌠a quieter place of business.
The man had searched galaxies to find her. Entire planets to find his lost love. And when Zayne had come across the man, he had felt the desire leaking from his very soul.
To yearn was to be a target. And Zayne was nothing if not a hunter.
Night after night, Zayne had visited the man in a different disguise. Hoping for an inch of his freshly made feminine form to resemble the man's unknown woman.
But the man knew. The man felt the difference. And he was full of rage.
The imitation of his lover was ghastly. A mere figment of who the woman he loved truly was.
You see, Zayne had never struggled in life. he had lived a million years, and a million before that. The months passing in ways only a human would attribute a meaning to. Everything came to him. A touch of insinuation and the being was in the palm of his hands.
He fed on desire. And mankind carried it in abundance. A swish of his hair, a suggestive touch placed in the night, a whisper into the darkness at the right time, and he had the human writhing around in their dens before they knew any better.
And he was good at what he did. He fed on desire, he increased the population of mankind, and he left well enough alone. He did what he had to do to ensure his future was secure. To ensure he would have beings to seduce and continue his pattern for another million years.
He was very good at what he did.
And yet this man would prove to be his biggest challenge yet.
oh my god I'm starting a tags list? who am I? lol @calebsfavoriteusedthong @pearlescenthoney
jacob black with long hair is genuinely life changing. it fit him so much. i know the aliexpress wig wasn't the best but the look of long hair genuinely just complimented him. when i look at him with long hair i'm genuinely stunned by how beautiful he looks. he's still very handsome with short hair, but idk, he was just so majestical before. i will never forget what we lost. feast ur eyes people
when i'm in an attractive competition but my opponent is long haired jacob
pregnancy and demons and sex and idk yet I haven't written it. i got this idea about 8 hours ago and I'm already having the lovely @brutalbluerazz (my muse) making art for this concept fic.
(See this ask for detailed concept if you don't just want to read and see. but beware, spoilers.)
agains, concept to paper to tumblr in 8 hours. grammar, typos, misunderstanding of critical lore can be pointed out... but forewarned that i will cry.
stay spooky <3
There will come soft rains. When the earth has frozen, and mankind is gone, the rains will begin. The tides will rise as they must. Life will return as it always has. And Zayne will relish the day he no longer has to feed off of the desire that humankind kills this planet with.
He's been fixated on a man, which wasn't unusual per se. He wasn't picky with his meals. Desire was desire was desire. But this man⌠no, this man was unusual.
He had encountered celibacy before. Never something he had a problem breaking down relatively quickly. But he had spent a year and a half watching this man. Waiting for the opportunity to strike.
You see, the man had a woman. Well⌠not quite. The man had a woman long ago, and in the eons since they had been together, the man had dedicated himself to finding her, and to chaos. Not so unlike Zayne. Though Zayne preferred⌠a quieter place of business.
The man had searched galaxies to find her. Entire planets to find his lost love. And when Zayne had come across the man, he had felt the desire leaking from his very soul.
To yearn was to be a target. And Zayne was nothing if not a hunter.
Night after night, Zayne had visited the man in a different disguise. Hoping for an inch of his freshly made feminine form to resemble the man's unknown woman.
But the man knew. The man felt the difference. And he was full of rage.
The imitation of his lover was ghastly. A mere figment of who the woman he loved truly was.
You see, Zayne had never struggled in life. he had lived a million years, and a million before that. The months passing in ways only a human would attribute a meaning to. Everything came to him. A touch of insinuation and the being was in the palm of his hands.
He fed on desire. And mankind carried it in abundance. A swish of his hair, a suggestive touch placed in the night, a whisper into the darkness at the right time, and he had the human writhing around in their dens before they knew any better.
And he was good at what he did. He fed on desire, he increased the population of mankind, and he left well enough alone. He did what he had to do to ensure his future was secure. To ensure he would have beings to seduce and continue his pattern for another million years.
He was very good at what he did.
And yet this man would prove to be his biggest challenge yet.
oh my god I'm starting a tags list? who am I? lol @calebsfavoriteusedthong @pearlescenthoney
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
In which you attempt to solve a crime, the ghost in your house shows you what you want, and a deer has a very unfortunate ending
ouh ouh more Ghost! Lorenzo everybody! yay yay!
longer chapter! about 5k.
ch1 can be found here
mdni, its not smutty in this chapter but there are suggestive parts and i don't want to be responsible for your media consumption.
Be forewarned, this one is darker than the last. Not so much as in violence but well... you'll see.
Maybe don't read if you're sensitive to car crashes or dead animals. Its just one but it is kind of gory. I don't wanna spoil any more of it, so just... buckle up.
Side note, this is gonna attempt to be updated every Saturday, but as you can see, I'm posting this on a Friday because i got it edited earlier than I thought. So, expect ch 3 next weekend but watch out because it may be early if I get my shit together.
I'll shut up so you can continue. and as always dear, beware of the thing in your walls <3
The beauty of isolation was that in theory, no one would bother you.
You found out the hard way that this was not always true. In the span of three days since you had introduced yourself to the one hardware shop owner in town, no less than 7 people had brought you food/flowers/housewarming gifts etc.
Though you suppose that knowing the townsfolk would come in handy eventually, it was still odd.
You had grown up in a town where everyone minded their own business. If you werenât causing trouble, no one looked at you twice. A town where someone showing up at your door unexpected was enough reason to grab the 9mm out of the safe.
So needless to say the first man that knocked on your door was greeted by you, in a sundress, with your deep purple Taurus GX2 strapped to your thigh.
Maybe could have made a better impression with that one. But you were a young woman living alone in a country where the only person you knew was at the American embassy in Edinburgh, 300 miles away. A stranger knocking on your door was bound to raise some suspicion.
On the other hand, it was nice to know a man that could repair things.
He asked very little questions as he took the large shattered mirror off of the wall for you. Repeating in your head the whole time the words âokay fine mom, you were right. But for the record I could have done it myself!â
You come to find out that the kind older manâs name is Charlie, and while you were perturbed by his presence at first, he has come to be one of your favorite neighbors. (The word neighbor is used lightly. They live a 6 minutes drive away.)
His wife is lovely as well, only having met her in passing however. He says she doesnât like going to othersâ houses, and in a way, thatâs wholly understandable.
You now sit at the new wooden coffee table â that you managed to order online and build yourself (take that mom) â eating reheated pasta that you made the other night.
The sun had set long ago and you begrudgingly decided that some work needed to get done. Your solve rate was⌠admittedly not the highest since you had moved (your latest rating from your manager just said the word abysmal written across the top. It was not looking good). And you really doubted that you could find another remote forensic investigator job that would supply you with a visa in a short amount of time.
So work you must.
Pulling up a recent case file, you open the crime scene photos to start from the very beginning. Thereâs a nude woman laying on the large bed, her hands are covered in something green and her body is littered in defensive marks. Bruises, gashes, stab wounds, etc. But the biggest wound on the woman is the words carved into her chest. It reads âa debt is paid.â
The photo makes your stomach hurt.
The next photos are of the room surrounding the woman. Itâs pristine. âNo blood pooling under the body, implies victim was positioned post mortem,â you write in your notes.
Clicking on the description of the victim, the case files read âGenevieve Smith. 25. Female. Mexican-American. Apparent homicide.â
Thatâs it? Thatâs all theyâve got?
You freeze at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
âHello?â you question at the sound, sure you didnât have any guests. But nothing ever rounds the corner.
Assuming it was just the house settling, you continue with your work. Pulling up Instagram and typing in the victimâs name into the search bar. A couple of accounts come up but itâs not long until youâre staring at the social life of the victim.
The last picture is of her and her wife on their honeymoon 6 months ago.
âTalk to wifeâ you write down for the investigator.
You pull your cardigan closer around your shoulders at the sudden chill of the room and continue your sleuthing. The woman worked as a relationship therapist.
âRequest redacted client notes.â
Nine months ago she posted a photo at a family reunion, sheâs holding a swaddled baby. The caption reads âhopefully soon for me, but before the title of mama, Iâm happy to be an auntie.â
âCheck local fertility clinics. Victim appears to be seeking fertility treatments in order to conceive. Talk to family and friends to determine a motive.â
When you look at the clock you see that itâs ticking closer and closer to two. You had told yourself that you would be going to bed by 10 tonight. You sigh and run your hands over your face, the rough skin of your palms feels scratchy against your cheeks.
âLotionâ you write on a separate page. A grocery list, you decide.
Pulling out your phone, the cool metal blinks the battery symbol at you.
âOf fucking course.â You pull up messages on your computer instead, typing in your best friendâs number and hitting record on the voice memo button.
âHey babe. I know itâs dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that Iâm alright. Itâs been a few days since weâve talked and I just wanted to let you know that Iâm livinâ la vida loca.â You pause, taking a deep breath before continuing. âHow are you doing? How are the kids? Tell Diana that her favorite auntie misses her! How did your doctorâs appointment go today? Anything juicy? I love you, and thatâs all. I just wanted to check in real quick.â You hit the stop button, and then send without listening to it.
The read receipt is immediate.
âHey love! Iâm glad youâre okay, you know I worry for you when youâre alone up there. Speaking offffff⌠wanna tell me who the man youâve got there is?
And the kids are fine. Dianaâs an angel, finally sleeping through the night. Damian just lost his first tooth. He keeps asking if auntie is gonna be there for Diâs birthday.â
You smile at your computer at the reminder of your godchildren. Texting her back, you quickly type:
âGirl what man would I have over? Charlie? James? Iâm pretty sure everyone in this town is married and over the age of 40.
Iâm gonna try to make it out for Dianaâs birthday! I donât want to miss my girl turning one!
And tell Damian that his favorite auntie is very happy heâs thinking about her.â
The FaceTime call is immediate. You answer on the second ring.
âHello?â you start, more than a little confused as to why she was calling, but happy to talk to her regardless.
âJust wanted to see who was worth lying about,â she jokes. Sheâs folding laundry while she talks. The sounds of her house bringing an odd comfort.
âGirl who do you think I am? You think I pull bitches? Iâm home alone. Iâm sitting at my kitchen table doing work.â Picking up the laptop and turning it around so she can see that you are indeed alone.
âGirl I swear to God⌠also plug in your phone. I got the Life360 notif like two hours ago that it was about to die. Iâd appreciate being able to contact you since you insist on living across the world.â She scolds you in only the way a mother could. âGo listen to the voice memo you sent me. There is very distinctly a man talking to you. I donât know why you think you can lie to me. You know I know things.â
You laugh but are set on edge a little bit. You hadnât told her about the mirror incident yet, and werenât sure if now was the time to do so. Maybe she was just mishearing. Renavigating out of the main call screen and back to her messages, you hit play. Your voice comes through the speakers slightly muffled from the sounds of your best friend folding laundry in the background.
âHey babe. I know itâs dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that Iâm alright. Itâs been a few days since weâve talked and I just wanted to let you know that Iâm livinâ la vida loca.â You take a breath, you remember the silence throughout the house when you recorded this. The footsteps, house settling earlier, and your typing being the only sounds in the house over the past few hours.
âCome to bed, my love. Itâs late,â a man says and you nearly jump out of your skin. He sounds so close. Like heâs speaking directly next to you. You swivel your entire body around to look at the wall behind you, but nothing is there. No man has been in this house since Charlie left.
The voice memo continues without problem but youâre too busy attempting to reason with yourself. There had to have been a technical malfunction or something. Yes, thatâs what it had to be. A technical malfunction.
You switch back to the call tab and tell your friend, âNo. Iâm alone. I heard him, but Iâm alone. Iâve been alone since my neighbor left earlier today. I donât know what that is. Itâs weird.â You say, attempting to hide the tremor in your voice.
âWhat arenât you telling me?â she says. âWho was that?â
âI donât⌠I donât know.â Breathing is suddenly impossible as you gasp for air. âBut uhm. I think I need to tell you about this thing that happened the other night. So I regrouted the master bathroom the other day.â
She laughs. âYeah because thatâs a secret. Youâre always doing something.â
âNo listen dude. So I couldnât take a bath in that bathroom and I donât have a shower installed yet, so I went into the other bathroom. The one that feels weird. And I wasâcan anyone else hear me?â you interrupt yourself to ask and when she shakes her head you continue. â Iâve been having these really vivid wet dreams about this guy that Iâve never met? I donât know. Itâs the best dream sex Iâve ever had though. I would say Iâm kidding, but Iâm not. Some of the dreams are weird but I think that might be from looking at crime scene photos too late at night. Anyways so Iâm taking a bath and out of nowhere my phone flies across the room and the mirror of the vanity just shattered. Charlie had to come help me tear the whole thing off of the wall today and Iâm not even kidding, we could not get this mirror off in a piece larger than like 4 inches at a time. This mirror reaches from the counter to the ceiling. Itâs not a small mirror. I have no idea what made it shatter like that.â
âGirlâ is the only thing she says.
The hopelessness really was drowning you. Why was this happening to you of all people? You donât believe in this shit. And now youâre, what? Being haunted? No. There had to be another explanation. You donât believe like your best friend does. Like your mother did. But you canât explain away the fear.
âHey, Iâm gonna go to bed actually. Can you call me when you wake up? The time difference is getting to me and I think I need to sleep on this before I start believing whatever youâre about to pitch to me.â
She looks disappointed when she says, âBaby, I love you. Please donât hurt yourself with this. If going to bed is what you need then I understand, but please donât brush this off. If thisâŚâ she hesitates, âthing, is violent, then you canât just ignore that.â
âCan we talk about this when itâs light outside, please?â you interject. The feeling of being watched intensifying as you walk the narrow steps to the second floor with the computer in tow. Your bedroom is lit up, trying to not think about if you were the one to turn on the light or not, you get into your pajamas and climb into bed with her still on the phone. Playfully kissing your hand and pressing it to the camera, you hang up. Closing your laptop and plugging in your phone, setting it on your nightstand.
You pull out The Portrait of Dorian Grey. and make it through about three pages before youâre falling asleep.
He came to you again tonight.
Youâre cooking in the dream, though youâre not sure if itâs a dream after all. Itâs so vivid. The dust particles are alive in the bands of light that stream into the kitchen window. The sounds of children and dogs playing in the yard. It was breathtaking.
And when you turn around itâs made better. The man from your dreams sits on the kitchen island with a baby swaddled in his arms. He looks up at you and smiles.
âIs this what you wanted? I saw you looking at that womanâs photos earlier. You looked sad at first. But when you saw the kids⌠happy. And when you were talking to your friend I could hear her children in the background.â he says. His smooth British accent fluttering something in your heart.
âIâm sorry I cannot give you thisâ he says, and you feel your face fall. He had already given you everything. Your reoccurring dream husband. Boyfriend? You werenât sure honestly, but the term husband seemed more fitting. He looked like a husband.
You reach for him, the skin of his arms warm when you caress his forearm under the baby. âWhat do you mean? Look at what youâve already given me. How could I ask for more?â You grab the baby from him so he can hop off of the counter. Looking down from the man and at the baby, youâre immediately stunned. The baby looked just like him. The prettiest little boy ever. Your finger moves to gently caress the childâs face.
âWhat is his name?â you quietly ask the man, who is now standing behind you, his chin on your shoulder as he watches the baby as well.
âWhatever you want. Heâs yours. This is all yours. Whatever I can give you.â His arms wrap around your waist from behind, his left palm coming to rest protectively against your lower stomach. It takes you tearing your eyes away from the little boy to realize that heâs stroking small circles against what you now see is a baby bump.
âHeâs mine?â you ask quietly, turning your head to look at the man.
âOurs,â he corrects.
The feeling is indescribable, to be loved like this.
âWhatâs your name?â you dare to ask quietly.
He looks a little sad as he says, âLorenzo. Lorenzo Berkshire. I wish I had told you this upon our first meeting. I apologize.â
âThereâs no need to apologize. Itâs nice to know who Iâm dreaming about. Itâs nice to meet you, Lorenzo.â You lean deeper into his chest, the baby snuggled in your arms fusses a little bit, and you shush the little being. He slowly opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat.
He has your eyes.
Waking up alone the next morning had you silently crying in your bed, as you tried your hardest to fall back into the dream.
Thereâs a new cafe in town. Well⌠âtownâ is used loosely, but regardless, thereâs a new cafe twenty five minutes from home. (Youâve taken to calling it home. For all its intricacies and terror, itâs all you have. And putting any spare moment into any reno you can has, in a weird way⌠bonded you to the house. Seeing where it came from vs where it is now? You could see yourself here relatively long term. So⌠âhomeâ it is.) The cafe was bought off artists from Edinburgh and resold at a higher price to âmaximize profitsâ for a corporate conglomerate. Unethical, but you couldnât deny that they could make the fuck out of a latte.
You were out looking for a new bookshelf for your living room. Having recently commissioned a nearby carpenter, you had a bench built to fit inside the bay window. You were planning on turning it into a place where you could drink your coffee every morning while reading. Reading required books. Books required a bookshelf. So here you are, looking for a shelf to store the books.
After venturing into the coffee shop, ordering a medium iced vanilla latte and a warmed slice of lemon poundcake, then struggling to find a place to sit amongst the other patrons, you squeeze into a small table in the corner. Opening your computer that you brought for the sake of doomscrolling Facebook Marketplace, and putting your off brand AirPods in to listen to a podcast.
A horror podcast is automatically queued and the irony is not lost on you as you hit play anyways. Whatever these podcasters are going to say cannot be worse than what is already happening to you at home, you suppose. Though it does strike you as odd that a podcast youâve never listened to is what Spotify chose to play today.
The podcasters begin talking in your ears. Conversing as if theyâve been comfortable in front of a mic for their entire lives. The first story is a ghost story, some American haunted house that tourists claim is far more haunted than it probably is. The Sally House, they call it. A demon apparently haunts it.
You continue scrolling Facebook Marketplace as the podcasters continue to talk. The scary story really isnât that scary, and their banter has you laughing against your will. Probably looking like a maniac in the corner of this cafe.
You send a message to someone with a bookshelf that looks kinda like something you want. Not perfect.
The podcast switches to its second topic. A true crime segment. The American podcasters laugh as the woman says, âOkay guys Iâm sorry if I butcher this. English isnât my first language.â The other podcaster chuckles as the first continues, âThis is in Scotland. And the village is called⌠Gairloch? Iâm sorry if Iâm mispronouncing that. Iâm sure youâll tweet me about it later if I did.â
You freeze, hearing the name of the town youâre in. Your head shoots up, scanning the room. Someone has to be fucking with you, you decide.
âThey call it the mercy killings of Scotland.â the woman says, her tone suddenly serious as she continues. âOur story begins in the early 1940s. The war had just started raging throughout Europe, and Great Britain had put in place a draft. Drafting men ages 18â41 into World War Two boot camps across Europe. Nine young men in this town of only 130 would later mysteriously die before they could be taken to France.â
The podcasters converse a little, bantering with inside jokes about theories and motives.
The woman continues, âSo anyways. Listen, Iâm not saying they were murdered. But I donât believe the draft dodger story. Nine 18â22 year old men have never agreed to do one thing simultaneously in their lives.â She laughs. âIiii⌠think it was murderrrrr,â she says in a singsong voice. You switch tabs, quickly typing âScotland mercy killingsâ into Google. Scrolling past the AI result because you refuse to allow your brain to dissolve, you see the first article. Itâs titled âWhat really happened to the 9 Scottish boys that died in the small town of Gairloch in October of 1940.â
You click on the sketchy website. Beyond the pop ups and the ads, thereâs a story. You continue listening to the podcasters speak.
âOkay, so listen, I want to try to be as sensitive as I can when Iâm covering this because Iâm aware that it is a mass casualty. But I donât think anyone from this story is still alive so bear with me. So these nine young men all from the ages of 18 to 22, are drafted into World War Two. Theyâre ready to go fight, there are journals and letters from a few of the boys detailing their reluctance but acceptance of being deployed to Nazi occupied France. They have enlisted, they are ready. And then the day theyâre meant to leave, none of the boys in town get on the bus to Edinburgh.â The podcaster breaks to sip from her glass of wine.
âSorry. Wine break!â she exclaims before clearing her throat and continuing, âSo none of these boys show to the enlistment bootcamp thing. The military sends a notice to the town, and the mayor later finds all nine of them have died of arsenic poisoning.â
The other podcaster â who youâve come to learn through their banter and commentary, is nonbinary â gasps and the woman responds, âI know right! Soââ
A man taps you on the shoulder and you nearly jump out of your skin. He apologizes but the damage is done, youâve spilt your entire latte into your lap. Telling him itâs not a problem when he begins apologizing profusely.
He doesnât help you clean up and then doesnât look away when you catch him staring down your shirt as he asks your name.
You have been a forensic investigator for only 6 months. But you know better than to give your name to strangers in a cafe.
âGenevieve Smith,â you say, lying. Sending a quick mental âsorryâ to the victim of the case youâre working on.
âWell Jenny. Itâs lovely to meet you. I was just here with a few of my mates and we were speaking about how we havenât seen you around before. Itâs a pretty small town and everyone knows everyone, so I was just coming over to introduce myself. And Iâ well I was wondering if youâd like to go out for a pint sometime?â
Would it be rude of you to say ew to this manâs face?
âOh Iâm sorry, I donât drink.â You settle for. Standing and attempting to gather your things.
âAlright, then dinner!â He beams. God this man was not taking the hint.
âOkay. Sure. But uhm, my phone is dead right now so can I give you my email address instead? Would that be alright?â You rush out. He stands there looking stupid, not helping in the slightest while youâre obviously struggling with all of your things. Yeah thereâs no way in hell you were giving this dude your phone number or real email address.
You make it out of the cafe in one piece, your dress only partially covered in coffee. Getting in your car you decide to just go home. Between the spilled coffee and the fact that you had been looking for this damned bookshelf all day, to no avail, it was turning out to be a medium shitty day. Buckling your seatbelt, starting the engine and immediately turning onto the street that you came from. Apple Play connects and you hit rewind a few times when you reach a stoplight.
Picking up from where they left off, the nonbinary podcaster says, âArsenic? And they thought this was a mass suicide? Yeah thatâs like men. I thought there was that thing that like⌠men commit grizzlier suicides. Arsenic seems like a tame way to go.â
You take a deep breath, knowing what arsenic does to the human body.
â⌠I see what you mean, but itâs important to me that you know that arsenic is so much more painful than I think you think it is.â The woman telling the story says, âA few of the boys documented the early symptoms in letters and journals. Here, listen to this.â The sound of her pulling the written notes from her bag echoes through the car. âA boy named⌠Seumas? â again Iâm sorry if Iâm mispronouncing that â wrote the day before he died, that he was quote âin insurmountable pain, the stomach cramps enough to render any man completely immobile. My soul feels like itâs trapped in a birdcage of a body. Longing to be free from this torment.â And he was reportedly hospitalized a week prior with similar symptoms but they dismissed it as an attempt at draft dodging!â
âOw.â You think aloud, driving along as they continue reflecting on the story that she is telling.
âAnother boy, named Eachann⌠â you know what, German is my first language, sorry if Iâm fucking all of this up. I should have chosen a story with names easier for me to pronounce, but itâs too late for that â he reportedly came home from his friendâs house and told his mother that he was worried for his friend. Some⌠Lorenzo?â The name has your brain slamming to a halt. âAnd by the next night both men were dead.â She audibly takes another sip of her wine. The sound of the glass clinking against the mic, ringing throughout your car.
The nonbinary podcaster laughs a little. âChristine. Lorenzo? Seriously? All of these old timey Scottish names, and a Lorenzo?â They gasp. âOh my God wait was he Italian? Were they going to put him into an Allied war against the Axis powers, WHEN HE WAS ITALIAN!?â
âOh my God Em no calm down,â the woman â Christine â laughs. âI donât have many notes on him. I donât think he was Italian, I think that was just his name. I donât want to speculate. All that I have on him is that he was very popular in town. A âsweetheart,â noted one of the boysâ mothers. And apparently a total bachelor. To the people watching this on YouTube, I got a picture. Spotify listeners Iâm sorry.â
Em gasps. âWow. No because if I was into menââ they let the sentence hang and you and the podcasters laugh at the joke. âIâm sorry for making fun of his name now. Damn.â
âHe looks like he whimpers.â
âCHRISTINE THATâS FOUL.â
âWhattttt heâs dead!!!â
Their banter has you giggling aloud and absolutely making a mental note to look this up on YouTube so you can be sure youâre not insane for connecting the dots. As you turn onto the main road that leads to your house, the long road stretches ahead of you and you hope absently that the UV rays arenât too high today. You were hoping to get some gardening done.
A man standing in the trees on the side of the pavement pulls you out of your own world, turning your head to look at him as you drive past.
Your head turns back to the road and youâre met with a deer staring at you from 10 feet away.
The squealing of the tires is deafening as you attempt to slam on the brakes and swerve your car all at once. You scream when you feel gravity tilt on itself. Rolling with the car as you land in a ditch.
The ground is moist above you, and when you stick your hands up to steady yourself against the roof, the glass from the windshield shattering digs into your palms.
The pain in your hands is disregarded as you try to move them to feel around. Your hands are met with warmth. The wet fur scraping across your bloody palms. Peeling your eyes open against the pain in your head, youâre immediately hit with overwhelming nausea.
The deerâs decapitated head sticks into the windshield, inches from your face.
The metal groans when you attempt to flail backwards. Terror radiates from you, and you canât scream. No matter how hard you try, the air wonât come out of your lungs.
You attempt to press the emergency button on the ceiling of your car, but your hands are weak, giving out as you slam your palm repeatedly against the buttons.
A manâs voice carries throughout the car. âYouâve reached 999, what is your emergency?â
âIâve uhm. Iâve hit a deer,â you say between gasps, âand I canât get out of my car.â
âOkay maâam, slow down. Youâve got to breathe. Can you do this for me?â You can hear him typing in the background.
âY-yeah. Iâm trying. Sorry. The deer is in my car with me and I canât move.â You think youâre beginning to hyperventilate.
âMaâam can I get your name? Paramedics are on their way but I need a way for them to contact you.â You hear him saying. But everything is fuzzy. You canât speak. You can barely even hear. Your eyes close and when they open again you are on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance.
In which you attempt to solve a crime, the ghost in your house shows you what you want, and a deer has a very unfortunate ending
ouh ouh more Ghost! Lorenzo everybody! yay yay!
longer chapter! about 5k.
ch1 can be found here
mdni, its not smutty in this chapter but there are suggestive parts and i don't want to be responsible for your media consumption.
Be forewarned, this one is darker than the last. Not so much as in violence but well... you'll see.
Maybe don't read if you're sensitive to car crashes or dead animals. Its just one but it is kind of gory. I don't wanna spoil any more of it, so just... buckle up.
Side note, this is gonna attempt to be updated every Saturday, but as you can see, I'm posting this on a Friday because i got it edited earlier than I thought. So, expect ch 3 next weekend but watch out because it may be early if I get my shit together.
I'll shut up so you can continue. and as always dear, beware of the thing in your walls <3
The beauty of isolation was that in theory, no one would bother you.
You found out the hard way that this was not always true. In the span of three days since you had introduced yourself to the one hardware shop owner in town, no less than 7 people had brought you food/flowers/housewarming gifts etc.
Though you suppose that knowing the townsfolk would come in handy eventually, it was still odd.
You had grown up in a town where everyone minded their own business. If you werenât causing trouble, no one looked at you twice. A town where someone showing up at your door unexpected was enough reason to grab the 9mm out of the safe.
So needless to say the first man that knocked on your door was greeted by you, in a sundress, with your deep purple Taurus GX2 strapped to your thigh.
Maybe could have made a better impression with that one. But you were a young woman living alone in a country where the only person you knew was at the American embassy in Edinburgh, 300 miles away. A stranger knocking on your door was bound to raise some suspicion.
On the other hand, it was nice to know a man that could repair things.
He asked very little questions as he took the large shattered mirror off of the wall for you. Repeating in your head the whole time the words âokay fine mom, you were right. But for the record I could have done it myself!â
You come to find out that the kind older manâs name is Charlie, and while you were perturbed by his presence at first, he has come to be one of your favorite neighbors. (The word neighbor is used lightly. They live a 6 minutes drive away.)
His wife is lovely as well, only having met her in passing however. He says she doesnât like going to othersâ houses, and in a way, thatâs wholly understandable.
You now sit at the new wooden coffee table â that you managed to order online and build yourself (take that mom) â eating reheated pasta that you made the other night.
The sun had set long ago and you begrudgingly decided that some work needed to get done. Your solve rate was⌠admittedly not the highest since you had moved (your latest rating from your manager just said the word abysmal written across the top. It was not looking good). And you really doubted that you could find another remote forensic investigator job that would supply you with a visa in a short amount of time.
So work you must.
Pulling up a recent case file, you open the crime scene photos to start from the very beginning. Thereâs a nude woman laying on the large bed, her hands are covered in something green and her body is littered in defensive marks. Bruises, gashes, stab wounds, etc. But the biggest wound on the woman is the words carved into her chest. It reads âa debt is paid.â
The photo makes your stomach hurt.
The next photos are of the room surrounding the woman. Itâs pristine. âNo blood pooling under the body, implies victim was positioned post mortem,â you write in your notes.
Clicking on the description of the victim, the case files read âGenevieve Smith. 25. Female. Mexican-American. Apparent homicide.â
Thatâs it? Thatâs all theyâve got?
You freeze at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
âHello?â you question at the sound, sure you didnât have any guests. But nothing ever rounds the corner.
Assuming it was just the house settling, you continue with your work. Pulling up Instagram and typing in the victimâs name into the search bar. A couple of accounts come up but itâs not long until youâre staring at the social life of the victim.
The last picture is of her and her wife on their honeymoon 6 months ago.
âTalk to wifeâ you write down for the investigator.
You pull your cardigan closer around your shoulders at the sudden chill of the room and continue your sleuthing. The woman worked as a relationship therapist.
âRequest redacted client notes.â
Nine months ago she posted a photo at a family reunion, sheâs holding a swaddled baby. The caption reads âhopefully soon for me, but before the title of mama, Iâm happy to be an auntie.â
âCheck local fertility clinics. Victim appears to be seeking fertility treatments in order to conceive. Talk to family and friends to determine a motive.â
When you look at the clock you see that itâs ticking closer and closer to two. You had told yourself that you would be going to bed by 10 tonight. You sigh and run your hands over your face, the rough skin of your palms feels scratchy against your cheeks.
âLotionâ you write on a separate page. A grocery list, you decide.
Pulling out your phone, the cool metal blinks the battery symbol at you.
âOf fucking course.â You pull up messages on your computer instead, typing in your best friendâs number and hitting record on the voice memo button.
âHey babe. I know itâs dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that Iâm alright. Itâs been a few days since weâve talked and I just wanted to let you know that Iâm livinâ la vida loca.â You pause, taking a deep breath before continuing. âHow are you doing? How are the kids? Tell Diana that her favorite auntie misses her! How did your doctorâs appointment go today? Anything juicy? I love you, and thatâs all. I just wanted to check in real quick.â You hit the stop button, and then send without listening to it.
The read receipt is immediate.
âHey love! Iâm glad youâre okay, you know I worry for you when youâre alone up there. Speaking offffff⌠wanna tell me who the man youâve got there is?
And the kids are fine. Dianaâs an angel, finally sleeping through the night. Damian just lost his first tooth. He keeps asking if auntie is gonna be there for Diâs birthday.â
You smile at your computer at the reminder of your godchildren. Texting her back, you quickly type:
âGirl what man would I have over? Charlie? James? Iâm pretty sure everyone in this town is married and over the age of 40.
Iâm gonna try to make it out for Dianaâs birthday! I donât want to miss my girl turning one!
And tell Damian that his favorite auntie is very happy heâs thinking about her.â
The FaceTime call is immediate. You answer on the second ring.
âHello?â you start, more than a little confused as to why she was calling, but happy to talk to her regardless.
âJust wanted to see who was worth lying about,â she jokes. Sheâs folding laundry while she talks. The sounds of her house bringing an odd comfort.
âGirl who do you think I am? You think I pull bitches? Iâm home alone. Iâm sitting at my kitchen table doing work.â Picking up the laptop and turning it around so she can see that you are indeed alone.
âGirl I swear to God⌠also plug in your phone. I got the Life360 notif like two hours ago that it was about to die. Iâd appreciate being able to contact you since you insist on living across the world.â She scolds you in only the way a mother could. âGo listen to the voice memo you sent me. There is very distinctly a man talking to you. I donât know why you think you can lie to me. You know I know things.â
You laugh but are set on edge a little bit. You hadnât told her about the mirror incident yet, and werenât sure if now was the time to do so. Maybe she was just mishearing. Renavigating out of the main call screen and back to her messages, you hit play. Your voice comes through the speakers slightly muffled from the sounds of your best friend folding laundry in the background.
âHey babe. I know itâs dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that Iâm alright. Itâs been a few days since weâve talked and I just wanted to let you know that Iâm livinâ la vida loca.â You take a breath, you remember the silence throughout the house when you recorded this. The footsteps, house settling earlier, and your typing being the only sounds in the house over the past few hours.
âCome to bed, my love. Itâs late,â a man says and you nearly jump out of your skin. He sounds so close. Like heâs speaking directly next to you. You swivel your entire body around to look at the wall behind you, but nothing is there. No man has been in this house since Charlie left.
The voice memo continues without problem but youâre too busy attempting to reason with yourself. There had to have been a technical malfunction or something. Yes, thatâs what it had to be. A technical malfunction.
You switch back to the call tab and tell your friend, âNo. Iâm alone. I heard him, but Iâm alone. Iâve been alone since my neighbor left earlier today. I donât know what that is. Itâs weird.â You say, attempting to hide the tremor in your voice.
âWhat arenât you telling me?â she says. âWho was that?â
âI donât⌠I donât know.â Breathing is suddenly impossible as you gasp for air. âBut uhm. I think I need to tell you about this thing that happened the other night. So I regrouted the master bathroom the other day.â
She laughs. âYeah because thatâs a secret. Youâre always doing something.â
âNo listen dude. So I couldnât take a bath in that bathroom and I donât have a shower installed yet, so I went into the other bathroom. The one that feels weird. And I wasâcan anyone else hear me?â you interrupt yourself to ask and when she shakes her head you continue. â Iâve been having these really vivid wet dreams about this guy that Iâve never met? I donât know. Itâs the best dream sex Iâve ever had though. I would say Iâm kidding, but Iâm not. Some of the dreams are weird but I think that might be from looking at crime scene photos too late at night. Anyways so Iâm taking a bath and out of nowhere my phone flies across the room and the mirror of the vanity just shattered. Charlie had to come help me tear the whole thing off of the wall today and Iâm not even kidding, we could not get this mirror off in a piece larger than like 4 inches at a time. This mirror reaches from the counter to the ceiling. Itâs not a small mirror. I have no idea what made it shatter like that.â
âGirlâ is the only thing she says.
The hopelessness really was drowning you. Why was this happening to you of all people? You donât believe in this shit. And now youâre, what? Being haunted? No. There had to be another explanation. You donât believe like your best friend does. Like your mother did. But you canât explain away the fear.
âHey, Iâm gonna go to bed actually. Can you call me when you wake up? The time difference is getting to me and I think I need to sleep on this before I start believing whatever youâre about to pitch to me.â
She looks disappointed when she says, âBaby, I love you. Please donât hurt yourself with this. If going to bed is what you need then I understand, but please donât brush this off. If thisâŚâ she hesitates, âthing, is violent, then you canât just ignore that.â
âCan we talk about this when itâs light outside, please?â you interject. The feeling of being watched intensifying as you walk the narrow steps to the second floor with the computer in tow. Your bedroom is lit up, trying to not think about if you were the one to turn on the light or not, you get into your pajamas and climb into bed with her still on the phone. Playfully kissing your hand and pressing it to the camera, you hang up. Closing your laptop and plugging in your phone, setting it on your nightstand.
You pull out The Portrait of Dorian Grey. and make it through about three pages before youâre falling asleep.
He came to you again tonight.
Youâre cooking in the dream, though youâre not sure if itâs a dream after all. Itâs so vivid. The dust particles are alive in the bands of light that stream into the kitchen window. The sounds of children and dogs playing in the yard. It was breathtaking.
And when you turn around itâs made better. The man from your dreams sits on the kitchen island with a baby swaddled in his arms. He looks up at you and smiles.
âIs this what you wanted? I saw you looking at that womanâs photos earlier. You looked sad at first. But when you saw the kids⌠happy. And when you were talking to your friend I could hear her children in the background.â he says. His smooth British accent fluttering something in your heart.
âIâm sorry I cannot give you thisâ he says, and you feel your face fall. He had already given you everything. Your reoccurring dream husband. Boyfriend? You werenât sure honestly, but the term husband seemed more fitting. He looked like a husband.
You reach for him, the skin of his arms warm when you caress his forearm under the baby. âWhat do you mean? Look at what youâve already given me. How could I ask for more?â You grab the baby from him so he can hop off of the counter. Looking down from the man and at the baby, youâre immediately stunned. The baby looked just like him. The prettiest little boy ever. Your finger moves to gently caress the childâs face.
âWhat is his name?â you quietly ask the man, who is now standing behind you, his chin on your shoulder as he watches the baby as well.
âWhatever you want. Heâs yours. This is all yours. Whatever I can give you.â His arms wrap around your waist from behind, his left palm coming to rest protectively against your lower stomach. It takes you tearing your eyes away from the little boy to realize that heâs stroking small circles against what you now see is a baby bump.
âHeâs mine?â you ask quietly, turning your head to look at the man.
âOurs,â he corrects.
The feeling is indescribable, to be loved like this.
âWhatâs your name?â you dare to ask quietly.
He looks a little sad as he says, âLorenzo. Lorenzo Berkshire. I wish I had told you this upon our first meeting. I apologize.â
âThereâs no need to apologize. Itâs nice to know who Iâm dreaming about. Itâs nice to meet you, Lorenzo.â You lean deeper into his chest, the baby snuggled in your arms fusses a little bit, and you shush the little being. He slowly opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat.
He has your eyes.
Waking up alone the next morning had you silently crying in your bed, as you tried your hardest to fall back into the dream.
Thereâs a new cafe in town. Well⌠âtownâ is used loosely, but regardless, thereâs a new cafe twenty five minutes from home. (Youâve taken to calling it home. For all its intricacies and terror, itâs all you have. And putting any spare moment into any reno you can has, in a weird way⌠bonded you to the house. Seeing where it came from vs where it is now? You could see yourself here relatively long term. So⌠âhomeâ it is.) The cafe was bought off artists from Edinburgh and resold at a higher price to âmaximize profitsâ for a corporate conglomerate. Unethical, but you couldnât deny that they could make the fuck out of a latte.
You were out looking for a new bookshelf for your living room. Having recently commissioned a nearby carpenter, you had a bench built to fit inside the bay window. You were planning on turning it into a place where you could drink your coffee every morning while reading. Reading required books. Books required a bookshelf. So here you are, looking for a shelf to store the books.
After venturing into the coffee shop, ordering a medium iced vanilla latte and a warmed slice of lemon poundcake, then struggling to find a place to sit amongst the other patrons, you squeeze into a small table in the corner. Opening your computer that you brought for the sake of doomscrolling Facebook Marketplace, and putting your off brand AirPods in to listen to a podcast.
A horror podcast is automatically queued and the irony is not lost on you as you hit play anyways. Whatever these podcasters are going to say cannot be worse than what is already happening to you at home, you suppose. Though it does strike you as odd that a podcast youâve never listened to is what Spotify chose to play today.
The podcasters begin talking in your ears. Conversing as if theyâve been comfortable in front of a mic for their entire lives. The first story is a ghost story, some American haunted house that tourists claim is far more haunted than it probably is. The Sally House, they call it. A demon apparently haunts it.
You continue scrolling Facebook Marketplace as the podcasters continue to talk. The scary story really isnât that scary, and their banter has you laughing against your will. Probably looking like a maniac in the corner of this cafe.
You send a message to someone with a bookshelf that looks kinda like something you want. Not perfect.
The podcast switches to its second topic. A true crime segment. The American podcasters laugh as the woman says, âOkay guys Iâm sorry if I butcher this. English isnât my first language.â The other podcaster chuckles as the first continues, âThis is in Scotland. And the village is called⌠Gairloch? Iâm sorry if Iâm mispronouncing that. Iâm sure youâll tweet me about it later if I did.â
You freeze, hearing the name of the town youâre in. Your head shoots up, scanning the room. Someone has to be fucking with you, you decide.
âThey call it the mercy killings of Scotland.â the woman says, her tone suddenly serious as she continues. âOur story begins in the early 1940s. The war had just started raging throughout Europe, and Great Britain had put in place a draft. Drafting men ages 18â41 into World War Two boot camps across Europe. Nine young men in this town of only 130 would later mysteriously die before they could be taken to France.â
The podcasters converse a little, bantering with inside jokes about theories and motives.
The woman continues, âSo anyways. Listen, Iâm not saying they were murdered. But I donât believe the draft dodger story. Nine 18â22 year old men have never agreed to do one thing simultaneously in their lives.â She laughs. âIiii⌠think it was murderrrrr,â she says in a singsong voice. You switch tabs, quickly typing âScotland mercy killingsâ into Google. Scrolling past the AI result because you refuse to allow your brain to dissolve, you see the first article. Itâs titled âWhat really happened to the 9 Scottish boys that died in the small town of Gairloch in October of 1940.â
You click on the sketchy website. Beyond the pop ups and the ads, thereâs a story. You continue listening to the podcasters speak.
âOkay, so listen, I want to try to be as sensitive as I can when Iâm covering this because Iâm aware that it is a mass casualty. But I donât think anyone from this story is still alive so bear with me. So these nine young men all from the ages of 18 to 22, are drafted into World War Two. Theyâre ready to go fight, there are journals and letters from a few of the boys detailing their reluctance but acceptance of being deployed to Nazi occupied France. They have enlisted, they are ready. And then the day theyâre meant to leave, none of the boys in town get on the bus to Edinburgh.â The podcaster breaks to sip from her glass of wine.
âSorry. Wine break!â she exclaims before clearing her throat and continuing, âSo none of these boys show to the enlistment bootcamp thing. The military sends a notice to the town, and the mayor later finds all nine of them have died of arsenic poisoning.â
The other podcaster â who youâve come to learn through their banter and commentary, is nonbinary â gasps and the woman responds, âI know right! Soââ
A man taps you on the shoulder and you nearly jump out of your skin. He apologizes but the damage is done, youâve spilt your entire latte into your lap. Telling him itâs not a problem when he begins apologizing profusely.
He doesnât help you clean up and then doesnât look away when you catch him staring down your shirt as he asks your name.
You have been a forensic investigator for only 6 months. But you know better than to give your name to strangers in a cafe.
âGenevieve Smith,â you say, lying. Sending a quick mental âsorryâ to the victim of the case youâre working on.
âWell Jenny. Itâs lovely to meet you. I was just here with a few of my mates and we were speaking about how we havenât seen you around before. Itâs a pretty small town and everyone knows everyone, so I was just coming over to introduce myself. And Iâ well I was wondering if youâd like to go out for a pint sometime?â
Would it be rude of you to say ew to this manâs face?
âOh Iâm sorry, I donât drink.â You settle for. Standing and attempting to gather your things.
âAlright, then dinner!â He beams. God this man was not taking the hint.
âOkay. Sure. But uhm, my phone is dead right now so can I give you my email address instead? Would that be alright?â You rush out. He stands there looking stupid, not helping in the slightest while youâre obviously struggling with all of your things. Yeah thereâs no way in hell you were giving this dude your phone number or real email address.
You make it out of the cafe in one piece, your dress only partially covered in coffee. Getting in your car you decide to just go home. Between the spilled coffee and the fact that you had been looking for this damned bookshelf all day, to no avail, it was turning out to be a medium shitty day. Buckling your seatbelt, starting the engine and immediately turning onto the street that you came from. Apple Play connects and you hit rewind a few times when you reach a stoplight.
Picking up from where they left off, the nonbinary podcaster says, âArsenic? And they thought this was a mass suicide? Yeah thatâs like men. I thought there was that thing that like⌠men commit grizzlier suicides. Arsenic seems like a tame way to go.â
You take a deep breath, knowing what arsenic does to the human body.
â⌠I see what you mean, but itâs important to me that you know that arsenic is so much more painful than I think you think it is.â The woman telling the story says, âA few of the boys documented the early symptoms in letters and journals. Here, listen to this.â The sound of her pulling the written notes from her bag echoes through the car. âA boy named⌠Seumas? â again Iâm sorry if Iâm mispronouncing that â wrote the day before he died, that he was quote âin insurmountable pain, the stomach cramps enough to render any man completely immobile. My soul feels like itâs trapped in a birdcage of a body. Longing to be free from this torment.â And he was reportedly hospitalized a week prior with similar symptoms but they dismissed it as an attempt at draft dodging!â
âOw.â You think aloud, driving along as they continue reflecting on the story that she is telling.
âAnother boy, named Eachann⌠â you know what, German is my first language, sorry if Iâm fucking all of this up. I should have chosen a story with names easier for me to pronounce, but itâs too late for that â he reportedly came home from his friendâs house and told his mother that he was worried for his friend. Some⌠Lorenzo?â The name has your brain slamming to a halt. âAnd by the next night both men were dead.â She audibly takes another sip of her wine. The sound of the glass clinking against the mic, ringing throughout your car.
The nonbinary podcaster laughs a little. âChristine. Lorenzo? Seriously? All of these old timey Scottish names, and a Lorenzo?â They gasp. âOh my God wait was he Italian? Were they going to put him into an Allied war against the Axis powers, WHEN HE WAS ITALIAN!?â
âOh my God Em no calm down,â the woman â Christine â laughs. âI donât have many notes on him. I donât think he was Italian, I think that was just his name. I donât want to speculate. All that I have on him is that he was very popular in town. A âsweetheart,â noted one of the boysâ mothers. And apparently a total bachelor. To the people watching this on YouTube, I got a picture. Spotify listeners Iâm sorry.â
Em gasps. âWow. No because if I was into menââ they let the sentence hang and you and the podcasters laugh at the joke. âIâm sorry for making fun of his name now. Damn.â
âHe looks like he whimpers.â
âCHRISTINE THATâS FOUL.â
âWhattttt heâs dead!!!â
Their banter has you giggling aloud and absolutely making a mental note to look this up on YouTube so you can be sure youâre not insane for connecting the dots. As you turn onto the main road that leads to your house, the long road stretches ahead of you and you hope absently that the UV rays arenât too high today. You were hoping to get some gardening done.
A man standing in the trees on the side of the pavement pulls you out of your own world, turning your head to look at him as you drive past.
Your head turns back to the road and youâre met with a deer staring at you from 10 feet away.
The squealing of the tires is deafening as you attempt to slam on the brakes and swerve your car all at once. You scream when you feel gravity tilt on itself. Rolling with the car as you land in a ditch.
The ground is moist above you, and when you stick your hands up to steady yourself against the roof, the glass from the windshield shattering digs into your palms.
The pain in your hands is disregarded as you try to move them to feel around. Your hands are met with warmth. The wet fur scraping across your bloody palms. Peeling your eyes open against the pain in your head, youâre immediately hit with overwhelming nausea.
The deerâs decapitated head sticks into the windshield, inches from your face.
The metal groans when you attempt to flail backwards. Terror radiates from you, and you canât scream. No matter how hard you try, the air wonât come out of your lungs.
You attempt to press the emergency button on the ceiling of your car, but your hands are weak, giving out as you slam your palm repeatedly against the buttons.
A manâs voice carries throughout the car. âYouâve reached 999, what is your emergency?â
âIâve uhm. Iâve hit a deer,â you say between gasps, âand I canât get out of my car.â
âOkay maâam, slow down. Youâve got to breathe. Can you do this for me?â You can hear him typing in the background.
âY-yeah. Iâm trying. Sorry. The deer is in my car with me and I canât move.â You think youâre beginning to hyperventilate.
âMaâam can I get your name? Paramedics are on their way but I need a way for them to contact you.â You hear him saying. But everything is fuzzy. You canât speak. You can barely even hear. Your eyes close and when they open again you are on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance.
Smutty little blurb about Lorenzo being a love. Because i miss him.
As always, mdni, and if you see any typos no you don't. I wrote this at 2 am and in like 20 minutes. And then I didn't proofread it. Shout out Ants Canada and River Monsters for playing in the background while I wrote this.
Lorenzo Berkshire who makes you watch in the mirror and say out loud how beautiful you are while he fucks the insecurity out of you.
His cock slides in and out of you slowly, his arm wrapped around your hips, fingers just pushing against your clit, not moving.
"Tell me, lovely. tell me what you see" he mumbles into the nape of your neck, trying his absolute hardest not to succumb to the urge to sink his teeth into your shoulder.
"I- I see the way you love me. I see -fuck- I see how you have me bent over the counter. Fucking me so good lo." You blabber out, drool slipping past your lips and down onto the bathroom counter below you.
You had just planned to share a shower together, but you had shied away from his gaze when he undressed you and that leads to where you are now
His thrusts stop completely, leaning in impossibly closer, he says into your ear "and? you gonna finish that, my love?"
"And I see that I'm beautiful." His thrusts immediately speed up. The feeling of his impossibly hard cock grazing your sensitive walls has you tightening around him.
you're beautiful. so beautiful. my beautiful girl." His fingers begin to move against your clit. There's no amount of warning you could have given when the orgasm hits this suddenly.
He's following immediately, cock throbbing as he pumps you full. When he relaxes against your back he's immediately kissing down your spine.
"How about we get you cleaned up and then sneak to the kitchens? we're going to miss dinner, my love"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I'm taking a step back and I'm doing it because I refuse to tolerate this anymore.
Harsh words? Fine. Tell me I suck, tell me I don't deserve to be mentioned next to other writers, go off I got plenty of that today in anon asks while I was WORKING. I can take it. I've built a tolerance for it.
What I will NOT tolerate is some sick fucks sending me regular asks that are actually links to animal abuse. Not just once, multiple times. I already reported this excuse of a person, if you can even call them that, but I am so fucking tired of this.
I'm not even going to pretend I'm calm about this because I'm fucking furious. You are doing this shit over PIXELS. Over fictional men. Get a fucking life. Get a fucking job. get a fucking hobby. GET. HELP.
If you want to save any of my works my account will stay up for a few more days.
Whether I come back to writing after this, I honestly don't know. I don't have it in me to answer that right now. This is not what I signed up for and it is absolutely not what I deserve.
find me under the wisteria @https-nae - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
