#badhunting

[badhuntingbook]

Excerpt from BAD HUNTING, Chapter 7.

The dark dressing room, filled with women who essentially shared the same kind of life, was not a place for friendship and sisterhood. In Juniper’s experience, it was a place for gossip and watching your back. Her presence usually made sure they banded together, otherwise those girls would turn on each other. Their solidarity lasted as long as their relationships, and fell over stealing each other's customers and tips.  But when it came to her, they found unity. Often even entertainment. Mostly, they just blamed her for Marcy Hall's death. She couldn’t tell them they were wrong. If she hadn’t thought she and Marcy could run away, maybe she wouldn’t be six feet under.  And Juniper blamed herself. She had taken the place of someone they had shared clothes and makeup with. Even if none of the women ever visited the grave.  The only one leaving flowers from time to time was her.  Pepper was still punishing her for her partial sick leave. As she had tried to explain to him over the phone at Hank's, with Kumar breathing down her neck, she was fucking concussed. He hadn’t been impressed. This time, he'd decided to shame her with a string of ridiculous new costumes. As long as she was his sparkly showpuppet, he could tolerate her. When she couldn’t, he enjoyed leaning into his resentment for the burden of having to deal with her. It was proven once more by the dirty grin on his face when he'd thrown the white bunny suit at her.  It was fluffy, with a pink tail on the back of the panties, and ears to match. The tiny top pushed her sad excuse for tits high up her chest.  She hated it when he humiliated her like that and he knew it.  The other girls knew it too.  Looking at them, she wished she could feel what they felt for just a split second. To remember what it was like, being together instead of alone. Then, the feeling passed and she saw them for what they really were.  A bunch of bitches.  The girls still glanced over their shoulders, giggles filling the air like it was a locker room crammed with sweaty teenagers instead of the dressing room of a shady stripclub. Rolling her eyes, Juniper raked her hands through her untamable hair and tied the bunny ears tightly to her head.  'Laugh all you want. We both know this is because of me refusing to lick his balls while you are over there picking his pubes from the back of your tongue.' Rising from her chair, she put on a smile and turned to Priscilla. The taller woman struggled to fabricate a witty comeback. As the room held its breath, she just came up short, biting her overlined lip. It smudged the lipstick further, and left her mouth looking disproportionate in hot pink.  Walking out of the dressing rooms in her impossibly high heels, Juniper swayed her hips and swept her hair back.  They could kiss her fluffy ass.

[badhuntingbook]

BAD HUNTING.

[badhuntingbook]

His mind replayed the moment her eyes met his for the first time. From then on a need scratched at his insides, restless and selfish. He wanted to know she'd be okay. It didn't make him heroic. He was many things, but far from that. Heroes didn't have as much blood on their hands. 

From BAD HUNTING, Chapter 4. All Are Not Hunters That Blow The Horn.

[badhuntingbook]

HAPPY 2026

Insane year I've had tbh. Started this one at sea and then behind my laptop. First time in ten years I didn't see the sun come up on januari 1st. Also don't know what is going on, so don't ask, but it's good. Kind of threw my whole shit around and added another chapter smack in the middle. Oops? While having my own mental breakdowns I actually managed to get some breakthroughs in my story (see what I did there) and of course that meant going over the entire thing yet again. No, mostly I just realized my plot was weak as fuck. Had all these impressions of danger and implications and atmospheric pressure but no real body that actually carried a knife and started chasing people. You feel me? Turns out the person holding the knife and running is actually me, though, dissecting my entire fucking plot. Stoned, at three in the morning. Five. Let's say I haven't gotten out much these past days.

The thing is that I have started to actually care about these two knuckleheads and have come to understand exactly how they tick. Not a case of me just making them do something or place them in a situation because that's what I want to happen anymore, really. It's them. Honestly, it all just got out of hand a little, and I don't even care. While these coincidences happen to Juniper and Muriel, they also happen to me. I swear some of this shit just happens. Picked 1991 because I wanted early 90's and an early november date that fell on a saturday and then somehow there was a friday the 13th, right in december, exactly where it fit in the timeline. Crazy shit. Juniper's birthday being on christmas was because I thought it was a nice addition to the plot, and then I do some research and find out the holy fucking family was saved by a juniper bush while on the run? Wild. Wanted Muriel to be a taurus instead of a virgo (sorry) and found out about a celtic holiday. Can't even make this shit up but well, yeah.

Sorry, kind of beaming. It's snowing here. Life is kinda alright for now. I've been writing a lot of shit. So if you curious check it out my love, tbh I am just having fun with me, myself, chatgpt and a couple of losers I made up.

and happy fucking new year. - Ao3 - Wattpad

[badhuntingbook]

Once, Marcy and her had thought they found heaven. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

They would stumble through that same door, giggling and already buzzed, for that soup and coffee to pour cheap booze from their flasks in. 

After Marcy died, Juniper kept coming. On her sparse free nights, she would pick up two donuts and two coffees at Dayans, and visit Marcy's grave. She didn't know what else to do except visit her dead friend and get drunk. At least it had made her a living one. 

The first time she went alone, he'd asked where her “tall, obnoxious friend” was and she had burst into tears. Needless to say, it had left an impression on Ahmed. Ever since, he would pour three cups of coffee, and they would take them outside, sit on the steps in front of his shop and smoke a cigarette together. They both enjoyed practicing their French. Ahmed complained about the weather. She complained about the girls at Pepper’s. On rare occasions he would tell stories of the village he grew up in, but never about how he met his wife, or how they left. Juniper had seen her a couple of times. The right side of her face was scarred, just like her hands. Old burns that had healed as well as they could, leaving parts of her olive skin pink and silver, like flowers were trying to grow right underneath the surface of her skin. There was something they recognized in each other the first time they met. Like looking in a mirror. In each other's eyes they saw something people who had survived longer than they had actually lived carried with them. It had become a ritual. The Dayan’s were good people. Even though Zainab would never join them, she would sometimes secretly hand her a paper bag stuffed with left overs. Other times, Ahmed would beg her to take some off his hands. They made her feel welcome. In the city Juniper had found herself trapped in, that feeling was rare. 

‘Boss has been on my ass. How's everything?’ She'd been craving a friendly face. Her mind had turned to chaos since meeting the Hound, and she hated how he kept haunting her thoughts. Touching her temple, she cringed at the memory of pulling her stitches out that very afternoon. Those big blunt fingers of his were surprisingly deft. It had healed pretty well. 

Standing at that counter, watching Ahmed's back while he poured their coffees, she saw a flash of green eyes in the intricate pattern of his sweater. 

‘My wife smiles at me first thing in the morning and she is of good health. I am a rich man.’ He said, in tradition. A talent of his was weaving little love notes to his wife into every conversation he had.

‘How are you? You seem less inebriated than usual.’

It got a small smile out of her. Tapping her pocket where her flask was tucked away, she proved to him she wouldn’t change her patterns easily. 

‘Not for long.’ 

‘You are too young to drown your problems.’ Handing her two steaming take away cups in a carrier, he kept one for himself. 

‘Getting old is not in the cards for me, Ahmed. My design is the type to burn like a match, or one of those flares they use at sea.’ She held the door open for him, which earned her a smile and a nod. ‘Always so dramatic.’ Groaning, the man sat down on the last step. Before Juniper could open her mouth to pester him about his aging bones, he looked up at her sharply. 

‘My back is not what it used to be, kid. That is my reminder of what it means to burn bright and fast. My shoulders have carried weight, my legs have walked miles, but all that earned me my kingdom.’ The man was a poet. She often wondered if he had always been like that, or if it had grown on him, like his coarser, grey hair was slowly gaining ground on his thick black curls. ‘And I’m dramatic? Do you hear yourself talking?’ Juniper took her usual spot to his left, one step lower. With three coffees between them, they blocked the entrance. She fished her flask from her pocket and held it up in a silent question. ‘Nicked this from Pepper’s office. It goes down pretty smooth.’ Twisting the top off, she waited as Ahmed took his cigarette case and pinched his thumb and pointer finger together. ‘Just a bit.’ Pouring a hefty shot in each cheap paper cup, which she knew was his actual measurement for just a bit, she leaned her back against the stone step. 

‘What I am saying is, kid, the finer things in life often take tremendous effort.’

‘Everything in life takes tremendous effort.’ She mumbled, cigarette dangling between her lips as she screwed the cap back on. ‘I didn’t take you for the type to give up easily.’ Smiling, he held up his cup. ‘Santé.’ ‘Santé.’ Together, they took their first sip. It warmed her insides in a way that only sitting in front of a fire could. A welcome burn, outside it was a wet kind of cold. The kind that slowly crept inside her bones and stuck to her clothes. ‘This is not giving up. I am waiting,' she said.

- Excerpt from BAD HUNTING, chapter 5. Three Of Cups.

[badhuntingbook]

BAD HUNTING - 17. In Plain Sight.

Read 17. In Plain Sight. from the story BAD HUNTING by insert-trope-here (Isabel) with 1 reads. action, strong-female...

just posted a new chapter to my story 🖤 you can also read on ao3 , with bonus chapter 🐈‍⬛ and here is a little sneak peak...

He watched his knuckles hover over the painted wood, and knocked. Two short, one long. He didn’t wait for an answer. As he grabbed the handle, it gave way immediately. Like it always used to, welcoming him in. The Hound was met with the smells he grew up in, spices and incense, Zainab sitting at the small kitchen table that barely fit four chairs, Ahmed leaning against the counter. And Juniper Vaughn crouched on their tile floor, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Staring up at him. The chaos of emotions rushing across her face mirrored the storm he got caught in. Not once during his way over had he thought he would find her there. The scene in front of him looked like any other normal night. Just a few friends staying up a little too late, talking and drinking. Except it wasn’t.