#I mean after Bloodhounds

[mctna2019]

this scene was so beautiful, painful but also powerful. the way he called his father, the way he cried, the way he just hugged him, the way his father called him....OMG

he stopped looking for his biological father. but in the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, he started wandering the streets while he was confused and didn't know where he was. for going to his father. bc he felt that his time was getting less and less. a father who didn't consider him as his own son and Hae-jo lived with his memories all this time. it didn't matter who his biological father was. every time he went after each candidate, he compared him in his mind with the man who had raised him. I had watched in other dramas that usually parents who raise a child were afraid of their child finding out that who are his/her real parents. because if that child found out, he/she would want to go to his real parents. but in this series it was completely the opposite. even after he found out about the truth, he lived with that man and expected him to be his father. even after he ran away from home. I'm glad and sad that he stopped looking for his biological father and returned to who he knew his father. even if their meet was so short.

Heung admired Hae-jo's way of life and he ran away from home like him. but unlike Hae-jo's father, Heung's mother found him and told him to stay away from home as much as he wanted, but to be careful and come back whenever he want. Heung didn't know that no one had asked Hae-jo to come back and Hae-jo wanted to go home despite all the freedom he had.

[kaiserouo]

Bloodhound in Destiny 2

[nereidprinc3ss]

pretty little things

in which you can't keep hiding your stuffed animals from your boyfriend. spencer would like a formal introduction.

fluff! warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, newish established relationship, they're so cute, reader is still kinda shy around him, I'm really obsessed with this dynamic actually, implied intimacy if you decide to interpret it that way, kissing/maybe mildly suggestive a/n: this is dedicated to my friends @parfaitblogs and @gublersg1rl bc in another universe we are actually just three jellycat plushies on someone's bed which is where the inspo for this little thing came from. and thank u willow for naming your fox. ok bye love u hope u enjoy !! :D

The first time you’d shown Spencer your room, and the handful of times he’s been in it since, you very intentionally hid your stuffed animals underneath the bed. After all, you’re an adult. You have a grown up job. And you don’t need him thinking you’re some kind of freak this early into the relationship. You like him too much. 

Today, however—you didn’t have any warning. He comes over unannounced, which is all well and good, until you bring him to your bedroom so he can sit on the bed while you change from work clothes into something comfier for movie night. As soon as you open the bedroom door, you see them, lined up neatly by your pillow, and you know it’s too late. 

“Uh…”

Spencer runs into your back and takes it as an excuse to settle his hands on your hips as he peers over your shoulder. 

“What?”

You slip out of his easy hold and skitter to your bed, practically throwing yourself on the mattress and sitting unnaturally as the little beaded eyes of your friends dig into your back. Even your brightest smile doesn’t distract Spencer. He’s like a bloodhound for the truth. At least, that’s the sense you’re beginning to get. 

“What are you doing?” He tries again, eyes narrowed and closing the door carefully behind him. 

“Nothing!”

The urgency with which you say it has his eyebrows raising. Obviously delighted by the embarrassing secret he’s sure to uncover, he approaches. You lean back further even as he towers over you until you’re almost on your back and he’s folded over you, menacingly (and dizzyingly) close. This sort of position is still new-ish and has your heart pounding, even if it’s entirely playful and ostensibly innocent. 

“Nothing? Are you sure?”

You nod, still shying away from him into the pile of pillows. Without looking he reaches under you and pulls out your pink bunny. You squeak and hide your face. 

“What is this?” He laughs, and you yank it away, sitting up so he’s forced to give you some breathing room. The bunny is cradled protectively in your arms, though you try to hold it a bit more casually when you notice. 

“I said it’s nothing.”

“What about the other two behind you? The fox and the… what is that? A deer?”

“No—”

“I didn’t even know they made deer stuffed animals—”

“Spencer, stop!”

He does, at the desperate tone of voice and the way you’re still hiding from him. 

“No, no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tease you. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

As usual he’s over apologetic, now sitting knee to knee with you on the mattress and leaning down to try and catch your eye. You huff and grant him some eye contact just so he doesn’t go over the edge with worry. 

“But it’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s really not,” he laughs. “It’s cute. I can’t believe you’ve been—what, hiding them from me? This whole time? That’s like not telling me you have kids.”

“It is not like that.”

“Hm. I don’t know, I think you should probably introduce me.”

You give him a look, letting your head fall to your shoulder. “Spencer.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to be apart of their lives now. You can’t keep shoving them under the bed every time I stay the night.”

This nerd is going to be the death of you. 

Eventually, you groan reluctantly. 

“Fine. Okay, um—this one is… well—her name is Bunny. It’s not… very creative, but it’s—that’s just her name, okay?”

Spencer doesn’t react to your unjustified defensiveness—only grabs your bunny’s round little pink paw and shakes. “Enchanted.”

“Shut up.” Your face is so hot as you bury your smile and set Bunny aside, making sure she’s comfortable against the pillow before bringing out your deer. Spencer doesn’t have the shit-eating grin you were partially expecting when you glance up at him from beneath your lashes—he’s smiling, but it’s so soft. A little twisted, like he’s holding back the full extent of it for your sake. But you wouldn’t mind it at full power. It’s like he’s hiding the sun in a saucepan and the lid’s not on quite right. And he’s looking right at you. Like you’re the source of all his joy. 

A moment passes. You clear your throat and look back down. “Um—this is Bambi. ’Cause—you know.”

“I do,” Spencer agrees genially, nodding as if this were a normal conversation. “Kind of a dark thing to name your deer, though.”

“You’re judging,” you accuse balefully. He chuckles and his hand finds your knee, rubbing apologetically. 

“I’m not, I’m not! I take it back. I retract it. Continue, please.”

For a moment you only pout, but it doesn’t deter him—he simply looks at you expectantly, and now those syrupy eyes come with the added bonus of his hand on your leg. Fine. He wins. But not without a deep, tortured sigh from you while you’re grabbing your fox that makes the corner of his mouth twitch up. 

“This one is…”

The name dies on your tongue, too ridiculous to be said out loud. 

“Tell me,” Spencer pleads in that gentle voice and with those big eyes that you’d consider burning him at the stake for because that look on his face has to be witchcraft. 

“Okay but you can’t laugh,” you insist in one quick breath, giving him a serious look that he can only partially reciprocate. 

“No laughing.”

“It’s… Mr. Cuddles.”Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to keep his promise. You melt inside both from embarrassment and from the way it only further defines an already superbly sculpted bone structure. “Do not.”

Spencer scoffs at your warning. “Don’t what? I’m behaving.”

“Don’t make fun of Mr. Cuddles!”

“Does it look like I’m making fun of him?”

“Her.”

“What?”

“Her. Mr. Cuddles is a girl.”

“I see… can you explain that to me?”

“If a human person said I am a girl and I would like you to call me Mister, would you question that? Would you ask them to explain it to you?”

“I guess not.”

“Exactly. Don’t be rude.”The way Spencer is looking at you now, eyes so clear and still so full of affection, like you’ve got some sort of heavenly spotlight trained on you, lips parted as if to say something but still silent, has you forgetting your momentary confidence. You shrink. “What?”

“I just… you’re amazing.” You throw Mr. Cuddles at his chest and fall into your pile of pillows with a groan. Spencer only continues rubbing your leg. It’s very nice, actually. He’s gentle. And patient. “You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you came to this conclusion just because I introduced you to my stuffed animals.”

“Not solely because of that. There are a lot of contributing factors. I mean, the stuffed animal thing helped.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you insist for the umpteenth time. 

“It’s adorable.”

Spencer pushes pillows aside and lies next to you so you’re eye to eye. It’s nice how his presence isn’t exhausting the way people sometimes are. He’s easy to exist with. He makes you enjoy existing a little more than usual. Even now. 

You raise your eyebrows and speak, cheek squished against fabric. “I’m a serious adult.”

“I know you are,” he assures with a solemn nod. 

Your eyes narrow ever so slightly. 

“Okay… well… don’t go forgetting that. I’m fun but I can also be not fun.”

“I’d love to see that.”

“No you wouldn’t. You would hate it. You’d be so scared.”

Spencer gives up on holding back a smile and moves his hand to tuck hair behind your ear. 

“You’re right. I’m already terrified. The anticipation… it’s killing me, you know?”

You’re giggling as you roll over on top of him and he roots his hand in your hair, pulling you in for a long, smiley kiss like he knew it was coming. Only when he blindly throws your stuffed friends from the bed do you pull away—just by an inch or so. 

“No respect,” you scold playfully. He kisses you again, tangling your legs and hands wandering. 

“Can I apologize later?”

You’re good with that. 

[endataraxia]

frustration and anger.

creepypasta/mh x reader in which they get frustrated or angry, or, in BEN's case, are frustrating themselves. word count: 2.1k cw: abuse, descriptions of anger, arguments/quarrelling.

EJ

EJ doesn’t often get angry.

in fact, it’s hard to even frustrate him. Even when faced with particularly difficult patients to suture up—ahem, Jeff— he shows no sign of being fazed.

well, perhaps that’s because he’s used to living with Jeff and his reckless, barbaric antics.

but when he does get frustrated, it’s like a gradual intensification.

you like to split his frustration into three phases.

phase 1: EJ starts to seem a little off. Quieter than usual, less responsive, and more distant. Almost as if he’s in his own world, deceptively peaceful.

phase 2: EJ starts to show actual signs of being frustrated. You notice that it is at this point he may start to snap lightly at others, but with you, he tries his best to keep it to a minimum.

phase 3 is the climax before the drop. On occasion, he may raise his voice slightly and openly express irritation. But he always drops, hard and fast.

“I am so sorry, Y/N, I am so sorry,” he whispers, rubbing circles gently on your back. Though he has to bend over quite a bit (he’s a gentle giant at a height of 6’6 or about 2 meters), you find it to be very soothing that his frame envelops the entirety of yours.

oh, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of getting angry.

no, the anger you heard in his voice was undeniable as he roared at another member of the household to stay the fuck away from you.

you’d startled at the sheer sound of it, and quickly those trembles descended into violent shaking as you cried—his roar was simply not…human.

you flinched as he picked you up, just as gently as was the anger intense in that dreaded noise he made, a stark contrast in behavior, a jarring change in your body, mind and soul.

but other than that, you knew your darling EJ was back.

he plopped you onto his bed, surrounded by his sweet yet musky scent, nuzzling your neck and your face.

“I’m sorry”s were whispered countless times in your ear that night as you dozed off in the safety of his arms.

jeff

gotta put a trigger warning on this one. you know what to expect, but just in case you don’t, TW: Jeff is literally a murderer with abusive tendencies and anger issues.

at the start of your relationship, Jeff had been…well, to say the least, not the best partner.

he often got mad at you, whether it be keeping him waiting or spilling a cup of water.

yeah. spilling a cup of water.

but you understood why he was the way he was. he just couldn’t help it. but that didn’t mean you were going to stick around for it, no matter how much you loved him.

one day after a particularly huge argument, you found him crying in his room. his sniffles were unmistakable, but you knew you’d have to pretend you hadn’t heard from ten feet away.

turns out, angsty little Jeff here wasn’t completely unaware of himself.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m so sorry,” he had sobbed as quietly as he could. “I know I’m a bad boyfriend, I know, I keep lashing out at you and I’m so sorry.”

your relationship could have very well ended that day if you hadn’t found Jeff crying on the floor.

but even though he’d hurt you so many times, you took him back into your arms.

and so you taught him to manage his anger, though it took you immense effort, energy and bravery.

he’d always help, though, by reminding you it was okay to yell back at him. you chided him lightly for it, saying that it’d just cause a back and forth.

“oh, right. my bad. sorry, doll,” he had said with a sheepish grin.

today, you are proud to boast that you trained your bloodhound boyfriend to be a tame dog. hell, he even does whatever you tell him to now, albeit sometimes reluctantly.

but he understands that if he loves you, he must make sacrifices upon sacrifices. you did that for him.

now it is his turn to sacrifice himself for you.

masky - tim

it’s not really uncommon that Tim gets angry.

but his anger is almost always the quiet kind.

he will “hmph” and huff lightly, a mild kind of anger you both can still joke about, though his face will redden at it.

you can’t help it though, the sass he gives you when he’s lightly frustrated is too good to let slip past.

oh, but when his anger gets loud—

it’s no longer a harmless little nip.

it’s been directed everywhere. everywhere, his teammates, the table, the card game he’s losing a bit too embarrassingly to Toby who’s being an unbearable little ass about it.

but never you.

okay, it was one time.

but Tim decided it was one time too many. (as he should)

he’d raised his voice at you, more so out of frustration rather than anger.

and you flinched.

and oh, how that little flinch broke his heart.

he shut up immediately, gathering you into his arms, whispering “oh, I’m so sorry, darling”, and “you’re okay, you’re okay”.

he never did it again. ever.

now, when you both get angry at each other, it always devolves into stupid little giggles and kicking.

hoodie - brian

Brian doesn’t really get angry, nor does he get frustrated.

normally, at least.

something shines in his eyes when he is defied, a shadow of a grin, a curl of the lip—

you spend a couple days investigating this, defying him little by little.

“Y/N, could you pass me the water?” “No.” and you’d say it with a cheeky smile on your face to match this strange expression on his.

it evolved into much greater things, “Y/N, come over here for a bit.” “Nope!”

“Y/N, help me up.” “Nope!”

your gleeful defiance doesn’t have a complete zero effect, either. with each silly little “nope”, the glint in his eyes grows brighter. and you know that the cup you’ve slowly been filling the past few days is about to overflow.

it’s one fateful day that you happily defy him once again, and—

oh. something’s grabbing at your jaw, and your lover’s face is so close to yours.

he smiles so gently at you, so purely. but his grip on your jaw says otherwise.

firm like iron, reprimanding, but not harmful or venomous. you know he isn’t going to hurt you, but oh, he isn’t letting you go either.

“Y/N,” he says calmly. “You’ve been a little more uncooperative than usual.”

the shiver it sends down your spine isn’t one of fear. excitement, rather.

he lets you go, but guides you to the bed. “Sit,” he commands.

so you do. what else are you to do when your lover commands you so well?

“Good girl.”

so you never say no to him again, not when it comes to harmless favors.

Brian does not get angry or frustrated…at least, not like the normal person does.

toby

Toby becomes a very bitter cynic when upset, spitting sarcasm wherever he goes.

his BPD only makes it worse. his relationship with Tim is already strained as it is, with the latter trying his best (as much as a man with anger issues can), and his relationship with Brian being almost entirely carried by the older man.

and his relationship with you, oh his sweet vogel, his darling dove— he doesn’t know what to think of it. some days he lets loose around you, tickling you and blowing raspberries against your cheeks, and others he’s withdrawn, curled up into a ball in his bed, and so you dive in with him, nuzzling him against his sheets long overdue for a change.

but if it’s neither of those, he’s lashing out. sometimes you can’t even look at him when he walks into the room bringing dark clouds over the atmosphere. that’s when you know you can’t look up at him.

and when you make the mistake of looking up, your smile meets a scowl.

“what are you looking at.” he’ll spit, and then storm off, as if he can’t stand your eyes on him.

and it’s true, your eyes gaze at him with such gentleness, he can’t bring himself to stare back sometimes. especially when he’s in a bad mood, because he breaks inside as he sees his own eyes burn the love in your eyes, reducing them to ashes of fear.

“vogel,” he’d whisper at night, lying next to you in your bed. “i’m sorry.”

he apologizes so much and so often you no longer make a big deal out of it, but this time, his soft whisper is laced with such heavy guilt, your arms move before your mind thinks, pulling him into a soft embrace.

oh, but this bad mood is nothing compared to his jealousy.

Jeff gets close to you? Jeff is suddenly on the ground, blood leaking from his head and EJ hurriedly dragging the former away, admonishing him about not messing with Toby’s precious human.

Tim comforts you about Toby’s outbursts? suddenly he’s against the wall, Toby growling and spitting in his face. if he can’t be there for you, then no one else gets to be there for you either. though, he knows this is selfish.

if he could help it, he’d let you go to whomever you wanted for comfort. but oh, his heart aches so.

and his jealousy is nothing compared to how angry he gets at himself, bashing the walls of the manor, crying out at night, because he can’t be there for you like a normal boyfriend.

he doesn’t know this, but you’re in a corner too, muffled sobs, tears, nose dripping and all.

so at night, you crawl back into bed before he notices you, and lie awake till he comes back.

as his breathing settles and his snoring begins, you hug him just a little bit tighter, your sweet vogel with broken wings.

ben

you have to admit, BEN is really, really freaky.

in the way he plays his games, the way he treats his archnemesis Jeff, in bed—oops.

but particularly, in the way he seems to have an endless tolerance for things that would usually upset someone.

he just. fucking giggles.

“aww, my sweet Y/N is so cute when she’s mad~”

context: he pissed you off and you’re currently in the middle of admonishing him with your whole heart and soul.

conversely, you’re the one who gets mad right back at him.

within the hour, he presents you with a tiktok with two cats that says: me when i’m venting and all my bf does is make jokes

he cackles to the ends of the earth and proceeds to make even more jokes

frankly, when the topic of frustration comes up with BEN’s name in the same sentence, you pretty much just think of him being the frustrating asshole in the relationship.

“BEN, give me my fucking phone back.”

he’s dangling it over your head, using the fact that he’s a floating apparition that can somehow interact with physical objects to his advantage.

once, you got so frustrated at him that you cried.

thankfully, he had the decency to pause, panic, and reflect on his actions.

“oh.” five seconds passed and your crying didn’t get better (what did he expect?). he repeated himself. “oh.”

“actually say something, you idiot!” you sobbed. and this is what snapped BEN into action. (you can’t believe you actually had to tell him to comfort you.)

“oh.” then he realized he’d just been saying “oh” like a broken record. “um.”

so he wraps you up in a blanket like a burrito, and holds you close to his chest.

“i’m sorry.”

“promise not to do it again?” you look up at him with your best puppy eyes.

“…i can’t promise.” you can tell he’s holding back a cheeky grin.

you whine and hit him lightly.

but you know very well that he loves you; this frustration merely comes with him as a package.

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 ♡︎

characters: sub!gallagher x nb!dom!reader

warnings: usage of aphrodisiacs, exhibitionism, slight dumbification, thigh riding, dry humping, begging, cumming untouched, gallagher being an old man loser, just a mini drabble guys. nothing big (i say as i write down 1,7K words)

notes: @lufenianwol you knew exactly what you were doing when you sent me gallagher’s leaked idle animation didn’t you, you gayyyy🫵🏳️‍🌈 (im gay too😔)

sigh…

another day, another long work of hunting down criminals or outlaws who came to penacony uninvited and detaining them. the most time gallagher could ever get to de-stress were behind the bars, mixing up a drink his customers asked for or when with you. you were a fellow bloodhound, a high ranking one too, so never had enough time to spend some quality time with your tired lover.

but today, you wanted to be a little mischievous. and what was that on your mind? you slipped just a teeny weeny bit of aphrodisiacs into his usual alcohol in his personal flask of course! just a little. maybe a pinch or two. a bit of a sprinkle of magic as a gift.

or maybe even a whole mini bottle. but you won’t say it until your tired lover comes crawling over to you, huffing and puffing, whining whimpering as he begs for your help at “restocking” some of the alcohol at the backrooms.

at the other end of the bar, you watch with a barely hidden smirk whenever your lover takes a sip from his personal flask during his break times. each time he does, getting more and more intoxicated in the taste. you purposely chose one that tasted delicious and soft on the tongue, a way to reward him for his hard work of running after criminals and preparing him for what was about to happen.

he started out strong, as expected of a bloodhound officer. barely felt it, focusing on work, wiping a glass or two, mixing up a drink. but the more he drank from his flask, the more you noticed it. the little stuttering over his words, the slight flush in his cheeks, the jumpy way he reacted whenever you passed by him with a hand on his waist or lower back. that bulge in his pants. that damn delicious bulge that you love to bully.

shaking your head, snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you focus back on work to wipe the bar clean and serve the customers drinks and desserts of their liking. you and gallaher were a good pair to serve amazing cocktails after all.

finally, the rush hour had ended, meaning fewer customers. the fewer there are, the more noticeable gallagher’s show of being affected by the little sprinkle of magic became. at first, he tried to play things off as signs of cold, or just the warm and low lighting of the bar being the reason his cheeks are pink. hell, he even coughed a few times to make his act believable. believable to the nosy customers but never to you.

“[n-name]…” the man barely manages to muffle his whimper when calling out your name, low lidded eyes, hazy vision and slightly shaky hand tugging on your necktie. you hum, turning to him with a raised brow as if you weren’t the reason behind this panting mess in front of you.

“yeah? what’s up?” you ask, putting down the bottle on where it’s supposed to be as your hands come to rest on his waist. the rush hour just ended, the bar still had a few customers but they were either too drunk to care nor engrossed in their own sob life stories to share you two a glance. and gallagher was damn glad for it too.

“w-we, ahem, need to head to the backrooms. we’re running out of some beers and fizzy drinks in the fridge” he quickly clears his throat, hoping that no one had caught onto his little stuttering. you did, of course. you would catch onto anything your lover says or does. even the tiniest things. such as how he was trying to make it seem like an innocent half-hug when you could feel his cock twitch in his pants as he pushes his crotch against yours, hoping to conceal it while also giving you a little heads-up.

as if you needed the heads-up.

“alright. you can go first, i’ll come after you once i wipe my hands” you nod your head, watching as your lover disappears behind the door with a sign that read “staff only”. it was cute how gallagher was so trusting of you, never even thought for a moment how you could have been the one to drug his flask of alcohol. though, judging from his cloudy eyes and stuttering, you could guess that he could barely even think to begin with. how adorable of him.

soon enough, you follow after the steps of your lover, walking into the “staff only” part of the bar and later onto the door with the sign “backrooms”. the pretty decent sized dark room where the bar keeps their ingredients and drinks. the same exact room where your lover pushes you against the wall the moment you entered, shaky hands fumbling with the buttons of your button down shirt as he humps his hardened cock against your crotch.

“woah woah, puppy. easy now. what’s going on? i thought we needed to restock on our drinks?” you ask, feigning innocence as your hands rest over gallagher’s shaky ones, stopping his fumbling and managing to catch his attention for a minute. he looked so dumbfounded. bottom lip on the brink of bleeding due to his chewing, panting, cheeks flushed a pretty red as his dilated eyes try to focus on you. you swore he looked like he was almost on the brink of crying with how damn pathetic he looked.

“c-can’t… [name], please, help me… ‘s so hot, tight. stupid pants mmngh!” gallagher only moans, tripping over his own words in a jumbled mess as he tries to find some sort of relief for his poor aching cock. looking down, you could briefly make out a dark small patch at the front of his pants. he was so drugged that he couldn’t even tell that he was staining his own clothes with his precum. so cute.

you only hum in response, not bothering to do as he pleads as your hands rest on the fat of his ass, massaging them gently. he only whines, slurred words of how he wanted your hands on his cock falling out as he squirms in your hold. lowering yourselves down to the floor of the room, you shift gallagher on top of you to ride your thigh instead. flexing the muscles in them to make it easier for him as he whimpers at the feeling.

immediately, the man started to hump your thigh. salacious mewls falling out of his lips as he doesn’t even try to silence his loud noises, only dumbly trying to relieve himself as he rubs his clothed cock on your thigh. you could see the dark patch in his pants getting bigger, darker the more he rides your thigh. if he had his dick out, he would probably leave a mess all over your clothes.

“shh shh, puppy. the door isn’t locked, remember?” you chuckle, reminding him of where the two of you were getting naughty at. it was so cute to see his eyes perk up at the sound of your voice. more specifically, whenever you called him puppy. he really did lived up to that nickname, looking like a cute pup as he bites down on his lip.

one of your hands travel up to his chest, opting to play with his perky nipple as he let out a loud squeal at that. his chest was always so sensitive, making him let out the most delicious whimpers each time you roll, pinch or tug at the hardened nub. being so mean to not slip your hands under the opening of his button down shirt at the front, playing with his nipples over the harsh fabrics of his clothes instead. he just wanted your touch on him to relieve the ache pooling in his belly, would you be so mean to deny him of his wishes?

apparently, you would. the hand on the soft fat of his ass moving to rest over his hip, helping him hump his cock on your thigh as your other hand continue their brutal assaults on his chest. poor gallagher, can't even form a single word as his pleads fall out of his swollen lips in a jumbled heap of mess. you could barely make out your own name from it. the words sounding so muddled up as if the bloodhound officer couldn't tell the difference between reality and his drug induced feelings.

"[n-naaammmeee]... sniff pleasheee fuunnghh fucck!! p-pleashh pleaash pleeaasshee♡︎!! ungh!! guuunnhg♥︎♥︎! p-pretty pleaaseee♡︎?" gallagher whines helplessly, stuffing his flushed face into the crook of your neck as his movements become more sloppy and frantic. he was so close to cumming already, it was just so cute to see how easily someone who is apparently always in control to crumble over with just a little bit of thigh riding. and some sprinkle of magic added to the mix.

in an attempt to muffle his loud moans and stuttering of his breath, he hastily lowers the collar of your own button down shirt just a little bit more. just enough so he could bite down over the old, healing bite mark of his so he could attempt to muffle his pathetic noises. you only coo out in a mocking tone, calling him by that nickname again as you tug on his nipple through his shirt as debouched cries of your name falls from his lips over and over like a mantra. gallagher sounded like one of those old, broken down radios that only replay a single song that sometimes is in the bar.

with a final thrust and a meek little bounce on your thigh, gallagher releases into his clothes. the magenta red hue of his pants turning a darker shade as his cum pools into the materials of his pants, staining it as some of the translucent liquid drips down onto your pants. you could just wash them out later.

"done with your little show, puppy?" you ask, the hand on his hip squeezing a bit to snap him out of his hazy mind. instead, you got a shake of his head, his stubble lightly tickling the skin of your neck in the process.

"wan' more... wan' you♥︎" he mumbles, delirious and drooling, as he humps his still hard cock against your crotch, indicating what he craved so desperately. maybe next time you should check the dosage you put into his drink if he's gonna be drugged this heavily by such a small amount.

[giselleloversclub]

NCT SMAU REC

MARK LEE :

Cryptic crush @jji-lee

Fuckboy mark x fem reader

are you looking for something deeper than just superficial romance? of course you are! sm university presents : cryptic crush the only on campus app that is 100% anonymous. sign up now and we'll randomly pair you with someone ready to chat! who knows? they might be the one...

I WANNA FUCK MARK LEE @luvyeni

Idol mark x YouTuber reader

in which a clip of you goes viral in ncity twt and it gains the attention of mark lee ( the center of the tweet ) — and all he can think is 'why saying chenles' cute friend saying she wants to fuck him?'

Personal fav

WHEN YOU SMILE @svnnw

Mark x fem reader

Fake dating au

after barely passing your recent exam you're now desperately looking for someone to tutor you so your friends wouldn't worry about you and your grades.

or in which you find yourself making a deal with mark lee, a top students who seeks for your help. mutual benefit right?

DOWN BAD @hyuckswoman

musicmajor!mark x fem!reader

in which a random business major finds herself joining a random music class not knowing the guy she had been fawning over attended it aswell.

Maybe after all her efforts he’ll finally notice her? After all this was the IT guy mark lee, what else could she have done but fall in love with him?

I GOT MY ION YOU @chenlesfavorite

Tutor mark x fem reader

you’ve failed yet another chemistry exam, high chances are you’re gonna have to retake the entire class next year and miss out on almost all school breaks due to studying and fixing your bad grades, and that is until your trusty friend suggests a tutor to you.

LOST IN TRANSLATION @spiderm444rk

business major! mark x fem journalism major! reader

you, as the promising journalism student of NCUT, were more than willing to join the school magazine when you got offered. to your disappointment, the only section they let you have is the anonymous confessions one - which is mostly really, really boring. i mean, who even posts any cool confessions nowadays ? especially in a damn college magazine? they only offered you the job no one else wanted.

on the other hand, mark, a business student, was never more annoyed with the choice of his major. sure, business is cool and hopefully it'll earn him money, but it's not something he could really get into. he always wanted to do music. but after long considering, he chose business instead, to make sure he gets a real job in the future. and he doubts that choice was correct more and more every day.

once the school band announces they're looking for a new guitarist, he's absolutely ready to apply until he reads the music students only part. pissed off, he starts typing a message to the ge, but it ends up going to a different number - and you finally get to help some poor random stranger who confessed with something interesting.

DREAM BOYFRIEND INCOMING @wonbin-truther

College student mark x fem reader

it wasnt your fault mark was the first profile to appear on your instagram! and it was most definitely not your fault when you told your annoying older cousins that mark lee, the captain of your unis soccer team, was your boyfriend and somehow got him invited to the next family reunion ...

DEAL OR NO DEAL ? @yutarot

Basketball player mark x Drummer reader

when you and your best friend mark realise the severity of your shared single-dom, you make a bet with each other that the first person to get in a relationship wins. what happens when the bet gets pushed a little too far? and who will be there to stop it?

OLD BLOODHOUNDS @mvrkieboo

College student mark x college student reader

You and Mark go all the way back to your childhood years, getting to know each other through your older brother. When you were both just 15 years old, you made a choice that broke your brother's heart, and you were dead to Mark Lee ever since. You never got to reconcile with him as you moved away.

Now, you meet again in your college years, and Mark is noticing there's some weird things about you. First of all, are you a sugar baby?

FRONT ROW @beomqu

Guitarist mark x college student reader

it is a habit of y/n to attend ENCT's festival every year and this year isn't any different. while enjoying the festival and waiting for her friend's favourite artist to perform they stand in front row of a band they have never seen before.

——————————————————————————

HUANG RENJUN

MUSE TO MUSE @404tytrack

Art student Renjun x fem reader

in which the art and photography departments pair up students for a collaborative project, & the art to your photography is renjun. the prompt: earth's beauty. with differing opinions on how to do the project, will you & renjun be able to work together & get a good grade?

MESSENGER @dojunie

College student Renjun x fem reader

Stranger to lover au

YOU FIND A PHONE NUMBER WRITTEN ON THE MIRROR OF THE SULIM LIBRARY'S SECOND FLOOR BATHROOM. It's scrawled messily across the glass in erasable expo marker, the handwriting underneath almost closer to hieroglyphics than lettering— and what you thought it read, was 'SEND DUCK PICS FOR A GOOD TIME.'

——————————————————————————

LEE JENO

HOT TO GO @sungiejpg

Idol jeno x aespa stylist fem reader

being aespa’s stylist is an easy and a lovely job, that’s what yn thought until she met Jeno by mistake. She now finds him scary

TWIN FLAME @justalildumpling

College student Jeno x fem reader

Stranger to lover au

chenle was convinced that his two introverted friends were destined for each other so what does he do? bribe them to text each other of course ⎯ or alternatively, when jeno started to fall for an anonymous mutual friend of chenle's

Personal fav

FIDING CINDERELLA @justalildumpling

Jeno x fem reader

it wasn’t often jeno showed emotions of love and affection, let alone kissing a stranger at a party that he doesn’t even remember?! determined to find his nameless cinderella, he began searching the campus far and wide but as hidden secrets started surfacing, he started to wonder whether the midnight spark was meant to be pursued after all.

——————————————————————————

LEE HAECHAN

AT MIDNIGHT @svnnw

Non idol Haechan x fem reader

after y/n's boyfriend broke up with her, all her friends tried to distract her by sneaking into a college party not knowing she was going to find new friendships and possibly a new relationship.

Personal fav

SHE’S THE MAN @yutarot

Gamer Haechan x gamer fem reader

after you discover your love for gaming, you soon find out that your college won’t let you in any of their e-sports teams due to your gender. but what happens when your twin brother leaves town just before he’s about to start at a new college, where not even NCU’s e-sports captain, lee haechan knows anything about him? there’s only one problem, your brother’s crazy ex is trying to hunt you down. will they all find out your true identity? and will their views on you change if they discover who you really are?

BLOOMING HEARTS @jji-lee

Flower shop owner Haechan x fem reader

Enemies to lover au

a new flower shop has opened up in front of your dorm housing and has been creating problem after problem for you. now you and shop owner, lee haechan have an ongoing feud that neither of you are willing to put to rest. as the weather cools and the flowers wither away maybe something else will begin to bloom between you two…

or alternatively, your battle against a ridiculously attractive flower shop owner (spoiler you lose)

ONE NIGHT ONLY @mrkified

College student Haechan x fem reader

three years since your falling out with lee donghyuck he has suddenly transfered to your college in hopes to make it big with his friends in his band. unfortunately for you, your unresolved friendship started causing problems between you and the people around you, especially since your best friend is his ex. so — why have you found yourself in his room with a raging hangover?

DIVINE TIMING @v1si0n

College student Haechan x fem reader

you confessed to your longtime crush, donghyuck, back in high school because you figured you guys would never see each other again. you begin to question your faith in the universe when you run into him on a rainy tuesday night, and you start seeing him every day after.

BAD IDEA RIGHT? @i-kai

Idol Haechan x idol fem reader

dating lee donghyuck was every hopeless romantic’s dream. his late night serenades, affectionate touches, secret song dedications, and endless love letters were just some of the things that you — the hopeless romantic that got to live said dream — were on the receiving end of. everything seemed perfect, right?

until you received the worst message ever in your life two weeks before you made your debut. the four words, “we need to talk” made your heart drop from what felt like a skyscraper filled with all the sanity you had left.

after that, you’d never give your ex a chance ever.. again.. right..?

DEAR MR. CUPID @justalildumpling

Childhood bsf hyuck x childhood bsf fem reader

it’s no lie that haechan only started his college matchmaking business due to his nosy personality. it’s also no lie that he was a little jealous of everyone he had helped out as he had no love life of his own. well, that was until his childhood friend moved back and mysterious love notes started appearing in his matchmaking inbox… addressed to HIM?!

ALWAYS FOREVER @jaeyunluvbot

Streamer hyuck x streamer fem reader

y/n and haechan are both well-known streamers with overlapping fandoms, what happens when they're paired up for a fortnite tournament?

THE DREAM STORE @jammingjaem

Idol Haechan x producer fem reader

rising up in the music industry as a young songwriter and producer, you wouldn’t think that you’d get hired by sm entertainment and write a song for your favorite group. although there was one downfall: you don’t think making music makes you happy anymore. but the endearing and charismatic lee haechan has swept you off of your feet. and here you’re asking yourself— what are you waiting for in life?

GG (GOOD GAME) @sunflowerhae

Fanboy Haechan x YouTuber/streamer fem reader

Famous YouTuber and Streamer y/n just moved in next door to scholastic loser haechan! No sweat for him! No big deal! Not like he has her picture above his computer! Not like he owns her merch that he stayed up all night to get! Not like he cried when she started playing his favorite video game! Not like he’s completely and utterly obsessed with her and all his friends know it!

FEIN @anglswon

Ex bf Haechan x fem reader

In which you finally find a new plug to feed your addiction but he’s annoyingly attractive.. and your ex.

WHO ARE U ? @sungiejpg

College student Haechan x fem reader

when renjun asked her to create a fake twitter acc to take revenge on haechan she did not expect to fall in love

I LOVE YOU I’M SORRY @hhie

Idol Haechan x dancer reader

2 years ago , you and your best friend fell in love with one another. Only for him to leave you and cut you off with no explanation. What if , 2 years later, you decided to take a big step into your career, thinking that it is the best decision you’ve made in your life.

Unaware of what’s going to happen … you should be fine right?

——————————————————————————

NA JAEMIN

DON’T BLAME THE LOVECATS @yojeongin

Neighbor Jaemin x neighbor reader

jaemin and yn have never had a good relationship due to their troublesome cats but it only gets worse when both felines cause chaos and wreck property forcing these enemies to spend day and night together to avoid eviction and charges for the troubles, not expecting this experience to lead them towards unexpected information and interesting feelings.

WHY ME ? @sungiejpg

Enemies to lover au

he is known as the nicest guy on the faculty who gets along with everyone, well��maybe not everyone

Personal fav

LOVE ON THE COURT @polarisjisung

Basketball player Jaemin x basketball player reader

Enemies to lover au

every college student has their struggles, but raising her younger brother has Y/N top of the list, struggling her way through college whilst balancing her academics and basketball captaincy is difficult no doubt and with Jaemin, her ex best friend and captain of the guys basketball team, and his growing one sided hatred towards her, it doesn't seem to be getting any easier

SURF’S UP @mrkified

Coworker Jaemin x fem reader

Jaemin’s crush on you wasn’t a secret — everyone seemed to know except you, who always thought of him as your nice coworker from the morning shift. As summer was about to start again, Jaemin was ready to change his relationship with you. But how could he, when you had a crush on another coworker — Sungho. Everything seemed to change when you offered Jaemin swimming lessons, giving him a chance to get closer to you.

THAT’S THAT ME ESPRESSO @sourrpatched

Coworker Jaemin x fem reader

Overworked at her understaffed job Y/N finds it hard to enjoy this summer vacation even with the school semester having ended. It doesn’t help that it seems nobody is interested in working at a little coffee shop even if it’s just for the summer. That is until fate brings Jaemin into the picture who happens to be desperate for a job and love. Let’s just hope this time around he can actually keep it.

or, the one where jaemin needs a damn job and Y/N needs a damn break.

SEX FASHION GUITAR @luvyeni

rockstar jaemin x stylist reader

l/n y/n fashion major and photographer on the side who says what she wants, na jaemin music major and lead guitar player for underground band DREAM. After yn forgets her to change her account and says something that catches the eye of jaemin she tries to ignore him — expect thanks to chenle she now works for them.

YOU CAN'T HAVE ME... UNLESS? @justalildumpling

College student Jaemin x fem reader

after getting ghosted by your crush in high school, you swore off dating at university, earning yourself the title of ‘the unattainable’. after 3 years you were convinced that there would be no way the two of you would ever cross paths ever again. well, that was until he announced that he was your boyfriend at a party.

——————————————————————————

ZHONG CHENLE

NIGHT RIDER @chenlesfavorite

motorcyclist chenle x fem reader

working night shifts 24/7 at the convenience store while also supporting your boyfriend’s obsession with watching motorcyclists race is not easy, but little did you know that one of the bikers that he loves soon gets involved with you.

FOLLOW ME NOT @lowkeychenle

idol chenle x fem reader

After Chenle "accidentally" hits the follow button on Twitter, you try to get him to unfollow you by any means necessary, even if he's keen on staying right where he's at.

ICED LOVE LETTER @jammingjaem

college student chenle x ice skater fem reader

at ncit, figure skater y/n receives daily letters signed ‘zcl’ from a secret admirer. as she gears up for a crucial showcase, the mystery of ‘zcl’ fuels her determination throughout the semester, leading to an unfolding journey of curiosity and motivation.

WE YOUNG @a3r3n

childhood friend chenle x fem reader

A sudden change happens in y/n's life when her father kicks her and her mother out after their divorce, and they're forced to leave China to go back to South Korea. Luckily her mother's best friend lives there with her son Chenle, one of y/n's childhood friends, and they're willing to host them until they find a better place to stay. But now that y/n and Chenle have both grown up, will their friendship be the same as when they were children?

SERÁ UNA NOCHE INOLVIDABLE @galacticseonghwa

biker chenle x fem reader

your friends were all you needed, they were your brothers from another mother they loved to say. but that all went to shit after ricky dragged you to one of his motorbike sprints.

who are you to say no when ricky's opponent claws his way into your inner circle and present himself as your dream man?

——————————————————————————

PARK JISUNG

LIE WITH YOU @strrykais

art student jisung x astrology student fem reader

you were nervous, and that was an understatement. you actually couldn't believe that you were able to transfer into your dream school, leaving behind your family, your home, and your loving boyfriend. when you meet your upstairs neighbors, things start to change for the better - or worse. you tried everything to keep your distance from the boy that showed her the stars in the sky have nothing to the ones in his eyes. he knows it won't last, and you know it too. personal fav

SCORE THAT GOAL @lqfiles

football player jisung x fem reader

after your college had announced that all the students were required to join a club and attend it twice a week, you were planning on either a) dropping out, or b) join the art club and pretend to be sick most of the times. that was before you discovered that park jisung is a long time member of the football team. change in plans: you LOVE football.

or in which you mindlessly join the football club in hopes of catching your crush’s attention (and to maybe secretly check him out too) who cares if you can’t even kick a ball up in the air?

GAME ON ! @hyuckswoman

astronomy major jisung x astronomy major fem reader

a story in which y/n finds herself meeting her roblox bestie in real life. turns out he’s not exactly everything she hoped for… who would’ve thought her nemesis park jisung would be user plumblossomer

DRUM ME STUPID ! @jirsungs

drummer jisung x fem reader

a story about a college student enjoying her life in school perfectly fine, until one of her friends drags the group along to watch their school's band perform. little did she know that day would be marked as the day her whole world turned upside down because of a particular, nonchalant, and difficult drummer boy. a drummer boy who spilled his entire drink on her brand new outfit at a party and never came back.

LINGER @beomgewz

college student jisung x fem reader

despite all of your efforts, you still cannot get over your 5 year crush on the shy boy from high school. to top everything off, he has a long term girlfriend of 3 years!

THE BOTLER @lowkeychenle

Your friends call you "the bolter," because every time someone gets close, you run in the opposite direction.

When you meet Jisung, things are working behind the scenes--things you can't see and don't acknowledge.

Can you overcome your metaphorical running in time for Jisung to secure your heart?

RAINBOW @a3r3n

park jisung x fem reader

Y/N has just moved to Seoul from her home country and finds herself now alone with her parents, but no friends. Fortunately, her neighbor Chenle is a guy her age, nice and fun to be with, and they eventually become friends, even attending the same International Class for Transfer Students at Nct High. But what will happen when y/n meets Chenle's friends, and one of them catches her eye? And what if things don't go as planned?

——————————————————————————

[pomefioredove]

Hello 💕 If you're still accepting headcanons requests, could you write something about a reader who seems normal and "ordinary" and even a little shy/demure but shines brilliantly on stage as if a completely different person (can be an actor, singer, idol etc.) with Rook and Vil and the Pop music club (separately)? Tysm 💓

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ the opposite of stage fright

type of post: headcanons characters: cater, kalim, rook, vil, lilia additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu

introverts are Lilia's favorite people

...to torture

when you first started attending club meetings, he assumed you were some kind of groupie

I mean, who wouldn't want to fawn over him?

but he still tried to drag you into club activities

you just... refused to play anything, wouldn't sing, wouldn't so much as speak...

but Lilia was confident he could get you to stop holding back

so, the club got clever

at their next concert, Kalim ~magically~ has a sore throat

and who else to take his place but the only other member of the club?

manipulative little fae...

and, as he thought, you had been holding back

the concert is a rousing success

...and he's never going to let you forget it

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil is like a bloodhound for talent

he can smell the potential on you from one look at your plain, slightly-disheveled self

he knows that any other student would have ignored you. but he isn't just any student

he knows you're holding out on him

and he'll crack that shell of yours no matter what it takes

that is to say,

once you've caught his eye,

you will never know peace again

...and maybe that sounds like an over exaggeration, but if you're a timid person, it's your worst nightmare

I mean dance rehearsals twice a week, vocal training, posture, projection, poise, presentation-

everything

the other Pomefiore students may give you odd looks as you walk by on their Housewarden's arm,

but he knows

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim doesn't need a big performance to know that he's already proud of you

what can I say? he's got enough enthusiastic hugs to go around

and he definitely doesn't mind that you're shy

...honestly, the thought hasn't even occurred to him

even if you don't want to party or dance or say hi to everyone in the dorm every time you come over,

he like you. he doesn't need anything else

you're already amazing to him

and ... in a way, he kind of turns out to be right?

he had always said he could see the star in you, and here you are, performing on stage like a professional!

...not that he isn't surprised

Kalim is completely blown away

it's all he can talk about for the next week, actually

(much to your embarrassment)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Rook had a feeling

...and he's also listened to you singing to yourself when you thought you were alone

I mean WHAT who said that

he definitely just had a feeling

now, seeing you on stage, he's almost brought to his knees

having watched the seed of your beauty blossom into a beautiful flower is the ultimate enrichment for him

and unlike Vil, he waited for you to blossom on your own

a hunter is nothing if not patient, after all

though, he still can't help but feel a little accomplished...

even though he didn't push you, or train you, he kept the secret of your beauty all to himself

...which is a kind of guidance

admittedly, he wouldn't have minded keeping it all to himself for a little while longer, though

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Cater always just thought of you as...

...kinda cute. right?

you were shy and quiet, always avoiding his camera, meek, the kind of person that doesn't last long at NRC

...of course, he had to take you under his wing!

sort of?

really, he just liked that you let him talk your ear off

he didn't even mind that you never let him take your picture! ...kind of

and he thought he knew you pretty well, but...

...seeing you on stage after the music club's performance...

totally wiping the floor with them...

well, well, you still find ways to surprise him

of course, though, now that he knows you're a world-class performer, he's never going to let it go

he got a lot of likes on the videos of your performance, after all

I guess he finally got that picture he wanted ;3

[jymwahuwu]

Interactive Story:

If you transformed into a bird and were discovered by Sunday

cw: birdcage description, yandere not mentioned in this chapter but possible in the future. please read with caution.

reader setting: You and Sunday have always been political enemies and rivals. You argue with each other in The Family meetings.

previous part

→ "try to become human again"

Like a rising thermometer, anger, anger, anger- the red liquid inside you is boiling, occupying, desperately searching for clues and ways to become human again, but finding none. As soon as you open your eyes, you turn into a little bird, after all. The world becomes wider in the bird's eyes. Perhaps awareness is the point? You are preoccupied with the idea of ​​"becoming human"…

But in Sunday's eyes, you are just a motionless bird, as if you are concentrating on something. There is an inexplicable cuteness. "Aren't you going to resist?" The leader of the Oak family wrapped his fingers around your wings, avoiding your wounds, and rubbed your round belly through the wings. If a bird's cheeks could heat up with shyness, you'd be hot right now. What a bastard! He can even harass a small bird! You pecked his fingers in retaliation, but your legs were off the ground the next second.

Sunday held you in his hands as he walked, observing you. You struggled to flap your wings all the way and chirped like he was committing a crime robbing birds. You'd think people would stop Sunday's "criminal" behavior, but other members of The Family were just watching quietly, smiling mysteriously, whispering to each other.

What a moral decline!

You huffed and fell silent. As if the young leader understood the meaning of your actions, a burst of laughter rose from his throat, and he rubbed your little head again. He… is he laughing at you? Lord Xipe, do you see this? He is truly insufferable!

This is not the first time you have entered Sunday's office, but every time before you ran in and quarreled with him before running out. This is the first time you notice the layout of his office. The smell of juniper berries. The cabinets are filled with heavy, thick books. And the light from the sun shining through the colored windows. He opened one of the lockers. You stared at him with your little eyes like a hawk, and you were relieved to find that the bottle of strange blue liquid was a potion.

"Be good, don't move."

Sunday skillfully stopped the bleeding on your wound and then applied the medicine. You bit your mouth, the wings of your wings swaying. Chirping in anguish. He took a new potion and sprayed it on the injured area to finish.

"…There, there. It's okay now…"

You hummed softly inwardly and looked away.

Knock- knock.

"Come in." Sunday responded with his usual elegant smile. You absentmindedly looked to see who it was, but you were so frightened that your pupils trembled.

That's your subordinate, your assistant.

"Mr. Sunday." He gasped with some embarrassment and anxiety. "They- they're missing. It's been over 20 system hours without any trace."

"No response even to private contacts?" The representative of The Family raised his eyelids at this moment, with a hint of disappointment and gloom in his tone. "I thought you were the person they trusted most."

"No - no, Mr. Sunday, you know that my allegiance is always only to you." He put his hand on his chest and bent towards him. It’s like the world has turned into an obscure suspense novel. You are stunned.

He glanced at him twice more, with unknown emotions rolling in his eyes, before giving the order. "Go search immediately and inform the Bloodhound Family that a senior member of the family is missing. We cannot let them encounter any danger."

"Yes." Silence returned to the room. You were still in shock at being betrayed by your subordinates, and you didn't even notice that Sunday had opened the cage.

You are locked up, in a birdcage.

He observes you from outside the cage. He asked. It's like asking for your opinion-

"You stay here now, okay?"

[slytherinslut0]

lorenzo berkshire • run.

summary: how do you define the man who embodies contradiction? a loaded gun wrapped in sunshine, a bloodhound cloaked in golden fur, a cheeky wink masking a deadly glare?

after some pushing, you realize you’ve always known exactly what kind of man Lorenzo Berkshire is. and perhaps, you also realize, he’s the most dangerous kind of all.

word count: 5.9k

warnings: forced proximity trope, SMUT, multiple orgasm, teasing, PIV, fingering, a chase through the forest, jealousy (slight weaponizing of mattheo), established boundaries entirely consensual, dark!enzoberkshire (meh), left the door open for a part two considering i never elaborate on where they’re going.

Lorenzo Berkshire. He is what he is, until he isn't.

Growing up, you always held your perceptions of Berkshire close. A sweet boy with a puppy dog stare, eyes like liquid amber holding the gentle warmth of a summer's dawn. Innocent lad with a cheeky smile that radiated like sunlight on a dew-kissed meadow--simply too damn nice for his own good. A walking ray of sunshine, wouldn't harm a fly with a feather.

He was what he was, until he wasn't.

You're not entirely certain when the switch flipped, when he chose to reveal his true self to the school and no longer cared to conceal it. You suspect it was around fifth year, perhaps during one of the winter months. You recall hearing it before seeing it, albeit faintly—the rush of footsteps, the sound of flesh meeting stone, the sickening thud of fist against face.

And when your eyes finally caught up to your ears, you recall yourself silently thanking the stars for the gracious gift of karma, and you'll never forget the silent exchange you shared with Berkshire as he was finally pulled, nay dragged, up and away from your cheating, scumbag ex.

He is what he is, until he isn't.

From this, the question still stood to linger: what precisely is Lorenzo Berkshire? These days, if anyone is to know, it should be you. You've spent ample time in close quarters with him, enough to dare attempt an answer. Moments etched in memory, his breath warm against your neck, his fingers tracing the contours of your skin, his lips mapping the crease of your thighs; among others. You suspect that, more than anyone else, you could provide a solid insight into the truth of this enigmatic man.

And yet, the answer eludes description.

How does one configure the blueprint of a man who embodies contradiction—a loaded gun wrapped in sunshine, a bloodhound cloaked in golden fur, a cheeky wink masking a deadly glare? He defies categorization, existing at the intersection of light and shadow, warmth and danger, innocence and intensity.

Understanding Lorenzo Berkshire, in his entirety, would mean subjecting yourself to the dualities of his nature—standing in both the path of his aggression and the shelter of his protection. It necessitates penetrating beneath his skin to fathom the intricacies of his design and ascending above to attain a panoramic view.

It entails becoming his adversary before earning the privilege of his friendship, which is precisely where you falter—because how do you become an enemy to a man who's already been silently protecting you for years? Who not only touches but worships you with reverence? Who smiles like sin as he kneels before your altar? Who, despite any provocation that may test his patience, has never and would never suggest severing ties?

Perhaps, you decide, the closest you can get is by first figuring out how to get under his skin.

——

"Enz," the word's a hiss, slipping through breathless cords. "You're moving too fast."

Enzo's response is terse, a nod accompanied by a faint smirk that dances across his lips before he continues on, unabated.

"Noted." The word carries zero sincerity.

You fight a groan, frustration simmering beneath your skin. Yes, you anticipated his lacklustre response, yet it did little to quell the mounting annoyance within you, creeping toward heights of Everest.

"Enz--where are we even going?"

It's pathetic really, your vocal inflection. A half-assed plea for a response you know you won't receive. He must detect it too, for all he offers in acknowledgment is a dry chuckle, effortlessly shoving a branch aside as he ducks beneath it. You groan, audibly this time, the chill wind cutting through you like a knife.

"Enzo," you beseech him, again, your voice a breeze lost in the vastness of the night, "please just slow your pace...talk to m-"

With clear reluctance Enzo pauses, abruptly, as though someone poured cement into his shoes. He casts a glance over his shoulder at you, his gaze piercing through the darkness like a beacon--brief and pulsing. You hardly have time to meet his eyes before he's moving again.

"We can't afford to slow down," is all he offers as he resumes his long strides. "Not now."

The urge to strangle him swells within you like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf your sanity whole. How you curse the moment you offered to accompany him on this perilous journey. How you yearn to be back in the safety of your bed, cocooned in the warmth of the castle walls, far from the chaos that ensues when you entangle yourself with Slytherin boys and their penchant for trouble. Yet here you are, a prisoner of your own folly. By this point you're certain you'll never learn.

You huff your frustration. "Gods, Enzo."

Without giving him time to deflect, you quicken your steps and reach out, grasping his wrist, instantly acknowledging the tension in his skin beneath your touch. Then, in an instant, two eyes the colour of burnt honey pivot to lock onto yours, and you see it--that ferocity. Bees buzzing with anger at the sight of their spoil. It's there. It's always there.

He is what he is--

"We've been walking for fucking ever." As you exhale, the air swallows your breath. "I'm not going to help you if you won't reason with me. If you don't tell me where the hell we're going."

"Your word was given, angel," it's short, cautiously curt, but it's enough. His tone a velvet glove masking the steel beneath. "Wasn't it?"

"My word was given, but it was also contingent on trust." You survey your surroundings. Trees, bush, and Merlin knows what else. Your shoulders slouch. "And right now, that's in short supply."

He blinks, eyes floating up and over your head, a glimpse as fleeting as twilight, before returning to meet your own. You see it again, swirling in his irises, though it's softened slightly by something you perceive as guilt. The winds howl, sucking air thin as the tension thickens, congealing in your throat.

"You know I'd never endanger you."

--until he isn't.

There's a waver in your gaze, torn between the desire to hold his sight and the temptation to descend on his lips. You don't miss the purity in his tone, a sweetness that saturates the honey in his eyes and leaves nothing but pure sugar lingering on your tongue. So saccharine it makes your teeth ache, yet you find yourself craving more.

At any other moment, you'd believe him. Now, far within the depths of the forbidden forest, the circumstances allude it.

"You doubt me," his voice cuts through the silence like a blade through silk. He couldn't miss your hesitation in a dream. You feel his skin turn to ice beneath your touch. "Since when?"

Doubting Enzo feels foreign, a betrayal of self. It's no secret that the man is troublesome, usually up to no good--but you've always known, even as his teeth graze your pulse and his hands encircle your throat, that the last thing he'd ever do is hurt you. This isn't your character. Tonight's different, and you know he senses it.

"Since you started coming out here in the middle of the night," your voice is a whisper, releasing his wrist before you could feel the inevitable leap of his pulse. "Since I had to bribe Mattheo with damn near half my worth to get him to tell me why."

One thing for certain about Lorenzo Berkshire, it's that he should come with a warning. A word of advice not to be deceived by his soft appearance. All puppy cuddles with sharply fangs oozing venom. A caution to approach with the wariness reserved for handling hazardous materials. An infomercial on how his embrace is as deceiving as it is lethal, a trap set with a smile and an eager wag of the tail.

Except, now, there was no smile. No wag. Just the trap.

"You bribed Mattheo." He repeated, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, entirely disregarding the beginning portion of your statement. "And just what exactly did you have to offer to loosen his tongue?"

A lightbulb burst to life in your brain. A waking sun. A brazen flame. The answer, so glaringly obvious in retrospect, had been within reach all along. What rouses a dormant dragon from slumber? What pokes a sleeping bear to wake? It is the threat to their belongings—the primal instinct to protect what is theirs at all costs. To perceive any potential threat and squash it at it source.

This was your moment.

You could insinuate that you tempted Mattheo with your own tongue in exchange, perhaps alongside the opportunity to mark your knees with bruises. You could say you offered your body, your dignity, anything that might garner a reaction. Of course, the truth was far more mundane; it only took a meagre 30 galleons and a pinky promise to loosen Mattheo's lips. And he didn't even tell you anything worth knowing.

But if you aimed to stoke the fires of Lorenzo Berkshire's wrath and draw his fury upon yourself, this appeared to be the sole route remaining. For throughout all the years of knowing him, the one consistent trigger that never failed to ignite his fury was any hint of a threat...against you.

But before you could comprehend the lapse in your response, Enzo stepped closer, your name hissed through clenched teeth. "What'd you give him?"

Your heart thrashed like a caged animal. The wind billowing through the depleted space between your bodies, tousling his hair in the night. Did the forest always sound like this? Didn't he just say you couldn't afford to slow down?

Your gaze meets the air over his shoulder. "You're deflecting my question."

"And you, mine," another step forward, and you take one back. You can't help but notice his fingers twitch at his sides. "Why?"

Have you added astuteness to your Enzo observation list? If not, it must be at the top. He's always been a master at unmasking your bluffs with a single, cutting retort, dripping from the teeth with condescension.

Your eye twitches. "You're just full of questions tonight, aren't you?"

He doesn't find your deflection half as amusing as you do. "Only because I'm being met with evasive answers.”

"Huh." You cock an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. "Nosey and entitled."

"Hm," he cracks a grin at that. Purely to spite you, you're sure. Purely to make your pulse skyrocket. "I prefer curious and expectant."

"Quite a pair of traits." Tension thickens in your throat. You force yourself to swallow it. "You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?"

His grin widens. "I'm certain you'll enlighten me."

You peer at him, your eyes searching for warmth in the dim of the forest but finding none, like bees seeking nectar in barren fields. You square your shoulders, trying your damnedest to ignore the distant howling sounds coming from the forests depths.

"It's a tale as old as time, Enz, I'm sure you've heard it." A branch snaps underfoot, the sound jolting you back to reality, but you swallow the instinctual yelp that threatens to escape your lips. "Curiosity killed the cat."

Before you can even process it, Enzo moves with lightning speed, seizing your wrist just as you reel from the inevitable impact of your back colliding with an ancient oak behind you. Pulling you into him, his face moves dangerously close to yours, your eyes converging, honey pouring over your skin, sucking you in like quicksand.

"You know there's another part to it, don't you?" his voice cuts through the air like a dagger, sharp and precise. He waits for you to settle before he continues. "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

That bastard.

"It doesn't matter what I gave him," you force yourself out of hesitation, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart, the tingling sting on your spine. "I'm still here with you, aren't I?"

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone.

And then he breaks it. "It matters to me."

"Why?" you press, your curiosity piqued by his insistence. You're trying to drag this on for as long as you can but his intensity has you stumbling. Words flow like water. "Who cares, really? I mean-"

"Because," he slices your sentence in two. The latter dying from lack of purpose.

Your lips thin to a pursed line. You blink up at him through lidded eyes, mouth opening to speak but nothing comes out as he leans in closer, so close you can practically taste his breath. He'd never been possessive before, not like this. But perhaps you never gave him a reason to be. You've always been his, unquestioned, unsanctioned. Despite the lack of title. You know he’s only acting this way because you’re deflecting. Your heart barrels into your throat, desperate to claw its way out.

"Because I said so," he continues, his grip on your wrist tightening with each passing moment, his nails leaving indentations in the bark beside your head. "Because, whatever dept you owe him, I'll help you absolve it. Professionally."

A sickening grin creeps across your lips, and his eyes are glued to it. You're skinned raw under his gaze, his pupils so piercing you feel them in the marrow of your bones. You observe the subtle flicker of his tongue, moistening his lips as he gleams down at you--your saviour from above, your dormant dragon, your slumbering bear.

He is what he is.

"I don't need your saving, Enzo," your voice is a breath, as soft as a phoenix feather. As flaming as one too. "I need your honesty."

"My honesty." He repeats as he leans in closer, his hand shifting to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You shudder under his possession, his lips grazing against your jaw like fire and ice, simultaneously scorching and soothing. "I'll give you my honesty, angel."

You sigh as you hear the unctuous in that tone. You know he isn't going to give you what you're asking for, but he'll give you enough to quench your thirst. Classic fucking Berkshire. He releases his grip on your wrist, replacing it with a firm hold on your hip, anchoring you to reality.

"My honesty is I knew you'd try to come tonight, and I only let you because at least here, at my side, I can protect you." Warm lips brush feather-light against your lobe. "My honesty, is if Riddle puts a fucking hand on you, we're going to have a problem."

As the last few words spill from his lips, you feel as though you've got a sugar high, his words oozing with saccharine sweetness, like indulging in a bowl of chocolates or sipping from a concentrated cauldron of peach juice. They have a cloying effect, threatening to rot your teeth and stain your tongue. Just like his eyes.

And it's right then, that you come to a startling realization. You've always known exactly what kind of man Lorenzo Berkshire is. He's not one to overwhelm with his presence, but rather a relentless force, a perpetual energy that never fades. A silent protector, yet also a silent aggressor. He's a master of masking his anger, of controlling it with a precision that borders on chilling, only bringing it out to protect what's his.

Perhaps, you realize, he's the most dangerous kind of man of all.

"Always acting as my shield," you can barely get the words out, your voice soft and reverent, as though speaking in prayer. "My silent knight."

"Mm." Enzo's lips curve into a sardonic smile against your temple. "Only fitting for an angel."

His hands roam up your hips with a possessive urgency, pulling you closer to him until there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. His face buries into your hair, his breath stirring the strands as he holds you close, fingers digging into your waist.

"I know you didn't offer him what's mine," it's not a question, but a statement of absolute conviction, spoken with the confidence of a seer who reads the future unraveling before them. "I know I fuck you too good for that."

"You're right, Enz," you concede, lids fluttering shut, folding faster than a lawn chair in tornado season. How could you not, when he's exerting this kind of influence over you? "I didn't."

You still had no idea why the two of you were out here. And at this point, it was hardly an afterthought.

"Then what's your play here, angel," he growls through a groan, a ferocious intensity ignited in the way he's squeezing you, pressing your hips back against the tree. "What the fuck are you trying to do to me."

Your lips part, poised to release the words swirling within your mind, when a sound pricks your ears. Not a sound of your own making. Something distant, yet distinct.

In an instant, your eyes snap open, but the darkness shrouds any clear view, offering only faint glimpses of looming branches and rustling leaves. Enzo remains oblivious, seemingly consumed by the frustrated desire you've so eagerly drawn from him.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, a futile attempt to push him back. "Enzo—"

"Are you trying to test me, angel?" Deep as the forest depths. As dark as them, too. His hands leave your hips and find your wrists, pinning them back against the bark above your head. "Make me jealous, yeah?"

There's another sound, now, drawing closer. You blink up at the complicated man before you, fluttering eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. Bark burns into your skin as his intensity increases, body sweating under the heat of his eyes as they drip down at you, fever rising by the second— fear and arousal mingling as one.

"Enz-" you hardly have time to breathe before his lips are on your neck, and he's sucking. Hard. "Fuck."

Adrenaline surges you, rushing your lungs with rapid breath, sparks of lust snapping over your skin. Enzo has vanished, replaced by a storm cloud brewing with ominous intent, his once collected demeanour now a loaded gun with a cocked trigger. He was primed to annihilate, eager to erupt. You cursed yourself for pushing him to this brink, at this precise moment, as an impending threat loomed closer with unmistakable certainty.

A gasp escaped your lips as Enzo's teeth sank into your neck, branding you with purple pleasured marks of his possession.

"Enzo, damn it-" your voice is ragged, his lips trailing to the other side of your throat, the hold on your wrist growing tighter. You had to warn him. You didn't want him to stop. Your thoughts jumbled, your brain grappling with what to articulate first, settling on the throbbing pain in your wrists. "Gentle—"

Enzo groans against your neck, rolling his hips into you, fucking fire over every available expanse of flesh.

"Gentle." His breath tickles your neck, your thighs trembling, seeking friction as your hips move in rhythm with his. "I'll fuck you right here against this tree and the last fucking thing I'll be is gentle." A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He senses it--a grin crawling across his lips in response. "That's what you wanted after all, isn't it angel?"

Nothing could stop the moan from fleeing your lips as he smirks against your pulse. Not even Merlin himself. Gripping the back of your head, Enzo crashes his lips to yours--hurried and unrelenting, the plush entirety soft and sweet and insatiable against your own. As quick as a lightening strike, you're drowning in his sugar, another realization settling on you like an encroaching dawn just how much of a taste you've developed for it. For him.

Then, he pulls away, breathing a command against your lips. "Run."

Your gut bottoms out--fear instantly drawn to the forefront of your ignorantly blissed brain--and before you can catch your breath or summon your stamina or attempt to direct some blood flow from your cunt back up to your head he's already propelling you forward, dragging you through the forest with a grip that could crush steel. Roots and branches blur past, the forest a chaotic whirlwind of greens and browns below your feet.

And it feels like hours, perhaps even years of running and dodging before Enzo finally slows his pace. You're both panting, gasping, chests heaving, but his urgency perseveres, gaze scanning the clearing as if in search of something, and then you see it, too—an old greenhouse tucked behind a few large trees, clearly abandoned.

Before you can process it, he's already on the move again, dragging you toward it.

He whips open the door and practically hurls you inside—the aged wood creaking on rusty hinges as it swings wide. His eyes, sharp as flint, dart back to survey the clearing you just fled from, and whatever he sees there seems to set his nerves on edge because before you can even blink he's striding toward you, his grip resuming its vice around your wrist as he pulls you toward a small supply closet.

You feel like a ragdoll. It's starting to get real fucking old. "Enzo-"

The words dissolve on your tongue when in an instant you find yourself inside the minuscule expanse of the closet, shelves stacked with gardening supplies, Enzo's breath pouring over the back of your neck, his body so fucking close to yours you can't take a breath without touching him. Reaching over you, he shuts the door and locks the two of you inside, engulfing you in a darkness so thick you can almost feel it clinging to your skin.

Then, there's silence, and suddenly you're aware of every inch of your existence, from the breath leaving your lungs to the sweat crawling behind your knees. Enzo shifts, as if uncomfortable, his crotch pressed firm against your ass and you can almost taste the intensity radiating from his eyes as his hands grip your waist, pulling you back against him with a force that makes breathing normally a distant dream.

"Poachers." He mutters against your neck.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you process his words, the gravity of the situation settling over you like a suffocating blanket. Poachers. You try to steady your breathing, but it's like trying to contain a storm within a teacup.

Your throats arid. "What do we do?"

You shift to adjust your stance, the sensation of Enzo's erratic exhales against your neck making your entire body tingle--and at your movements, he huffs, his grip on your waist tightening, his fingers pressing into your skin with an urgency that matches the pounding of your heart.

"We wait." He murmurs, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot. "Stop moving."

You need to shut up, but you can't. "And if they come in here? If they find u-"

Enzo's hand clamps over your mouth, silencing your words with a firm yet gentle grip, embodying the duality of his character. Strong yet soft. Cold yet warm. Your pulse quickens, your body reacting instinctively to his touch. Only Lorenzo Berkshire could evoke such contradictory sensations, stirring arousal in the face of danger.

"Shh," he cooes against your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Trust me."

Lungs hitching, you nod, though the gesture is barely perceptible beneath his palm. He doesn't free your mouth, however, instead choosing to tease your earlobe with his teeth, his free hand on your abdomen, holding you tight against him.

"You can do that, right, angel?" his tone as soft as feathers, a gentle coaxing that wraps around you like a warm blanket. "You trust me."

There's that inflection again. As right as rain. You know he's fully fucking aware that the way he's speaking to you is calming you down, just as he knows you trust him implicitly. You wouldn't have been out here in the first place if you didn't.

And just as you go to nod, to give him the best answer you can provide to his non-question, his lips descend, claiming your pulse, his grip over your mouth intensifying as he attacks it--slow and silent and determined, your back arching and your lids fluttering in response.

"Mhm, you know I've got you," his free hand trails up your stomach, slowing just as his thumb reaches the underwire of your bra. "Always have."

In defiance of your good judgment, you clench, a shiver of longing fluttering over you. You groan against his hand, his growing desire pushing against your ass as evident and desperate as his movements. Darkness cloaks the closet, stealing your sense of sight yet all the others are overwhelmed by him. He's all-consuming, everywhere, everything—

"But this," five poised fingers start to glide down your stomach, his lips shifting back to your ear. "Is what you get for testing me."

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid over your hips, thighs, like he hasn't done this before, like it's care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction, and he tsks you, shaking his head.

"You wanted gentle, didn't you, angel?" The tease in his tone makes you want to choke him. Sort of makes you want him to choke you, too. "Consider this my version of it. Be good."

His fingers slither under the band of your leggings, a slow, torturous crawl toward the epicenter of your longing. Your hands grasp for purchase in the darkness, but there's nothing substantial to hold onto, just like the ephemeral sensation of his touch. He's both intimidating and unnervingly gentle, leading you to the brink of ruin with calculated precision.

You whimper under his palm, hips jerking toward his touch, desperate for more, but it only causes him to go slower. He coos another command to be quiet, a teasing taunt dripping with wicked delight, and you can practically feel the satisfaction pouring from his lips. He's laser-focused on unraveling you, on making you utterly undone before giving you what you crave most.

When his index finger grazes over your clit, you audibly groan, head falling back against his shoulder.

"You can't rush penance, angel," his mouth opens in a smile against your ear, though it feels more like barred teeth. That smile is as much deadly as it is pretty. "Let it simmer."

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, trembling with the intensity of his touch. You're swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realize, and feel like you're choking when he starts to move lower, two fingers shifting your panties to the side and slicking through your folds.

"So wet." He's barely audible now, even as he's breathing the words into your eardrums. "Mm, so fucking wet."

Before you can prepare for it, those same two fingers inch inside you, and curl. Your eyes roll, his palm pulling your head back tight against his shoulder as he slowly finger fucks deep into you--in and out in perfect rhythm, the sloppy sounds emanating from your cunt filling the dark, steaming space and making your skin prickle with hot shame—you're fucking dripping for him.

He growls, low in his chest, and instinctively your legs spread wider, inviting him deeper, inviting him to inebriate you further. You're caught in the perfect balance of his contradiction, teetering on the edge between disciple and devil. He worships you in one breath and ruins you in the next. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Mine." Is all he mutters, before there's a sound outside the door, and you both freeze.

Footsteps.

Almost immediately, you're ripped from the derogatory haze you'd just found yourself in—your body stiffens, tension coiling through your limbs like icy tendrils, turning your blood to frost. Enzo's fingers slow, though they remain inside you, adjusting ever-so-slightly to avoid the slick sounds your cunt makes every time he moves. You feel his teeth tease your ear, his silent way of telling you to calm down. That he's got you.

The footsteps draw closer, and there's no mistaking it—someone, most definitely multiple someone's, are lurking just outside the door—in search, of you.

But before you can even entertain the thought, before it has a chance to sink in and settle in the recesses of your mind, Enzo crooks his fingers against a spot that sends sparks flying behind your eyelids, his thumb applying just enough pressure to your clit to send you hurtling into a realm of sensation he introduces you to regularly, but not one you were prepared to face in this moment, under these circumstances.

You grit your teeth, the urge to scream clawing at the back of your throat like a caged animal desperate for freedom. Enzo is ruthless, merciless, driving you to the very edge and daring you to jump--driving you to the edge of sanity and forcing you to suppress the tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you whole.

The footsteps grow louder, veer closer, before they slow. Before they stop.

It's cataclysmic, catastrophic—a blaze raging in an open battlefield, a hellfire during open warfare. You hardly have a second to comprehend the sheer insanity of what you're engaged in before Enzo's pace intensifies and he yanks your head back against his shoulder with even more force, to the point you're certain the back of your skull will leave an indent on his skin.

His lips brush against your ear, practically daring you to cum— daring you to keep resisting.

"It's clear," a voice rings out, neither yours nor Enzo's. Footsteps pick back up and draw further away. "Let's move out."

And then, it's over. A weight lifts off your shoulders, a tidal wave crashing over you. Your body erupts, convulses, squeezing around Enzo's fingers and trembling against him as your climax charges through you like a raging bull, unstoppable and overwhelming.

You scream behind his palm, knees threatening to give out from under you, the gates of heaven themselves coming into clear fucking view.

"Good girl." He husks in your ear, working you through your high, his chest rising and falling against your back, the hunger evident in his words. "My little angel was so fucking good...I think she deserves a reward, doesn't she?"

You nod, the fervent desire for more evident in the desperate plea that crawls past your lips, only to be muffled by his palm. Enzo's groan reverberates against your ear, his erection painfully hard against your ass. With a swift motion, he withdraws his hand from your lips, unlocking the door and shoving it open, propelling you forward with a commanding grip on your hips.

He wastes no time in pushing you up against an old wooden table, the rough surface biting into your skin as he yanks your leggings down your thighs. His hand finds its way into your hair, gripping a fistful and pulling your head back toward his mouth, his lips hungry and insistent against your own. Meanwhile, his free hand works quickly to undo his belt, his urgency evident as he prepares to take what he desires.

"Did you like that, angel?" He breathes against your panting mouth, his eyes barely open, his belt hitting the ground at his feet. "You like what I fucking did to you?"

"Yes—" you're choked by a gasp as he slicks his length between your thighs. "Gods-fuck, yes!"

"Yeah, you did. Fuck, I should have edged you, I shouldn't have let you cum," his voice is wanton, despite himself. You're not even sure if he knows what he's saying. "But I can't fucking help myself. I fucking love ruining you."

He positions himself at your entrance, the tension in the air thick as molasses. With a single swift motion, he plunges into you, a symphony of pleasure and pain ripping through you as he fills you completely in one long, deep thrust. You gasp, your nails digging into the wooden surface beneath you as his grip in your hair tightens, the other latched onto your hip to hold you steady.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, breath hot on your jawline. His hand shifts to grasp your jaw, pulling your lips back to his. "Always so fucking tight for me."

You can only whimper in response, his pace ruthless, and unhinged and unpredictable as always. His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There's a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear.

He is what he is, until he isn't. Until he's someone else completely.

You're clutching at the desk and screaming into his mouth as his fingers find your clit again and amidst the onslaught you're hit by the realization that this man is everything—simultaneously overwhelming and subtle, too much yet not enough. He's a feeling that engulfs you, swallowing you whole until it fills your lungs, leaving you choking on the intensity of it all. Your lips move against his in perfect synchrony, your eyelashes fluttering with each powerful smack of his hips as he drives himself deep inside you, over and over and over again.

"Enz—" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it.

He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There's a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray strands pulled across gleaming honeyed eyes.

"Cum," you swear it's a plea. You hear the desperation as much as you feel it. "Cum for me."

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddled for him, broken by his touch, stripped of all structure just to be held up by his own. The sight and feel of you erupting sends him over the edge, his groan rumbling against your temple.

"Fucking hell—" his hips stutter, his breath does too, his lashes fanning as he pours his cum deep inside you. "Fuck."

You sink against him as he finally comes to a slow, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from the desk and running up through your hair, pushing sticky strands back from your forehead. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first, it takes forever to recover from it, and before you can even register the movements Enzo has already pulled out, done up his pants and is helping you pull yours back up your still-trembling thighs.

As you turn to face him, he pulls you in. You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

When he pulls back, you let the first thing in your mind slip past your teeth. "You're unbelievable, Enzo."

He smirks, wetting his lips before leaning down and planting a small peck on the top of your head. "I'm yours, angel."

Lorenzo Berkshire is what he is, and what he is, is yours.

[dandylovesturtles]

I lied

this fic is going to have at least four parts. oops.

Sorry this took longer than I intended! I started working on it literally the next day after the first part went up and banged out 3K words, then wrote another 1.5K over the next couple days, ended up hating it, deleted the whole thing and started over. I'm much happier with this version.

I had intended for this part to go deeper into the immediate aftermath buuuut this part ended up so long I decided to make that the next part!

And I got enabled on discord to be mean with the cliffhanger, so... sorry <3

CW: minor violence, angst, nobody having a good time, Bishop being Bishop

btw this is Part 2 of the Room Fic that doesn't have a title yet. If you're confused, start here!

-----

They're somewhere in Nebraska, and Raph's never seen so many stars before.

He thought he had seen stars, when they went camping in the woods that time with Todd. Now, sitting on the side of the road by the Turtle Tank, he's realizing that he didn't really see them.

He wishes he could enjoy it, but he can't. Not really. Because nine days ago, Leo stormed out of the lair and never came home.

(Raph knows the thing he'll always blame himself for is picking the fight in the first place.)

It took them several days to learn what had happened to him. Even more days to learn where he was taken. And now they're stuck on the side of the road in Nebraska while Donnie fixes a flat.

Mikey's dozing against his shoulder. He hasn't been getting enough sleep, not that any of them have. April's handing Donnie tools and keeping him company while he changes the tire. Draxum and Splinter are inside the tank, on the lookout for cops with the help of Donnie's police scanners.

It's cool since the sun went down. Quiet. Crickets are out and playing their songs. Raph's seen a few deer, and an owl. The stars are twinkling overhead, and it's calm, peaceful.

The weight on his shoulder is suddenly gone; Raph looks down to find Mikey sitting up straight, wide awake and head cocked to the side like a bloodhound who just caught a scent.

He opens his mouth to ask - and then he feels it too.

It's a cacophony of emotions, strong and hot and mixing together until they're overwhelming. Fear, pain, exhaustion, loneliness, and a blinding fury like even Raph has never felt before. Hatred and bile and the desire to attack, to harm, to destroy.

And underneath it all, a presence as familiar to him as his own, one that's been by his side since almost the day he was hatched. One that is fragile and desperate and screaming out for help.

Leo.

Raph stands up - next to him, Mikey is already on his feet. Raph reaches out his hand, his ninpo flaring to life, straining out into the open air like if he just stretches far enough, he can pluck Leo out of the hell he's trapped in and bring him home.

But he can't reach far enough, because the EPF took him all the way to Colorado. And they're still on the side of the road in Nebraska.

As quickly as it came, the presence is dying away again. It shrinks smaller and smaller and then fizzles out. Raph releases his breath, letting his ninpo fall away, his fingers still grasping open air.

A sniffle. Raph looks down and finds Mikey sobbing. He scoops his little brother into his arms, and Mikey throws himself into Raph's chest, heaving breaths shaking his tiny frame.

"Leo," he whimpers. All Raph can do is pat his shell.

He turns to take stock of Donnie next, carrying Mikey over. His other little brother has tears trickling down his face, too, more subdued but still visible. He's holding his wrench in a vice grip, and for once he doesn't utter a single protest when Raph reaches out and tucks him in under his free arm.

"...What just happened?" asks April, hesitant. Raph wishes he knew how to explain.

"It was Leo!" Mikey does it for him. "He... he's reaching for us."

"What!? Like, mind meld or something!?"

"No," answers Raph. "I don't really know what that was... but it was definitely Leo."

"So..." April pauses, eyes searching each of their faces. "Is he... okay?"

None of them know what to say, but she gets it anyway.

"...I'm going to destroy the EPF," says Donnie, voice dark and cold. "I'm going to raze it to the ground. There will be nothing left."

Raph squeezes his shoulders, pulling him closer.

He doesn't know what to do other than agree.

-----

"This is a good thing," says Draxum. "That means he's still alive."

"But they're hurting him!" Mikey argues. He's halfway in Draxum's lap, arms wrapped around Draxum's middle. Donnie sits on one of the bench seats, curled tight around his own legs, while Splinter strokes his head. Raph sits on the bench seat across from them, April leaning against his side.

"I told you what the EPF is capable of," Draxum reminds them. "This is not a surprise."

"Read the room, Barry," says April.

Splinter's look is increasingly far away, his touch on Donnie's head automatic and absentminded. He's able to stay in the room with them when there's something to do, but now the fear and depression are threatening to take him away again. For the hundredth time since this nightmare began, Raph feels the hopelessness set in.

Draxum sucks, but he's right, echoes the voice in his head that sounds too much like Leo. The plan hasn't changed. Now get moving before you tire out.

"Drax is right that Leo's alive," Raph echoes. "So we need to get a move on. Donnie, how's the tank?"

Donnie uncurls, coaxed by the request to talk about his baby. "The spare's on, and I did some checks on the engine and interior systems. We're ready to go."

"Alright." Raph stands up, rolling his shoulders. "It's Raph's turn to drive. Everyone buckle up."

The mood in the tank shifts after that; they have a direction, and a plan. Leo is hurt, but he's still alive, and nothing has changed.

Donnie and April sit together in the front seats. Mikey passes around snacks and drinks from their cooler, then snuggles in between their dad and Draxum. Draxum says something negative about the snack food, which pulls Splinter out of his trance and starts up some heated bickering between them. Even more of the tension leaks out of the cab.

Raph puts the tank in drive and pulls back onto the quiet highway, driving west again. At their back, the sun starts to rise.

-----

It's late in the day when they reach Colorado Springs.

Donnie was able to pin the EPF base's location down to the mountains surrounding the town, but he couldn't find its exact location. Whatever equipment they have, it's completely scrambled the subcutaneous tracker Donnie put on Leo (and boy, was that a stir when Donnie revealed he'd put trackers on all of them). It had taken a combination of Donnie's hacking and April's investigative skills to get this far.

"It makes sense," says April as they pull the tank into a campsite outside the city limits. "There's, what, three bases here? Where better to hide a secret branch of the military than with the military?"

There's snow on the ground outside, even though it's early May. Even so, the temperature was pretty mild while the sun was up. "It's the proximity to the mountains," Donnie explains when Raph mentions it, but the rest of the explanation blurs together. He's too tired to keep up with Donnie's science facts, but infodumping calms his brother down, so he lets him do it and nods along.

They eat a proper meal that Mikey cooks for them on one of the campsite grills, then settle in to nap until the sun goes down. Raph isn't sleeping, and he can tell from all the shifting around that Mikey and Donnie aren't, either. They're too close to Leo now to rest.

But you gotta catch some Zs before you go storming into enemy territory, the Leo in his head reminds him.

Raph hates every second you're in there, he thinks. But it won't be long now. Big bro's comin'.

He wishes the Leo in his head would say that he believes that. But all Raph can remember are the words they said during the fight, and he never quite goes to sleep.

-----

They break into pairs for their search. Raph goes with April, Mikey with Splinter, and Donnie stays with Draxum at the tank. Donnie uses his tech to try and narrow down the location of the base, while the other two teams go in opposite directions and start scouting the area on foot.

It takes a long time for them to learn anything, and as the sun comes up again, Raph starts to worry that they're going to have to leave Leo trapped for another full day.

But then he and April finally get a lead. They send the info to Donnie, and it helps narrow down his search.

Just after dawn, they reconvene at the tank, gathered around satellite images and drone shots of a nondescript military compound several miles outside the city.

"There it is," says Donnie with finality. "That's where they're keeping Leo."

"Then what are waiting for?" asks Mikey.

Wait for dark, says the Leo in Raph's head.

And that advice makes sense. There will be fewer employees at night. The dark provides natural cover. It's sane. It's smart.

Raph ignores it entirely.

He's not leaving his little brother with those people for one second longer. Not after what he felt, sitting on the side of the road in Nebraska.

"We're not waiting for anything," he says. "Let's move out."

From the looks on their faces, they all agree.

------

The site looks as generic as possible. There's a high electric fence circling the whole thing, with a basic "No Trespassing - Government Property" sign. A simple guard stand sits at the drive-in gate. The buildings visible beyond are drab and featureless.

The government stopped publicly funding the EPF in the nineties, Draxum had told them. But the organization had never truly gone away; it was just funded through underground means now. Miscellaneous defense funding. Anonymous donations. Private benefactors.

Originally it had been founded to defend Earth against aliens. But when no alien threat appeared, they moved on to a new mission: defending the United States against yokai.

"Even though we were here first," Draxum had said testily. "Typical Americans."

Raph hadn't liked anything Draxum had to tell them about the EPF. That they weren't bound by any of the laws the rest of the military was. That the yokai they had managed to capture were never seen again. That Draxum had had a very brief run-in with them once, decades ago, and he doubted they had ever forgotten it.

Really, though, all he'd needed to know was that they had his brother.

It's the middle of the morning, so their stealth options are limited. Still, they aren't ninja for nothing; they use the forest and the snowy terrain to their advantage and sneak their way into the compound. Raph has to admit, he was a little worried about Draxum on the trip over, but the old goat does a pretty good job keeping up.

It takes them a bit of time to work out which building to enter. They rule out a mess hall, a medical ward, the barracks, and some kind of training center first. Then, toward the furthest reaches of the compound, they find a building that looks particularly suspicious, with a guard gate on the path leading to it and more armed guards on the roof.

"That has to be it," says Raph. No one disagrees.

They use a passing supply truck to slip past the guard gate, then sneak around the back and use a fire ladder to get to the roof. They dispatch the guards on top quickly and easily, then find a ventilation shaft leading inside. Mikey, Donnie, April, and Splinter fit easily enough, but Raph and Draxum are too big to wiggle through.

"Find out where we're going. Radio us as soon as you find something," Raph says. Then he gives Mikey, April, and Donnie's shoulders each a squeeze in turn. "And be careful."

"Take care of Red," their dad says to Draxum just before he follows the others inside.

"He's safe with me," Draxum promises.

"You're safe with Raph," Raph feels the need to say. Splinter chuckles before disappearing into the shaft after his siblings.

Waiting outside becomes nerve-wracking quickly. Raph starts to pace the length of the roof, back and forth, glancing at the unconscious guards from time to time to make sure they're still unconscious.

"You're going to wear a rut on the roof," Draxum admonishes him. Raph keeps going anyway.

-----

Finally, after what feels like ages but is only about ten minutes, his radio crackles. Raph freezes, pulling his wrist close, where Donnie's tech is hidden under his wraps.

"Hey." It's April's voice. She sounds out of breath, but not distressed. "Come to the back of the building. Should be a door."

"On our way," says Raph, waving at Draxum to follow before dropping off the roof.

The door is easy enough to find, the snow around it trampled down. He gives the metal a rap with his knuckles when he gets there, and the door swings open, April grinning, her bat perched against her shoulder. Behind her is another unconscious guard.

"Nice, April," says Raph, hustling inside. He kicks the last of the snow off his feet once he's on the cold linoleum floor, Draxum following suit. April lets the door swing shut again. "Where's everyone else?"

"We found some kinda security room. Leo's gear was in there." She pushes by and starts to lead them down the hall, voice low, eyes watching for anyone rounding the corner. "Donnie's poking through the camera footage. Didn't look like anyone much was in this hall, so I came to get you."

"And Leonardo?" asks Draxum.

April gives a shake of her head. "Haven't found him yet, but he's gotta be here. There's not much more of the building to search, so we're close."

Raph peeks in open doors and through windows as they walk, taking in the space. It looks like an ordinary office building inside; nothing nefarious, except for the fact that the people working here are kidnapping scum who have done something so terrible to his little brother it made him scream out in anguish and fury. But if he hadn't known that coming in, he wouldn't have expected anything. It all looks very...

Raph comes to a sudden stop. Through the sliver of window in a door, he sees the first occupied room since he's entered the building. Only one person is inside, wearing a white lab coat and tapping away at a computer.

But what's more interesting is the door on the other side of the room: solid metal with no window, and a sign that reads "Inmate Observation - Authorized Access Only".

Raph grabs April by the shoulder before she can get too far ahead, pointing at the window. "Do you know what's in there?"

She turns back and takes a peek. "...No. I don't think we went through there yet."

So they haven't ruled this part of the building out yet. And it's the only one so far with anyone inside.

Inmate Observation.

"Raph, wait, I think we should-" April starts, but Raph doesn't listen. Raph can't stop himself.

His little brother is in here. He knows he is. The one who was taken from them. The one who cried out to them in fear, begging to be saved.

He's not making Leo wait a moment longer.

Raph throws open the door and marches inside.

"...Okay," April says behind him. "I guess we're doing it this way.

-----

The scientist or whoever they are tries to radio for help. Raph picks the radio up and crushes it in his hand. They turn and run, and that takes care of that.

April calls the others on her radio. Raph doesn't listen to the conversation. His eyes are locked on the door.

Inmate Observation.

He reaches out and throws the door back with a bang.

He's ready for the gunshots before they come, and his ninpo is already active, forming a protective bubble around himself and shielding Draxum and April. He's expecting bullets, but instead it's darts; they embed themselves harmlessly in the arms of his projection. Raph waits until the volley stops, then drops the projection, and the darts fall harmlessly to the floor.

He steps into the room and clocks one of the guards on the head before they can reload, watching as they fall to the ground. April wallops the other one, then kicks their fallen gun under a desk. She brandishes her bat at the other occupants of the room: two more scientists in lab coats, and one steely faced man in a suit.

The scientists seem intimidated. The suited man does not.

"Ah," he says. "So you've finally made it here, Draxum."

"Bishop." Draxum sounds equally unimpressed. "I thought you died in the nineties."

"So does most of the world. It's convenient for my work."

"You guys know each other?" April asks, looking between them.

"We know of each other." Draxum sneers. "If my plans had gone as I intended, he would truly be dead by now."

Raph narrows his eyes at the man. "Are you the one who's been keeping my brother here?"

To his credit, Bishop still looks unphased, even though Raph is tall enough to hulk over him. "I am the director of this facility."

It's enough of a yes.

Raph rushes Bishop, slamming him into the wall behind his back. Raph keeps him pinned, one hand on his neck, the other arm pressed against his chest, and Raph presses until he feels something start to crack.

Bishop hisses but does not cry out.

"Where are you keeping him?" Raph demands.

"He's in there," says Bishop, wheezing only slightly from the constriction on his lungs, his voice firm otherwise.

Raph tosses a look where Bishop indicates, seeing a large window. It's looking into a seemingly empty room; white walls and no furniture other than a toilet in the corner.

"Raph don't see him," he growls.

"He hides under the window." Bishop's eyes flicker to one of the scientists. "Pointless, really," he says, giving the man in the lab coat a nod. "Show them."

The scientist looks uneasy, but he turns and clicks a few buttons on a desktop. A screen pops up, but it doesn't show anything other than static.

"...Something is wrong with our camera signals, sir," the scientist reports.

"Ah." Bishop's eyes glint, and then flick back to Raph's face. "So there are more of you."

Raph doesn't answer that. He gives Bishop a rough shake. "What have you done to him?"

"Your brother?" Bishop clarifies. "Nothing."

Another shake. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying." Bishop's eyes are steely, even as his wheezing picks up the more Raph leans into his chest. "Other than as was necessary to move him, we have not touched him."

Raph doesn't move an inch. "I don't believe that."

"Then see for yourself." Bishop looks at the other scientist now, giving a small nod of his head. "Dr. Keller, open the door for this brute so he'll stop assaulting me."

Raph scowls, staying exactly where he is while the other scientist scurries to the metal door by the window and inputs a code into a keypad. There's a beep, and a clipped, artificial voice says, "Inmates clear the door. Security personnel entering. Stay still and you will not be harmed."

Finally, Raph lets Bishop go, and approaches the door.

-----

When Raph imagined one of them getting kidnapped by a shady, quasi-governmental agency intent on imprisoning mutants, he always pictured something... different.

He thought they would be in cages, not tall enough to stand in. That they would be fed from dog bowls or water drippers. That handlers would patrol the room with cattle prods, ready to shock anyone who stepped out of line.

But there is no cage, and no cattle prods. Leo is just in a room.

The first thing Raph notices about the room is the cold. The rest of the building is hardly stifling, but even then, the blast of air that comes through the open door feels like Raph is stepping into a freezer.

As he saw from outside, there's no furniture. Or he doesn't think there is, until he looks down, under the window, and finds a cot.

And what's on the cot makes his heart stop.

Raph can barely remember the last time he saw Leo pull himself fully into his shell for anything other than shell bowling. He complained that it was too small, that the hot and cramped space made him feel claustrophobic.

Now he's completely pulled inside, still and silent in a way Leo should never be.

For an eternity, Raph thinks he's too late. They came all the way here only to save Leo's corpse.

"Leo...?"

He kneels by the cot, reaching out and putting a hand on Leo's shell. He's cold to the touch, and it unsettles Raph even further. He shouldn't be this cold.

Raph keeps his hand where it is and stays very still and very quiet. And he waits.

And then he hears it, so faint he almost misses it: a terrified, whimpering chirp.

Leo is alive.

Raph feels tears spring to his eyes. He puts his other hand on Leo's shell, rubbing in big, soothing motions.

"Leo! Leo, it's me! We're here, we're getting you out! It's all going to be okay, just trust Big Raphie, alright?"

So saying, Raph straightens back up, and grabs Leo's shell in his hands to carry him out, to take his little brother home.

A hand shoots out of the shell, stick thin. Though it's clearly weak, it grabs on to Raph's arm with a desperate ferocity, clawing at the skin there.

Raph freezes, not putting Leo down but not lifting him any further, either. He peers into the gap in Leo's shell, and sees eyes peering back at him, glassy and wide and full of terror. A cornered animal fighting for his life.

Raph takes a deep breath. He summons all the love he has for Leo, all the relief he feels at finding him alive, all the happiness he has from having his little brother in his arms again, and he pours it into a genuine smile, no matter the danger outside.

"Hey, Leo," he says, voice soft. "It's just me. Raph came to get ya. Everything's okay now."

A second passes, then five, then twenty. April starts to come in, but Raph waves a finger at her to tell her to go back before she startles Leo. He keeps the smile on his face, his eyes locked on Leo's, his hold secure but non-threatening.

And then, slowly, Leo pokes his head out.

"Raph?" he asks, in a voice that is exhausted and hoarse and warbling and absolutely beautiful.

"Yeah," says Raph, blinking tears back. "Hey, buddy."

Steadily, Leo unfurls the rest of himself, one limb emerging at a time. He looks terrible. His cheeks are sunken and gaunt, his skin is an unhealthy color, his eyes are ringed by dark black circles showing off how little he's slept.

Raph is so happy to see him. He so wishes this wasn't the state he was finding Leo in. If he could turn back time and make it so Leo never suffered, he would in a heartbeat. But he's so happy to have Leo back that the tears keep flowing.

The grip Leo has on his arm shifts. No longer trying to claw himself free, but grabbing on, holding still, with all the same desperation as before. His eyes search Raph's face, over and over until it seems he's finally satisfied.

"Raph," he repeats, and it's not a question this time.

"Yeah," Raph says anyway. "I'm here."

He lifts Leo the rest of the way, cradling Leo against his chest. Leo's so much lighter than he should be, and Raph feels a sharp pain in his heart over it.

It's okay. They'll leave. They'll take care of him. And then Leo will be all better again.

Leo shifts himself, reaching one arm up and hooking it around Raph's neck. Just that much movement seems to sap a lot of energy, and he slumps his head against Raph, giving up on holding it upright. It reminds Raph of when they were little and he would carry Leo to bed, before Leo started insisting he's too old for that.

"Am I dreaming?" Leo whispers.

Raph's heart breaks, but he doesn't lose his smile. "Nope. You're wide awake."

"Then..." Leo nuzzles closer. "Can we go home?"

"Yeah." Raph sniffles, shifting his grip so he can get a hand free without disturbing Leo. "We can go home."

Leo doesn't say anything more, just hums quietly against Raph's neck. Raph wipes his tears away, then turns and carries Leo out of the room.

-----

Bishop is still against the wall; it's Draxum's vines holding him there now.

When Leo sees him, he shrinks into himself, crossing the arm not hooked around Raph over his chest. Raph turns his body so Leo is shielded from view, glaring hard at Bishop as he does.

"Didn't do anything to him, huh?" he asks, voice icy.

"He is unharmed," says Bishop, equally cold. Raph wants to kill him.

"That's enough out of you," says Draxum, and a new vine wraps around Bishop's mouth. That shuts him up.

April's eyes are wide, her hand over her mouth as she looks at Leo, but she quickly pulls herself together, her expression turning to one of hard steel. She comes closer, only softening when Leo's eyes lock on her.

"Hey, Leo," she says, reaching up and giving his arm a pat. "How're you feelin'?"

"Happy to see you," Leo rasps, and it's so sincere that Raph feels tears spring to his eyes again. April has to blink hard behind her glasses.

"We're really happy to see you, too."

"Yes, everyone is happy now," says Draxum, though his eyes are worried as they look Leo over. "But we still need to get out of here."

"Right." April opens the door back into the offices, letting Raph through, before she pulls up her wrist to talk into her Donnie tech. "Guys, you there?"

"We're here, April," comes Donnie's voice. "We've extracted the information and we're on our way to meet you."

"Great." She smiles up at Raph. "We got Leo."

"Leo!" Mikey's voice comes booming through the radio, loud enough that April cringes and leans back. Raph can hear Donnie make a noise of protest in the background. "Is he okay!? Can I talk to him!? Did he miss me!?"

April raises her wrist so the tech is in front of Leo's mouth. He tilts his head towards it, saying, "Course I missed you."

"LEO!" screams Mikey even louder, and Raph thinks he hears the shout from somewhere in the building, too.

"-key, give me back my arm-" comes Donnie's voice, then there's an exaggerated throat clearing before he's saying, "We'll be there in one minute. Be ready to move."

"We're ready," Raph assures him. They move to the door and watch for the others to appear.

-----

Days of stress seem to fall off his brothers and Splinter when they see Leo.

Raph wishes they could have all the hugs and reassurances he knows they all need, but there's just no time; they're still in enemy territory, and the man who hurt his brother the most is just behind two doors, only being held by Draxum's vines. There's time only for brief shoulder touches and for Splinter to jump up on Raph's shoulder and give Leo's forehead a quick, relieved kiss.

Raph gives the rest of his family a quick glance over. Mikey is carrying Leo's gear, the katana sheathed across his shell and the rest of it slung over his shoulder. They haven't gotten any injuries, as far as he can tell. Everyone looks good to go.

"How do we get out of here?" asks Raph. Donnie pulls up his wrist tech.

"It may be inevitable that we'll face resistance on our way out... But the closest door is this way." He points down the hall, back the way Raph, Draxum, and April came from.

There's a weak thump against Raph's shoulder. "Gunners on the roof," Leo rasps once he has Raph's attention.

Raph wonders how he knows that, but there's no time to ask.

"We took care of 'em," he says instead. "You just relax, okay? We're getting out of here."

Leo lets his head fall against Raph's shoulder again, and Raph takes that as the okay to move.

It takes less time to get out than it did to get in. No need for stealth now that the director knows they're here, after all.

They run down the hallways, through doors, past the still unconscious guard April took care of earlier. Draxum takes the lead through the door, and they all crash as a group outside.

Where a ring of soldiers are waiting for them, guns trained their direction. And Raph isn't sure they're loaded with darts this time.

Leo shudders in his arms, and Raph curls protectively around him, already summoning his ninpo to shield them. His family forms their own protective barrier around the two of them, readying their weapons and squaring off against the soldiers.

Behind them, the door opens.

"This doesn't have to end in anyone getting hurt," says Bishop as he walks out.

Raph doesn't turn towards him, keeping the shivering Leo out of his sight. "What, like you didn't hurt my brother?"

"I've already told you, I didn't touch him." Bishop sounds only mildly put out. "He can attest to that himself."

"It's cute that you think any of us care what you have to say," snaps April, rounding on him and pointing her bat his direction.

"You should care what I have to say." Bishop nods at Raph. "Your comrade needs medical attention. Care that I can provide, if you lower your weapons and surrender."

"Care he only needs 'cause you jerks kidnapped him!" yells Mikey.

"Mikey," whispers Leo. Raph glances down at him, but Leo isn't looking his way.

"I gave Inmate 24365 plenty of chances to cooperate in exchange for more comfortable living conditions. That he declined was his choice. But I have no wish to see him dead. We were going to transfer him to the medical unit just as you arrived and interrupted us; surrender, and we'll take him there now."

"No," snaps Splinter, stepping toward Bishop. "You will come nowhere near my sons ever again."

"Mikey," Leo hisses with more urgency.

"These turtles are your sons? Really?" Bishop sounds disbelieving. Raph still doesn't turn his direction. "What am I supposed to believe next? That humans can give birth to birds?"

"They are my sons!" Splinter asserts. "Come near them again, and you are dead!"

"Perhaps we should kill him now, Lou Jitsu, and be done with it," Draxum suggests.

"Mikey," says Leo, kicking one emaciated foot. Mikey finally looks their way, confused. "Gimme... swords."

He doesn't have to explain. But Raph feels uneasy. He exchanges a glance with Donnie, who seems similarly concerned. "Nardo, I don't think-"

"Hey," says Leo, and even though his vocal chords sound tired and out of use, they can all hear him, their confident face-man of a brother, with a big ego and a cocky tone, shining through. "Trust me, I got this."

Mikey gives him the katana.

"The American government have allowed the yokai to live peacefully within our borders up until now," says Bishop. "If you kill me, that peace will be ruined."

"This war was started when you kidnapped my child!" cries Splinter, snapping his tail.

"You threaten the Hidden Cities as though you know anything about them," says Draxum. "They do not fear you."

"We know more about them than you think."

"You expect me to listen to this blathering?"

"Is it a chance you're willing to take, Draxum?"

Draxum falls silent. The lack of answer makes Raph feel even more on edge. But Leo is holding his katana now.

"You'll threaten the yokai no matter what we do today," says Splinter, voice dark. "No. We will not hand Leonardo over to you. You will not lay a single finger on him."

"So you're saying you won't surrender." Bishop pauses. Leo takes a deep breath. "You agree, Draxum?"

"...Leonardo is my creation. My son." Draxum sounds resolute. "No. I will not surrender."

Bishop scoffs. "Your son... this animal."

It's only the fact that he's holding Leo, fragile and shaking in his arms, that keeps Raph from turning around and killing Bishop right then.

But he doesn't, and Bishop raises his voice.

"Baron Draxum is a known yokai terrorist, who has threatened mass murder on the civilian human population of the United States and the rest of the earth. These five yokai are co-conspirators, and this woman with them a sympathizer and accomplice. They are attacking this base with the intent to harm those inside, and so anything we do now is self defense."

There's a smile in his tone as he says it.

"Fire at will."

Around them, triggers are pulled, and gunshots sound off.

But the flash of blue under their feet is faster.

For the first time since coming outside, Raph chances a look over his shoulder at Bishop, just as he's falling through the portal. Bullets whiz overhead, and one hits home.

The last thing Raph sees as he disappears into the blue light is blood blooming across Bishop's suit.

-----

They fall out of the portal somewhere outside the fence. Raph's not sure exactly where. He's not even sure Leo was aiming, beyond getting them away.

He lets out a relieved laugh, looking around at everyone, in one piece and notably not shot. They still have to get back to the tank, but they made it. They're safe.

"Leo! You did it!" He whoops, looking down at his little brother. "I can't believe you really- ...Leo?"

That's when he realizes that Leo isn't moving.

He's slumped over in Raph's hold, no longer holding himself up. His katana slip out of his lax grip and fall into the snow with a soft whump.

"L-leo!? LEO!"

Part 1 | Part 2 (here) | Part 3 | Part 4 Part A |

[quarterlifekitty]

I mean this in the most polite, respectful, do only as you wish under zero pressure, way - I am FERAL for dog Johnny and am drooling and begging for more pretty please and thank you ignore my hybrid kink standing in the corner it’s fine we’re fine…unless you don’t want to :)

Uuuuuuuhhhhhhuuu let me start by saying I owe my dog soap illness to such pillars of the community as @boolger and @frogchiro so never forget that they walked so I could crawl around leaving a snail trail with my pussy.

cw: hybrid stuff

Dunno about you but I know my brain chemistry was permanently altered by lady and the tramp when I was a child. I never stood a chance.

So imagine Stray!Soap and Lady!Reader. He sees you every so often. On walks, laying your head in your owner’s lap as he reads the paper on the porch, scratching your ear, playing in the yard with your other owner as she tends to the garden.

Soap sniffs around in your yard at night, just the lightest traces of your scent drive him a little crazy. He decides to wait around— see if he can meet the little house-princess when she comes out in the mornings.

You have no idea what to make of him. He thinks it’s cute how your ears perk as you inspect him. No collar. Not like you— with your shiny little heart-shaped tag. You’re a little wary, but you figure there’s no harm in him being in the neighborhood.

And you know how it is with Soap. You give an inch, he’ll take a mile.

So he’ll wait right by the door near every damned morning. Just to say hello to the little lady. Smitten as can be.

Heehee and what if you had neighbors, also. Bloodhound!Price. Russian terrier! Or Newfoundland!Nikolai who’ve watched you become a young lady, and warn you to watch out for young dogs like Soap. Always a mess of trouble… you should be with someone who knows enough to look after you. Someone older, maybe. Not some young tramp looking to knot any pretty thing he can sink his teeth into…

[eternity-death]

Okay, after playing through Penacony, I think I can confidently say that Yandere Sunday would probably be one of the top 3 most difficult HSR Yan’s to escape.

The Oak Family is in charge of all of the other families, and Sunday is the Oak Family’s leader. He is literally the leader of Penacony, which means that everything in Penacony is available to his disposal.

Not only can he trap you in the real world of Penacony, he can also go the extra mile to trap you in the dreamscape of Penacony. And as we’ve seen in the quest, there are layers and layers to the dreamscape that you can easily get lost in. And The Family is in control of it all.

On top of THAT, members of the Bloodhound Family will always have an eye on you under Sunday’s word.

So in order to escape him, you’d have to find the perfect opportunity to run off while he’s busy. Then you’d have to avoid the Bloodhounds/other members of the family, locate an exit to the dreamscape that isn’t guarded (or force your way through, but you’d probably be outnumbered and Sunday would be notified), go through the several layers of dreams that were set up to keep you trapped (including the monsters and MORE members of the family keeping watch), and THEN you’d have to escape Sunday and the family in the Penacony of the real world.

It would be HELL. Right next to impossible.

[kaiserouo]

wip

i like that side look eye too much i need to spread this to the world

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: It happens again, when the year festers into August again and leaves the two of you raw and vulnerable like open wounds.

Word count: 15K… 🤓

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of death, violence and injury (there is mention of like eating people but idk); grief; misogyny; Rust's personality; semi-public SMUTT T-T (MINORS DNI); same level of pretentiousness, maybe a little more, as the first part.

A/N: Holy fuck this sucked the soul out of me (wish Rust Cohle would suck the soul out of I MEAN WHAT), i am super proud of this though!! Went through many iterations and this was the least shit! 🎀🎀🎀 This is technically part two to The idler wheel but can be read by itself too. May or may not write other things for this guy but for the time being, I need a cleanse 😭 BUT please please enjoy and please please interact, i love reading comments and so many lovely people commented on the first part, im gonna do my best to respond to any/all this time 🤘MWAH MWAH

***

It’s difficult to differentiate between the thrill of being left alone here with him and the slow-sinking dread of the implications of that.

With the return of the musk of the summer, those three ruthless, windless, unrelenting months that would seem to drag on for several lifetimes when I was a kid, the memory of where I was last year—and the year before that, and the one before that—hangs brightly in my mind. Stale, not quite dead – so bright. Crawling with mildew.

Stepping into the bar had felt like entering another dimension. Maybe it was the suits that gave it away – every single God-haunted patron—the truckers, the farmers, even the old dog lying at a man’s feet—had turned, sensing foreigners as acutely as the immune system registers a bodily threat. I knew Johansson felt it: that dark pull over the back of the neck. But under Marty’s overconfident, swaggering lead, that winning smile, we soon assimilated. Skin swallowing a bullet.

God forbid you ever leave the town you grew up in. Shame on you if you don’t, though. How sanctimonious of me to change my mind and return after earning a spot amongst the lucky few escapees.

Something in this place still irks me.

At least, in Brooklyn, there was always noise: cries of a baby in the apartment over, the discord of traffic bursting through the streets below, the rush of a crowd, the overlap and slur of private conversations. At least the badness would stare you right in the face; at least people were evil to be evil. At least there were corners where things could hide, where it made sense for shadows to exist: all to explain the paranoia that stalked me.

But here?—it seems so open. Like, if a rare, hot wind would blow through a Louisiana town, it could do so in one straight path, through walls, through people, without ever getting disrupted. Everything is so light in the blazing sun, you can practically hear it: the hum of rays passing over every surface. Nothing should be able to hide. And, at night, with no sun, no rays, there is no noise. Maybe a dog. And ghosts. But perhaps it’s just the area in which I live. 

When Marty started drinking, flirting with the twenty-one-year-old barkeep, Johansson’s face had stiffened. He himself had never even touched a bottle of beer – devil stuff. We shared a look once the blond detective started gabbin’ like an idiot.

“Know what Maggie thinks?” he had laughed, slumping over the sticky table of the booth, big, sweaty palm choking out his drink. “She thinks you might be pissed at me.”

Johansson blinked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling, but, even then, he couldn’t keep from physically cringing away. “Who?” he asked, confused by those hazy, unfocused eyes.

Marty cracked a toothy grin – there was that slight gap between those front two, which had been charming at first and only managed to thoroughly disgust me now in moments like these – and pointed his finger right at me, accusing. “You.”

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

“Marty,” his partner had drawled, a low warning.

Waved away like a fly.

“Naw, it’s like—you’re on your high fuckin’ horse or somethin’.”

The words were spoken through a laugh, but I knew there was meat behind that so-called good mood. He was one of those people that tended to overcompensate. A mistake, an ill feeling. He liked to point out how I was alone, and often, too, poorly disguised as a passing joke, complete with one of those shit-eating grins that seemed to come so easy to him.

Shouldn’t he have been happy? Not only had he gotten our case, by then, but we’d handed it over with smiles on our damn faces. Nice enough to walk them through the original crime scene, introduce them to the key witnesses. Complicated. We didn’t have to do shit for ‘em, but we did. Hell, even that beer he was clutching to his chest was paid for out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart. Who was he to moan about the situation? He was the one who insisted on staying in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, brushing off any and all pointed questions on whether his family would be missing him at dinner.

“You know, I’d rather you were pissed,” he continued, where, really, I should have just smothered him into silence.

Rust was staring into the side of his flushed face, iron-grey eyes like a drill, like he was thinking the same thing.

“Look, you’re smilin’ at me now, but I sure as hell don’t trust it, buck. You wanna bite my head off, don’t ye?”

Like I ever could have done that.

Though the familiar weight of rage curdled in my chest, I would never admit it to the likes of Martin Hart. When he got like this—jealous, insecure, whiny—I wondered whether it was just a temporary lapse, or if this him, this true him, just lay under the surface all the time.

It wasn’t that fucking hard to plaster on a smile and take what you fucking got – I did it all the time. He could dream of a different life, but this was the one we were dealt. Fact that his grown ass hadn’t accepted that by now twisted violently in my gut. Between the two of us, I was the one that knew this – so why did he get myfucking case?

In my head, I’d let Salter have it, too. How could I ever admit I had an ego? How could I ever admit I had a mind to wrench the teeth out of the sheriff’s fucking gums? 

But I have plenty of practice acting like things don’t bother me, which is why it was so easy to plaster on my amiable smile and laugh, “C’mon, man, you know it’s only ‘cause o’ the workload.” Not that you could comprehend that, lazy fuck. To Marty, my kind’s natural state was amiable—anything otherwise would be a defect—so I’d expected to convince him. “You’ll do right by it, ‘m sure.” 

If he were sober, I know he would’ve bought it – he could convince himself that the way of the world was right and I was only being sweet to be sweet, because he deserved it. 

But Marty was drunk. Piss-drunk, loud drunk. His mind was clumsier than usual, unable to muster the energy to jump points, ignore the evidence, like he did daily. I hoped I had the power—if I had to let the case go, I wanted to at least retain an into its goings-on—but there was only one way to really have power over men like Marty when they were drunk, and I had had no interest in being one of his girls. 

My partner twitched beside me, picking at some spongy, yellow fluff protruding from a thin split in the chocolate-brown fake leather of the booth. He was just as furious as I was beneath his fort of calm.

Marty took a swig of his beer. “She wants you over soon. Maggie. Barbecue or some shit.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Johansson interjected, sharper than intended. If I were him, with his body, with his life, I’d have hit the fucker—long time ago, too. I couldn’t, but Johansson wouldn’t. He didn’t lack the temperament for brutality—I’m not sure anybody does—but, rather, couldn’t justify it to a necessary degree in his head. “I’m going home,” he’d reasoned kindly – he made it sound so easy. “Just let me take you. It’s on my way.”

Itching to leave, to return to the comfort of his wife and his little daughter. Marty had always found Johansson’s fondness of them disingenuous, had disliked my partner as long as they’d worked in the same office. He complained to me once that none of his stories seemed complete. When I asked him what he meant by that, he couldn’t answer—but I knew.

Breath short in my chest, I had half-expected Marty to lunge over the table, scratch Johansson’s eyes out. Only, Rust leaned over, dipping his head down to mutter something quietly into his partner’s ear, which was all flushed red. 

And then he went willingly into Johansson’s car, stumbling through the still, open night into the backseat.

My partner had squeezed my shoulder goodbye – I’m not sure why I didn’t leave with him. Now, I was doomed to leave with Rust. 

There, he sits across from me, smearing the ashy tar of his half-smoked, flaking cigarette over the mottled glass ashtray dragged over to his side of the table, little circles, waves, absent-minded art. Has me transfixed, some hypnotist.

If I look down like this, if I sacrifice the opportunity to look at him, I earn his careful attention: this sits in the back of my idle mind. I’ve been taking advantage of it more and more since summer broke through the sweetness of spring, which has since curdled like milk, sour. His stare drags over my face like fingers – I can almost feel his touch pressing into the softness of my cheek, dragging over the ridge of the orbital bone. 

“You’re okay?” he asks after a couple slowed heartbeats, pulling me out of the honey-pit of my thoughts.

I dart my eyes up, breaking the spell – his observation retreats, clouds, and drifts away to fix on the broken clock on the wall, the one that reads one forty-five at eleven o’ clock.

Primarily, his question irritates me. Nobody asks “are you alright?” imploringly, not unless it concerns themselves and their own wants. Salter had asked me that, right after telling me he was pulling me from my case, and, then, I had thought about crying, just to unsettle him. But what good would that have done? He’d only asked “are you alright?” to test the waters, to see if there was a future possibility of letting him pull the rug out from under me with zero consequences. Again. I couldn’t win. 

But Rust doesn’t want much from me. He doesn’t even want the case, really, which just twists the knife even further. 

“You—you know I’m good in there, right? In the box.” I carve a jagged thumbnail into this message in the table, twisting the characters wider, or taller, risking splinters.

Why should I have to give it up? And to a fucking idiot? Marty wasn’t the one who stayed all those late nights alone at the office, wasn’t the one scoured over heaps of files under low light, wasn’t the one who took the fucking beating when the suspect fought against arrest. Marty was not the one who conducted an interview like that.

My mouth thins into a hard line, but I know the words will come out whether I let them voluntarily or not. Around Rust, it’s that way. I should’ve left when I could. 

“It’s just that—it was so weird,” I continue, my head pulsing with the unwanted memory of that cabin. Marty didn’t have to experience it, Rust didn’t have to experience it—but I did. “Not jus’ wrong, or sad. Makes me feel strange, thinking about it.” 

Often, the suspects underestimate me. Johansson’s broad shoulders and tough-set jaw come off as offensive—nothing like my voice, low and gentle, and my eyes, sympathetic and warm. I’m the mother who will never judge, who is spilling over with unconditional love.

Beneath this, though, I am good at the maths of the job, the connections. Though all detectives technically develop the same constituent skills—close attention to body language tells and other biological betrayals—I ain’t sure most understand the sensitivity and strength required to confront shit like this head-on. To not avert your eyes at the mutilated woman on the bed. To inspect her eunuched boyfriend’s severed appendage, to have steady hands when photographing the scene—with flash, of course, to highlight every detail with sufficient clarity—for evidence, which must be returned to and examined again and again, each time with greater fervour still. 

I could name a few who’d joke about a thing like that, to ease the burn of that image in their heads, to sleep better at night, to leave behind the uninvited, vicarious sensation of a knife teasing over the meat of their dick. 

But the boyfriend’s corpse, we eventually located separately in a cabin in the woods, laid into the basement freezer, so peaceful, such a brutal image. Pretty parts of him preserved for mauling.

And Salter has the fucking audacity to take it away. He wasn’t the one to see something like that, to feel sick to his very stomach, to gag and have to turn away, to cringe and writhe like his skin suddenly wasn’t his, like he ought to pick himself out. I’ve been reeling with that image for weeks, living with motion sickness, and have been denied the relief of vomiting. 

“So, you need me to get that confession.”

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

I nod, the back of my neck prickling with mean goosebumps. “Campbell, his DNA was all over the bodies. He was proud of it, even.” My ribs still glow with the phantom-sensation of his brutal kick there when we located him. Stomach clenching, I struggle to remain level. “But there ain’t no way in hell she wasn’t involved. He denies it, but the house is registered under her name. Maiden name, Phelps.”

“I read,” he confirms. 

I tremble in frustration – I almost wish he hadn’t. 

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

Eyes darting over to the dim-lit bar, scouring the scuffed hardwood floor, I can feel my face growing hot with indignation. Christ, it sounds pathetic, like a whiny kid insisting on continuing a task all wrong in order to protect their damaged pride. 

“You know Johansson: once she starts with the tears, he can’t see past ‘em. Southern manners ‘n’ all: a crying woman is a delicate thing not for a man to understand but to comfort. But, with me, it ain’t the same. She doesn’t respect me.”

“What d’you mean ‘respect ’? Don’t need respect in this game.”

I scoff, which would’ve been a dire mistake with anyone else. “Y’wouldn’t know what I’m on about,” I tease through an easy smile, though I’m not feeling so funny at the moment.

He inclines his head down to me, an invitation to elaborate.

My boot feverishly taps against the floor, thrumming light like a jackrabbit on the run. 

I sigh, mouth twisting. “She keeps asking me if I’ve slept,” I confess. “Says I look like her daughter.”

For all my mothering, here comes a perp who’s desperate to play me at my own game.

I can see how intelligent she is: some hollow glint in her eyes with nothing behind; past that gleaming screen of kindness, something black, like a cherry pit.

Sitting across from her, it felt like looking into a mirror. Not just physically—though her skin is a similar shade to mine, her nails bitten and splitting like mine, and she looks close to what I imagine my own mother could’ve grown into. It was in the way that, when I smiled, she smiled. When I took a sip of my coffee, she would drink some tea. At times, it would even seem like she would speak in my voice: the pitch, the intonations, the phrasing all far too similar. I was reluctant to tell her my name. It reminded me of this folk tale, of these tall, dark creatures who only required your name to speak like you, to look like you, to replace you in your own life. Its victim would die—in some way or another. Wander the woods, eaten alive.

A harrowing feeling had crept over me, winter pressing against the two-way mirror – I was sure Johansson, on the other side, would pick up on it. Only, when I confessed my worries to him, he’d given me this doubtful look, and I really wasalone then.

“She’s playin’ you,” Rust states simply, tracing his fingers over his mouth like some pseudo-cigarette. 

“Yeah.” I grind my teeth together. Under the table, where he cannot see, my fingers curl into a tight fist, trembling with my secret violence. “And now Salter wants Marty to have it? Bull.” 

I should’ve socked him right in his dumb, slack fuckin’ jaw. One day, I will. 

“He don’t want Marty to have it,” Rust retorts smartly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are warm in the dark – I should’ve taken my chances, raced to meet ‘em, but I’m too late. “He wants me to have it.” 

Yeah, well, I wish what was mine would stay mine.

Even if I’m inclined to be pissed off at Rust by proxy, I just can’t be. The difference between him and Marty is that he actually pays attention, real attention, not the selfish kind. Just by watching, I can tell he knows exactly what he could say, how he could act, in order to appeal to somebody—which is why I find it so odd that he chooses not to. I sacrifice my damn dignity to keep myself palatable. He does not. As a result, he is not well-liked at the office – people tend to feel caught out by him; they don’t like to feel observed, known.

When did being seen become a threat? I thought it was intimate. Though, I suppose, a piece of shit never wants to believe they’re a piece of shit.

Everyone’s the hero of their own story. 

Rust slides Marty’s half-empty beer across the table to me, which I receive with a crooked smile and a quick hand.

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?” 

He shrugs. “Y’ain’t as deadbeat as the rest of ’em. Oughta drag you down to their level.” 

I snort. “What, you don’t think you’re deadbeat?”

He huffs. “I’m worse.” 

Bitter, the beer washes over my tongue, leaves that funny aftertaste I never really liked, not the first time, not the last. I don’t suppose I’ll ever turn one down though, not if it was offered to me: I’d accept it if only to win points with whoever it was, points I could spend at a later date. 

“Maybe,” I start, “if you were a little more deadbeat, you’d be popular. Go out with the boys.”

When he meets my eyes momentarily, smirking, I have to grip my hand over my knee, fingertips digging into bone, and consciously remind myself via mantra not to let my face freeze. He hums, voice smooth and low like liquor, “What, like youdo?”

I should be pissed off, really. Maybe I will be. Instead, though, I choke on the smart retort I had meticulously configured in my head, some quip that would’ve maybe interested him based on what caught him before. 

I don’t know whether it would have been worse pretending like it never happened. That’s my strong point: pretending. It’s his, too, when he wants it to be. Maybe we could’ve outlasted it – all we needed was stamina.

But, instead, it’s this. Looking across at each other and knowing exactly what’s going on in the other’s head. I can see exactly how he thinks of me, what he wants to do. When he tilts his head ever so slightly, my neck glows with a promise, like the movement was mine in the first place. When I would bite at the pendant of my necklace, he used to narrow his eyes, like he ought to yank the chain off my neck. But now, he looks on softly, so unlike him, his own fingers at his own lips. I know what it feels like – I’ve kissed him there, too. 

“Don’t give me that. At least Geraci would stop shit-talkin’ ye,” I manage, tearing myself away. “Swear he’s stuck at sixteen or somethin’. But—you don’t mind it, do you?”

He shakes his head. “‘f he was smarter, maybe I would. Jus’ likes the sound of his own voice.” 

The clock has replaced me as his focal point – I can’t help but feel jealous. 

“S’why I like you,” I mumble from behind my beer. “First time I met you, I thought you’d make me feel stupid.

That seems to get him. 

He blinks, a barely noticeable twitch. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

Can I spin this? I’m sure, if I were a little more awake, I’d be able to spin this. 

Some evil part of me hopes to make him feel guilty, to trick him into feeling tenderness for me, though I know the pursuit of that would be in vain. The type of men I know how to work—creatures of habit that take the exact path you want them to, to believe that they’re the real seducers—Rust seems entirely separate from that. He can sniff out rehearsal and practice, that robotism, like a dog – he sees it enough in criminals, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s called in for favours across state police departments.

When I met him the first time, I shook his hand, smiled, friendly-like, only to be met with rigidity and stoicism. No trouble, of course: some people just are that way. Wild horses on the highway. But his quietness?—now, that had set alarm bells off in my head. Boys at the precinct were loud – you couldn’t pay ‘em to shut up about their weekends, their football, their college years, their fuckin’ yards. When I was first exposed to it, I thought I’d gain a lot of friends. But then I realised they weren’t so much talking with me as they were talking at me. It’s why they’re so easy to read: they just tell you everything you want to know right off the bat. Even their secrets are bursting at the seams of their fat mouths, begging to be released. 

But Rust?—doesn’t talk until he finds it necessary. It’s impressive. Before that, though, the trait was enviable. I had—have—no comparable method. Even though, at first, it can seem blunt, even cold, his eloquence is refreshing. Never running in circles – only determinedly forward. So intimidating, almost like a freight train – I have to consciously keep myself from jerking back and out of the way. 

How low he must really think of me then, to see me like this. And I know he does: he sees. Everything I might have done to prevent it perhaps even had the opposite effect. I hate, I burn, I curse: it’s ugly. I cry over cases I would’ve left behind in two months tops, anyways, onto the next. I obsess over just another woman in the box. I think about him almost constantly. 

“You don’t,” I mumble, wondering if I ought to be wishing myself far away. “Make me feel dumb, that is. Not me. Others, I can’t speak for.”

We’ll have to leave soon – no doubt, this local bar is used to slow days and early nights, a blissful routine rudely disrupted by two outsiders who haven’t even really shown them good business. I glance over at the barkeep, slumped over the scuffed wooden counter and flatly watching the football up on the boxy TV set, and I recall my first job. Then, too, I’d let men twice my age buy me drinks, flirted with them. Was worth the tip money. 

Rust hums, though I really wish he wouldn’t speak at all. “Don’t pay mind to what Marty said.”

My neck prickles. 

He’s not trying to console me, is he? No, that’s not like him. Besides, it’s not like any amount of coddling could reverse the merciless truths I’m constantly reminded of in this line of work – if I’ve learned anything about sympathy, it’s that it doesn’t fix shit. If anything, it’s just another complication. It can seem beautiful, but, really, it isn’t. I can miss it, miss its warmth, miss the kind, sweet nothings my husband would whisper into my hair on the hardest nights, but it never changed the fact that I would have to get up in the morning and do it again. Rust knows this, has maybe lived this, so he’s not trying to console me. 

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

Sharp and sure, that anger comes lurching up in my throat, slashing and snarling. 

The sensible part of me—what I hope is the larger part of me—knows this is not possible. Rust understands Marty’s faults better than anyone, even himself, even his wife. 

“Thing is,” I mumble bitterly, “he really means it, don’t he? He just don’t show it.” I trace the warm, smooth rim of the bottle with a light finger, though my mind is currently toying with the idea of jamming it violently down the opening. “Maybe it means more that he does keep it hidden – at least some part of him knows it’s wrong.”

Placid in the periphery of my vision, Rust shrugs. “‘s what separates us from our killers. Feelin’ it ain’t the problem. Resistance is where strength is tested.” 

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly. 

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

Rust is not gentle with his opinions – I don’t suppose that’ll ever change. Resistance is a losing game – not even he is immune to the impermanence of these things. I’m sure he said that to me once, on a night like this. 

I’ve never been very good at refraining from things. Even from an early age, I just couldn’t say no. Teenage years: alcohol, drugs, sex. If it was tossed my way, I’d take it, anything I could get, hungry to experience something. 

Ha!—maybe I actually am more like Marty Hart than I’d like to admit. He’s trying to be an adult, albeit really, really poorly. As long as he believes he’s a good, family man, then his reality is protected. But I know I’m rotten, really. One of the boys at the precinct will call me pretty—in that sick way somewhere between the unchecked lust of a man and his paternal right to claim—but, below, I know I’ve got sickness swimming through my veins. Not blood. Something accumulated over the years, maybe from pretending all the time. 

I feel like I want to cut things, break them. Told myself to hang on until I retire, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. I’ll break. What will Rust think of me then? 

Maybe I was his low point: that fault in resistance. 

Some awful, gnawing feeling collects at the pit of my stomach, like black tar. Must be all those cigarettes. 

“Wha’s in that head?” he probes suddenly, stealing razor-sharp, fleeting glances.

I shrug, swallowing down a bout of nausea. “I dunno.” And I really don’t. Behind the surface tension, I don’t know what I feel, only that I do, and it’s so, so much. “It kinda—makes me happy to see him like that: jealous. ‘Cause he knows I’m good, and he’s wondering why he’s finishing what I started. He knows he don’t deserve it. Not like I do.” 

My confession lingers in the air like smoke – I have mind to reach a hand up and wave it all away, or suck it down, deep, erasing reality. Fuck. I’ve always been a little off when reading into Rust’s quiet – with that tightrope he seems to have mastered, I know I should avoid any step at all—it could just as easily miss its mark—but I can never seem to help myself. 

I stare at him—and I think it makes him uncomfortable, though there’s nothing there, not any normal human reaction, in his face for me to draw from. That’s fine. In my gut, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down.

“You want to be seen as competent,” he finally says, a simple-enough statement. 

I scrunch my nose up distastefully. “No, I want to be competent.”

“Well, what good is bein’ somethin’ if there’s no-one there to witness it?” 

Unable to press down an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes, roll them with all the subtlety I can manage.

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit. 

I don’t know if I’m in the mood for this tonight: smart conversation. What feels like debate. Maybe if he hadn’t been given my case, I’d take him up on the challenge, but I’ve already lost. 

I eye him, try to figure out his game. 

“I dunno, Rust,” I tell him flatly. “I think that’s called having an identity issue.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

My chest burns. “This isn’t a go at me, is it?”

Slow, he draws the ashtray towards him from across the table, as if the grind of the glass against the wood is a noise that ought to be savoured. 

I could be deaf, but reading his lips would be easy: “And how’d this be about you exactly?” 

I’m able to fight off the initial instinct to wince, the way in which he delivers the words, calm and deliberate, stinging like a slap to the face. What’s worse is the growing impression that he’s as bored of me as I am. 

With a furrowed brow, I watch him, heartbeat thrumming in my ears. 

“I ain’t out to get you, s’you can quit lookin’ at me like I kicked you or somethin’.”

Frowning shallowly and trying to pretend like I’m not, I glance away and commit to rearranging my face—but at the glimpse of that twitch at the corner of his mouth in my periphery, I know I’m only digging a deeper grave for myself. The noticeable heat of my embarrassment must please him.

Playing with the food. 

And I’ve got nothing to say to him—not a single word or phrase up to par, nothing to measure up to Rust’s clinical detachment, let alone destabilise him. He might’ve been reciting the coroner’s report. There’s nothing I can say to scathe him—and fuck, I want to leave a mark, prove to him that I can. I scan him for weakness, but either I’m still too stunned to see it or there is none. I have no plan of attack and no line of defence. 

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this. 

“I mean,” he begins, knowing now that I’m really listening, “identity ain’t fixed – it’s not permanent. I don’t scrutinise my appearance. I don’t mind my body, and my body don’t mind me. My personality hardly feels under my control – ‘s just somethin’ that is and will be—‘n’, I guess, will change, but only against my will, never because of it. Feels pointless to feel insecure about that.”

Is this supposed to be some fucked-up attempt at advice?

My priorities changed, but this place never has, never does, never will. So, it’s all dumb and the people are dumb and this bar is dumb and the boys at the precinct are dumb and, fuck, I wish Rust were dumb, too. I feel pathetic, and he does not alleviate that feeling at all. If he were dumb, I could laugh at him and make myself feel better. I could laugh at myself for sleeping with a dumb man. Instead, I think of him religiously and crave his approval. Afflicted with the knowledge that he needs to be corrupted to want me, that I’m awful enough to want it enough to corrupt him again. Tainted waters. It would be so much more comfortable if I could look down on him.

My skin writhes and ripples, and I know the only thing that would soothe it is if he touched me. Jesus and the sick man—or some polluted version of that.

My world swings under a bout of nausea as it begins to spiral – the beer does not help. 

Maybe he’s waiting it out, like I’m trying to. Forgetting is the wisest decision anyone could make, the most fortunate outcome. Though, my efforts are paradoxical: I think so, so much about not thinking about it all. 

“Sure seems like y’think about yourself a good deal, too, s’don’t you criticise me,” I mumble, clumsy. It’s a mistake to even open my mouth again – he’ll use it all against me eventually. 

Rust hums again, low, some muscle twitching in his jaw, like his body has no clue what to do when not blindly occupied with a cigarette. “Never said I don’t think about myself,” he rectifies, staring at the sweaty palms I’m wringing together tightly against the lip of the table. 

I allow my mouth to pool with saliva, trying to combat the increasing dryness of my mouth. 

“Guess the thinkin’ part is where insecurity comes from in the first place,” I add after swallowing.

When my eyes dart up to look at him, his are on my throat.

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

The intensity of his attention is looming, sifting through my thoughts like sand.

Sometimes, I think he has me figured out but just couldn’t care less about what he’s found. He’s feeling the power of my burning desire for him – maybe it amuses him. Maybe he’s waiting to mechanise it, letting me sit idle while a use for me finds him (if ever). Maybe I know things. Maybe I can break things open. Maybe he can take my cases from me. Maybe I can tire him out, put him to sleep. 

It’s almost worse that he hasn’t put me to work yet. 

Maybe it really was just something in the water. Maybe all I need is to visit somebody close to me. 

“Ever heard o’ that theory? ‘bout internal monologue?” Rust asks softly, leaning in and tipping his head down like only I’m worthy of hearing this here. 

My leg jerks and I can’t place why. I nod, face hot. 

“I think ‘s bullshit—‘bout some not having one. Think everybody’s got that voice in their heads.” He pauses, squints. “Mm, maybe that’s a little generous.” 

I laugh – I hope it makes him feel good. In truth, I know he couldn’t care less. 

“What d’you think it’d be like? No voice.”

The world seems so close right now, wrapping its fuzzy arms tight around us, buzzing in my ears, shadows fur-soft over my face. What does he want me to say? I wish he’d tell me, offer me respite. 

I shrug, and it’s honest, my resignation. “No voice don’t mean no thought.”

“Alrigh’. Then, what about no thought?”

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

He huffs, angling himself back away from me. Have I disappointed him? Somewhere deep in the pit of my tummy, there’s that fleck of worry, something that tastes an awful lot like vomit. 

I expect him to finally stop talking. 

But “I get tired of it,” is what he says instead. “In between cases, or these—moments where I feel like I could burn a hole through myself ‘f I spent ’nough thought on it. ‘s heavy, like they weigh me down.” He pushes the ashtray away, his fingers the only part of him moving. 

Swept up in the rising tide of your own life, hurting around you in some never-ending circle or spiral of which you happen to be the centre. Swimming with black-eyed angels. I know how he feels – I used to feel that way. Maybe I still do, sometimes. Clinging on to the tenderness my husband used to have for me like it could save me from the guilt I would feel when I moved on. No-one would pull me out: that much was true enough. That memory of stability, of the good times, only depressed me, moving from Brooklyn back to Louisiana. Feeling small in my own life, like a piece on a chessboard, with no semblance of control, only duty, chasing this idea of who I used to be. Hunting down the bad men, wondering what upper hand is driving them across the squares, contemplating the carpenter that fashioned the pieces. Too big of a big picture can be detrimental. The fact that I know this to be true doesn’t make me an exception. 

“I think you’re tired of the things you think about,” I muse, a headache beginning to expand between my temples – perhaps the heat has finally gotten to my head. “Space better occupied by other shit.” 

I’m careful not to pay attention to Rust’s reaction, if there even is one, since the weight of his interest is pressing over my face where I really wish his lips would.

“Like what?” he challenges. 

His eyes glint with curiosity, a blade’s sharp edge. 

I bite my tongue. 

“You think you know me?” It’s more a statement than a question.

I shrug. “You think you know me, don’t ye?”

Though, he kinda does. I think he’s proud that he can read me, but maybe that’s me overcomplicating things. Maybe I’m just another person to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m predictable. Boring, negligible, painfully average. Good for one thing, and that one thing was a mistake, anyway. 

Look at him, now: his eyes have dropped to elsewhere, but there’s a soft smirk that curls up on his face, the hint of a pink tongue that traces lightly over his teeth. 

Geraci always talks shit about that look whenever Rust closes yet another case, securing a tough confession. “So fuckin’ up ‘imself, ain’t he? Jesus.” Sure, he pisses me off—for different reasons. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that he’s worthy of admiration. 

He smiles to himself – I don’t trust it. “You’re calling me arrogant.”

“Are you?” I press, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I’m surprised at the tepidity of my voice, considering how I’m covered in boils and burns in my head. 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, only hums in response, seemingly amused. 

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I murmur. “People are scared of bein’ known, so nobody really tries no more.”

“I don’t observe people for intimacy purposes.”

Then why does he fucking look at me like that? 

A year ago, I’d have put it down to my own desires warping my perception of reality. Really, he wasn’t interested; he was only paying me my due amount of scrutiny in order to keep his mental file of me up to date. Really, he didn’t want to touch me; really, he was just someone who fiddled with his own hands, maybe to remind himself that he could be his own from time to time. Lust is such a dangerous thing – any deeper than surface level, and it has the very strong potential to kill you. If you want something against your better judgement, do you really even want it? The haze of having Rust come so close to me is dampened by such doubts.

But at this point, he either wants me, or I’m crazy. Shit, maybe I’d rather be just that. I’ve seen his eyes like this—dark and bottomless—when hands were unzipping my skirt, or dragging over my skin. To deny intimacy? Now that’s arrogance. Anddelusion. Shit, and I thought he was so above all that stuff. Does he think I can’t figure him out?

Surely his opinion of me can’t be that poor. 

My hand cramps up as I punch down the instinct to pinch the bridge of my nose. 

“Sure you do,” I press. And I’m right. I hope I’m right. 

His stare thickens into something different, what I think might be a black, molten form of gratification. Then, it hardens, cools in a split second into these tough, jaw-breaker pellets. I’d say it was confrontational, but then his eyes flutter just as he happens to swallow thickly. Is that his pulse in his throat? 

I rub at my puffy eyes with a stiff set of fingers.

Rust drops his eyes, brushes his hand over the side of his blazer where his cigarettes are sitting warm and ready beneath. 

“What, you—lonely again or some shit?” he asks. 

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone. 

I snort good-heartedly, but, really, the comment stings just right—he knows where to press—all the breath knocked out of my chest. “O-kay, Rust. That an accusation?”

“No. ’S an observation. Thought you jus’ loved those,” he combats flatly.

Chest burning, I have to save myself, jump ship, and look away. My mouth tastes like grainy bile. 

“You were lonely last summer. That’s why you came to me.”

The dim light above us flickers, his face phasing in and out of shadow before me like a candle in the wind. 

I roll my jaw. 

Does he look back on it with disdain? 

“No,” I snap instinctively, instantly burned by the satisfaction that crosses his eyes. 

My breath hitches plaintively. Every fibre of my body trembles and burns to defend myself. There’s not a single word that could repair his opinion of me.

“Or—yeah.” Shut up. 

I rub at my temple, desperate for relief – do they have pills for this shit? – which does not come. If he feels any pity for me, it certainly doesn’t show. 

The harsh line of my mouth trembles. “I just thought you understood me. Or made an attempt to, at least, but maybe that part was self-projection. ‘Cause nobody ‘round here’s like you. I know you think that’s stupid and I was being naïve or—” I swallow though my throat is dry as ever, “—or dumb, or somethin’, but that’s what I felt. At the time.”

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

“At the time,” he echoes. It’s a question, I realise after a couple moments.

“Yeah. Fuck y'want me to say, asshole? 'm not—I’m not gonna embarrass myself with you, Rust. That what you want me to do? Show you just how dumb I can get—?”

“Sure like to speak for me, hm?” he bites back quietly, making it so damn easy to run right over him, to feverishly stamp out that insufferable fucking softness to his voice. Shit, I wish he’d just raise it and yell at me already.

“—Yeah, whatever. You like this shit, don’t you? Y’think you deserve a fight?—well, I’ll give you one. That what you want? ‘Cause what?—what, you get to ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, act like you’re above fuckin’ me—” his eyes flit away, bringing my roiling frustration to a crest, “—No, don’t you fuckin’ look away,” I scold, a bite, jutting a crooked finger into his space. 

He obeys, but that look in his pale eyes is so hollow, it almost makes me feel bad for saying anything at all. Almost. 

I try to press down my anger, but it’s spilling over, now, far beyond things so trivial as control. I clasp my hands together in a prayer that they will finally listen to me and not move again. 

“Fact that you feel anything at all makes you feel like shit, huh?”

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

Half-expecting him to walk out and rightfully abandon me here, I stare hard at him, like I might chip into that exterior. If I managed it, I’d slip it in my pockets as proof. Silently, I beg him to prove me right. 

“Sorry,” I snap. No, I’m not. I hope it cuts at him. “You do what you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But, please, do not patronise me like that again, Rust.” 

God offers no help with the silent plea I send Him. He does not care, so I shouldn’t care, and that’s the end of things. I’ve survived worse natural disasters than him. He’s just a man, and this is just what happens with them. Still, the disappointment floods like poison under my skin. I’m a stupid girl, really. 

“I understand if you regret things, but you don’t have to say it out loud. It’s mean. But, fuck, I dunno, maybe you mean to be.” 

I take a moment to untangle the knot in my throat. He watches it all, quiet again, his eyeline sitting heavy over where the skin shifts and stretches over my neck. 

I adjust the collar of my shirt, fiddle with the gold necklace that sits hot over the contour of bone. Rust stares as I wedge the small pendant tightly in the vice of my thumb and forefinger. 

“Feels like you don’t even fuckin’ like me half the time. All the time.”

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson. 

My heart is racing like a wild mustang – it’s a surprise, really, that that old hunting dog lying over by the bar hasn’t noticed, singled me out as something to chase, to kill. My belly’s exposed, soft and ripe and asking for it. I forget, sometimes, that there are things out there that kill things that kill, too. 

He doesn’t plan on giving me a break; I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway. “Wha's it matter to you if I like you or not?”

My cheeks burn furiously. 

I stare at that bone-bird tattoo that fledges from the nest of his sleeve. With the way my head’s spinning, it almost looks like its skeleton wings are actually moving, unfurling and ready for pilgrimage. 

“It don’t.” It’s a disgrace to myself to answer that god-awful question, but what’s more pathetic is the way I shrink into myself when Rust’s attention crowds in over my face. “I jus’ thought you knew me almost as well as I did.” 

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs. 

“Just answer. I already know – just wanna see if you’ll lie again.” 

I close my eyes a second—mistake—and breathe, breathe in and then breathe out, shaky but slow. It’s no use. 

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

Furrowing his brow, Rust tilts his head down slightly, a soft curl falling gentle over his tense forehead. “But you wanted intimacy.”

So it is intimacy to him? 

Maybe this should count as a win for me, but it certainly don’t feel like it. This isn’t the slow slip and slide of last summer’s end – though the heat had swallowed whole everything from here to the other side of the Mississippi, there was something so clipped about the words that left me, left him. I’m sure I was more drunk then than now, but, even so, my mind had been so level, like I’d done it all in my sleep. Now, here, I have done it in my sleep. I’ve revisited him a hundred times in my daydreams, but all that practice has left me for dead. I would’ve killed for an opportunity like this a month ago – it’s like he’s taunting me. It should be easy. 

Rust is smart enough to make me wonder if he wants me to feel this way. 

Intimacy is planned and eventual, whether that’s due to his power or some cosmic fate. Everyone knows the decision they’re going to make, somewhere in their brains, deep inside. People only ask for advice to condone their decisions, to spread out the responsibility, which, at the end of the day, still remains solely with them. Shit, he’s rubbing off on me: I sound like a fuckin’ asshole. 

No, all this thinking won’t save him from the sensation of human feeling, emotions. No amount of planning prepares you for skin-to-skin touch. No time spent evaluating can undo it either, and I’ve tried so hard. His way doesn’t work. 

“Everyone wants intimacy,” I end up rambling, voice thin and dry and brittle. “Even folks that don’t want intimacy want intimacy. ’s not love or sex, really, I don’t think, though those are good, too. It’s not a way to find yourself. It’s jus’ trust. Or companionship—”

“And that’s what you want?”

Carefully, I rake my eyes over his face. Does he ever flush from the heat? 

Hopeless and too muddled to bother with concealing it, I try to assess whether he’s displeased with me. I try to memorise this moment, so I’ll be able to turn it over in my head later, just another one of my crime scene photographs. 

“Dunno yet,” I confess quietly. “I’ve had partners. And partners. When I was younger, I thought I’d have this life packed chock full of amazing relationships, and these—connections.”

The soft, disappointed eyes of my husband come to mind, which haunt all my relationships. I’m so hungry for another body, for connection. Why does it seem so easy for other people? 

“Truth is, it don’t happen all that much. To me, at least. You?”

Surly and bone-tired, Rust shakes his head. “Didn’t have much hope for it growin’ up,” he admits. 

“But you wanted it,” I press, clumsy and clinging to the sag of his voice. Of course, he’ll pick up on the trace of hopeful, aimless, false victory that undercuts my words; he’s the only one who ever could. 

For a moment, though, I second-guess myself. 

It’s pathetic, really: I’d give almost anything to walk as him for a day, though, even then, I’m not sure I’d understand him any better.

Sometimes, my imagination runs away from me: in my dreams, I do. I wake under the impression that we’re one and the same, that, just maybe, he, similarly, is dreaming as me. It’s a pulsing obsession, difficult to conceal. Whenever a moment becomes still, I think about it: at night, he is transported; in his dreams, he touches with my hands, sighs with my voice, tastes with my mouth. Then, at least, that would explain these funny sensations I get in the morning: so weathered and worn, a strange ache in my muscles, like I’ve been sleepwalking.

How else could he know me so well? 

Or maybe I’ve really fucking lost it. Somewhere along the way – maybe after seeing that half-eaten body swaddled in thin cotton in its freezer cradle – I think something else took the wheel. Why that thing is racing towards him, I have no idea. It’s laughable, really.

Rust blinks calmly down at his hands. “Reckon the deniers are dumb?” he murmurs. 

Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I do my best to press back against the foul memory of dismembered limbs. Whoever had eaten the man—who was now beyond recognition—did they feel satisfied? Comforted with how forever close he was to them now? When I was small, I used to think sex was crawling into another person's body, like a cave, and letting all of their insides warm you, love you, wrap you tight. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Your words, not mine,” I reply through a tight smile. “Reckon it’s easy to find a distraction.”

"Have you given up?" he asks. “Finding a distraction?”

I don’t entertain him with a proper answer to that – I merely shrug and scratch at my scalp, tucking loose strands of sweaty hair back into the loops of my braid. Rust must be frustrated with me. To want a companion, to want the good life. Rivalling Marty in my delusion. 

He slides his hands into his lap, continuing: “Distraction is the way to peace?”

I shrug again – I think it’s starting to piss him off. “For a time, I guess.” 

“So, ‘s that how you’re takin’ quittin’? Think about other stuff whenever you want a smoke? Occupy yourself?”

Once I realise my leg is going dead, fuzzy from sitting still so long in this dark booth, I flex my thigh, flex my hands under the table, wide-open and then tight-shut, processing the blank slate of his gaunt face. I press my fingers into the sticky vinyl, delight in the interrupted drag of them up, up, up as they curl to fists, my shoulders up to my ears. 

When he says things like that, it makes it so hard to dislike him. I almost wish he’d ignore me, like he did the first couple weeks before it became clear to the both of us that it couldn’t be undone: his back constantly to me, sending messages only through Marty, refusing to look in my direction, like I might tempt him again into being a version of him he hated. At least, before, his coldness hadn’t been directed at me specifically. Then, it was a retaliation, a wall meant to keep me out. Where were his books on philosophy then?—to tell him that attachment leads to desire leads to suffering? That kind of suffering would be better than this kind. 

This is worse. This is so much worse. I’d rather not have something at all than have it toy with me like this. 

It takes a considerable amount of co-ordination to fabricate the apathy in my posture, my eyes, my expression, to compensate for the unease that pulses like a new artery in my throat – though, at the silvery glint that flickers in his eyes, I know it’s all for nothing. He’s already seen the hurt that, really, I can’t pin on anyone but myself. He’s raking his eyes slowly over my face. It’s fucking mean. Do me the favour of a mercy-killing, God.

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

“What,” I begin, concentrating very hard on keeping myself from stammering and from slurring, from crying and from grasping at his hand, “like that association thing?” 

I’ve heard of it, obviously. I know every trick at this point: old wives’ tales to the latest research papers at the state university library. It’s psychological: whenever you want something, instead, think of awful, gross, repulsive things, and make yourself hate it. I’ve tried it before, but it doesn’t always work. How can you convince yourself that one thing is disgusting when it’s undeniable how good it really was?

Rust nods.

“I mean, I tried it,” I tell him lowly. 

Overstatement: I tried it for approximately three days and two nights before I caved, unlocking the drawer in my study with shaky, desperate hands, hungry.

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

Shit. He seems to have regained a nerve: Rust stares calmly ahead at me—not through me or just past me; at me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

He leans his weight over his forearms upon the table, on offence. Is this how he works his suspects? Well, shit, I’ve studied his methods from the privacy of the other side of the false mirror enough times to be able to answer that, actually: this is how he works his suspects. Initially, at least, to gauge their personality, their wants, their fears, what they need him to be. 

Thing is, I can’t pin down his intention with me. Is it just the satisfaction of the kill? Or maybe revenge for what I did to him last August. I broke down his walls: an unforgivable sin. I condemned him to the effort of building them back up, of shoving me out—if I ever managed to intrude in the first place. Maybe I deserve this. 

With his sleeves folded back, the dark lines of Rust’s tattoo jut out, growing along his tawny, leather-tan skin like lichen. I try not to stare.

His eyes complete a pre-emptive scan of my face, and, really, I know I should not let him see any change there in my expression, though my mouth twitches to frown. I try to gather my forces. I try to prepare myself for it, for that inevitable intrusion.

“‘f you’re so desperate for it, why’re you fightin’ back?” he asks, unblinking and cruel. 

My mouth twists, and I let it fall into the frown it wants. “‘Cause I wanted to feel better.”

It sounds dumb because it is dumb, even though it’s true. 

Low, he hums. He straightens, softens, and finally leans away. It’s like the vacuum around me leaves with him, and, there, now, it’s easier to breathe. 

He must note the way my chest rises and falls so stiffly, like there’s a weight resting over my heart. 

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

“You’re not fuckin’ funny,” I scoff, digging my nails punishingly into my palm. He smokes and drinks like he welcomes cancer, or hopes for it, so I don’t think we’re on a level playing field.

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?” 

Amused, he rolls his jaw. Good – I hope I’ve provoked him. 

“Do you feel better?” 

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sometimes,” I reply truthfully. “Not right now.”

He searches my face. 

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers. 

Fuck, and what will that be like? Ten times worse than this. I’ll come away the husk of a woman, worn down by his disapproval. My own fault for wanting anything from him in the first place, really. 

Teeth gritted together, I shake my head, ready to pull a muscle in my damn neck. “Didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry.” 

No, I’m not. I ought to slap him, and then run away, back home, or back to my house, or to a brand new city. Or he could finally cuss me out, save me the wondering. Then, I could lick my wounds and they would finally stop reopening. 

I scratch at my scalp. 

Rust eyes my hand like he’d like to rip the bad habit away from my body. For a moment, I think he will—the tendons in his hand flex and writhe under the skin—but, no, he only brushes a thumb against the valley between his nose and cheek, and he holds his tongue for once. 

“Wasn’t offended,” he corrects firmly. “I’ll take you home.”  

Flashing with annoyance, my eyes dart up viciously to penalise him. “And what?” I hiss. 

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.  

Jaw clenched, I wait to see if he’ll look away, but he doesn’t. 

My irritation soon fizzles through, condenses to a low, simmering understanding, steadily tended to by the intensity of his steadfast gaze. 

Oh. 

My eyes soften. 

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

He shows no signs of the tentativeness he had displayed last time—if Rust could ever be tentative. His eyes do not shift and scuttle around me; they meet mine, challenging my comfort. He does not tuck himself into a corner; he remains leaned over the table, just like that. How could I have known? 

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion. 

In the heat of last August, I’d peeled away from him knowing exactly how I’d convinced him he wanted me. Maybe I was evil for it – a good person wouldn’t use somebody’s faults against them, would they? And maybe that’s what it was: selfish. If he hates me, he’d be right to. 

Which is why I’m so puzzled that he doesn’t. Or rather, indifference was the baseline. Hell. And this? I don’t know. 

Swelling dangerously with the well-loved memory of his delirious mouthings over my skin, I grow rigid.

My temples throb and ache, the threat of tears still very real.

“Mind?” he asks – I watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket. 

Trembling slightly, I shake my head, though saliva is already pooling over the pit of my tongue, warm and soft, just like my desire. Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with his lighter to see it: how my body ripples at the scrape of his voice. 

The promise of nicotine dances like a phantom in the mouth, just from watching him place a cigarette between his lips. When he flicks open his Zippo, the sharp, shuddering candle of it taunts me, and I finally understand what they say about moths and flames.

I watch him take a long drag.

That all-consuming hunger lurches up in me again, and I swallow the warm spit that’s steadily been filling my mouth. 

Oh, Christ. This can’t be real. Desire shouldn’t be this bloody. Desire shouldn’t be the thing with teeth and claws, the ugly thing that tips into violence. Or obsession. With how often my thoughts return to us in the summer, I’ve wondered obsession as a possibility. The difference between myself and those who commit crimes of passion is control. Rust is dangerous for me. What is he thinking? What’s in his head? I ache to pry it open and explore, to swim close to him, for my skin to melt into his, to consume and be consumed. Not a moment’s peace, and that’s what I’m chasing, isn’t it? Peace and quiet?

I don’t have to say anything – he can read it all, mulling over the fine changes in my expression, the softening of my body, some pre-emptive instinct. Will he touch me tonight? 

With a cautious hand, ready to jolt back if met with teeth, I reach out to him and remove the cigarette from his pinched fingers—which he allows—then bringing it to my mouth, taking a drag myself, nice and slow, good and deep, a sigh, like home.

He watches me.  

“Don’t say anything.”  

And he doesn’t. He just watches, watches, watches as I take another drag. He shivers, and I feel it reverberate through my bones.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” I ask him softly, pressing down a quivering breath, smoking his cigarette. I’ve never mustered the courage to ask before.  

For once, though, I really don’t have to: I know exactly where his head is. Where else? He’s back in that room, infected by the drowse and drunken fever of August, with me, living it again. Where I’d coaxed him into the temptation, wicked as the snake in the garden. He should’ve pushed me to leave with Johansson and Marty – of course, I would’ve stayed. I’m a rotten thing, and my heart is a bloodhound. He’s the better of the two of us. I’ll take whatever of him I can get – anything. 

He meets my eyes directly, so hopeless, so raw. Is he asking? He shouldn’t be. 

But what will he have me do? I’m at his disposal, really.

“And?” I ask, throat dry. 

When he moves to speak, the words that leave him are low and slow: “You did something to me,” he manages. 

I scoff. 

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

Rust huffs like what I said was funny. More likely, though, it’s the way my eyes are so wide, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs, that amuses him. “Can’t decide.”

My mouth trembles as my eyes scrape over his neck, which I know, I remember, to be hot and alive, thick with it over the pulse. I was so high off of it: his warmth, his weight, his press. 

I indulge in one last drag, using the last scraps of my energy to conjure the pungent stench of rotting flesh in the cruel sunshine, the pick of eager flies and their cacophonous buzzing, the churn of vomit in the stomach. I look at Rust and try to do the same: the months of silence, his back decidedly turned to me, him accepting my case, and his arrogance and his apathy and his severity. He is a harrowing connection that I should rather not have made.

The technique doesn’t work. I don’t know why I thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different from the last. 

With him staring calmly at me, like I deserve it—the trap, the squirming sensation over my spine, the hopeless, unavoidable heat that claims my face—it’s just another arrow pointing to the same conclusion. Maybe we should just let August have its way with us again. Twin plagues.

Trembling ever so slightly, blood so warm, so thick, I flick ashes out into the tray between us. 

“I should put this out,” I mumble, though my hand yearns to return it to my mouth. 

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

“Sorry.” I offer my hand to him. “Want it back?”

I know what I must look like to him, pupils dark, the size of the moon, like a plate. Here, in the darkest part of the dark bar, I open myself to him, warm, molten, inviting. And God, this must be a dream—because I know what he wants, and I know that he’ll accept me. How we got here doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he’s thought about it for some time, and only now, in a moment of stillness with him, have I even noticed. Too caught up in the fine details of a painting to think of the artist’s intention, which is always more important.

Silent, stare inexorable, he accepts the cigarette, only touching my fingers quick, like I’d burn him. Maybe I will. Serves him right: he was always going to haunt me either way. I ought to get mine while I still can.

The hunger laps at me.

I want to coax him open-wide. I want to peel away his demeanour and wrap myself close to him. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, isn’t it? I’m sure I read about that somewhere. It’s still fresh in my mind, like a cut. I can’t manage a day without playing it over at least once. I want it again: I want to breathe him in and let him sit in my chest and seep into every cell and let him be part of me that way, at least until the next breath.

He can see it in my eyes: the freneticism of my thoughts, racing like a storm, desires like bullets like rain.

“You ever think about what you want?” I try asking him, voice strained tight over my heart in my throat. 

“People only ever think about what they want,” he parries, batting away any trace of diffidence. He secures his cigarette between his lips, shifting. “Let’s leave.”

At his first movement, I slide out of the booth. 

Sometime during our conversation, the place emptied out. It must have been around when I finished Marty’s leftover beer that the weight of the locals’ beady stares—which had already faded to the back of my mind, in the same way that a dark alleyway can still make you uneasy though you know nothing would ever happen to you there—finally left me. There are no witnesses left to see me following after Rust like a dog, my body thrumming like the lone bug zapper out on the porch, which cracks! just as we exit. 

The broken clock reads three o’clock when we leave, but I know that, really, it’s only midnight.

Fortunately, the heat has cracked for once, like old, beat-up, splitting leather. Stepping out onto that night path, the breeze is warm and fragrant, dancing over my cheeks, playing gently with the loose threads of my hair. It’s a clear, blue, never-ending night – the dirt road which accompanies us is a long, winding, indigo river that spills unseen over the far, far horizon. The neighbouring fields—one a rolling stretch of grass; the other of wheat—are alive in the wind, flung one way on exhale, drawn the other upon inhale. 

Thank God for the noise of it: their rustling whispers, in a language we can’t understand; the soft whistle of a passing gust of air; the firm, crisp crunch of dry mud and dust under my boots. Thank God for the sway of things: the cradle of humidity; the press of my arm to Rust’s, which he permits only for a second, with his face angled away. Then, he slows, coming to walk just behind me, still parallel.

Flickering strands of long-grass brush my knuckles – I grab onto one, pull the seeds off it in an easy swipe, and scatter them as we go, one by one. 

Briefly, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are fixed on me, on my every movement, like he’s making sure I’m actually real. The corner of my mouth twitches up into a smile. 

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips. 

I scratch gently at my wrist, reminded of the flowing of my blood just beneath the skin, hot and thick.

You get nowhere in life just hoping things will fall into your lap like this—and, anyway, what good is getting something that you didn’t work for? Where’s the gratification? It’s artificial, feeble as plastic. Christ, it was even a struggle to get my head around Johansson and his propensity to dole out favours. I understood a write-up – won’t pretend I’m above ass-kissing – but tidying up the office kitchen and keeping quiet about it? I thought it was stupid: letting people reap the rewards of your own effort, and for what?

So, the buzz of earning Rust’s touch that first time?—shit, nothing compared. No drug, no high; nothing. I really thought I did something. Satisfied some secret ambition I didn’t know I held. To have him like that. To be able to replay that night, swallow it like a pill. To look at him and know what was underneath his clothes and his skin, and perhaps further inside, too. Shit, I took so much from him, but the mental gymnastics of the effort justified it, right? And, now, he’s going to give it all up again. Wants it, even.

Haven’t I played this out a thousand times in my head? I’ve seen the future—a number of futures—where I’m able to argue for his affection. Fight for your love – that’s what my daddy used to tell me whenever he was feeling sentimental after yelling.

I’ve had endless conversations with him in my head, edited accordingly as time passed, as he changed, as I changed, as the air between us changed. Possible flirtation seemed silly, futile, after a week. Sex appeal would go unnoticed by him – wasn’t like he looked, anyway. Not the type to chase tail. I found myself longing for him to please linger uncomfortably in doorways to rooms I was in, to leave things near me and come and collect them just after I was gone so that, maybe, he’d still feel the warmth of my presence and understand it was only ever warm that way for him. The idea of genuine confession always sprung up during the quiet nights alone together in the bullpen, but I was always able to talk myself out of it when he wouldn’t so much as glance at me after two, three hours.

It must be a million threads of conversation up in my head, which is why I guess it’s so hard to untangle the great knot and retrieve just one, because, now, there are no words that come to mind when it matters. Or maybe it doesn’t matter: I don’t think he needs convincing at all.

“What you so quiet for?” he asks faintly. 

When I look back, he’s stark against the brooding sky like some shadow-man. His outline hums like he’s pulling away into his own silhouette. 

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.” 

He won’t push—at least, not on this—and I’m glad for it. 

Rust’s beat-up semi is all lonely sat in a dip up in the road, waiting for us. Same semi he’d driven me home in from work this one week I was getting my car fixed up, in which a series of slow, mutual interrogations would take place along the light-streaked highway. In the office, you were lucky to drag a full sentence out of Rust, but, alone, it wasn’t so hard to get him to talk at all.

Maybe I had just wanted to be better than him, to learn how he worked, how he was such a good interrogator, and bleed him dry. That was why I couldn’t look away: every choice in his demeanour could help me surpass him.

Even then, I learned to be careful with my looks. I had the feeling he’d morph into something else if I stared long enough, the way the shadow in the corner of your bedroom changes shape when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes, he would. And on the Thursday night of that week, when he had pulled over and thrown up, shaking, into the dark thrush, I hadn’t uttered a word as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. But, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I’d stared at him with the filmy eyes of a hungry nocturnal animal.

Then, at least, the curiosity wasn’t a burden. Not like it became when I drove myself home come that morning after.

I could tell it was different the moment I shifted awake, feigning a sleep for just a couple more minutes.

Dressed again and putting on a pot of coffee, his back was to me. I had shuffled up, pulled on my clothes, and I knew the stupor of the night had faded. So, really, when I stepped past him and he closed the door behind me without a word, I shouldn’t have been upset. 

When I reach the pick-up first, I twist to look at him. 

Rust has slowed to finish his cigarette at a safe distance, eyeing me warily.

He crushes the stub into the dirt, then glancing out into the long night. 

“Straight home?” he asks. 

I shake my head, and the rigid line of him gives just a little. It’s so dangerous to be seduced by your own influence, but the realisation that I’ve had any at all is fuel enough to the plea in my wide eyes.

Rust advances haltingly. If I move, I’m sure he’ll flinch and bolt. So, I test the theory: better to weed out what’s already decayed.

I angle myself towards him, open like a door. He tosses his jacket into the bed of his pickup, stepping through.

The heat seeps back between us, slow and thick like a flood of molasses, and it becomes very clear, suddenly, that we never should’ve tried to barricade ourselves. Pretty sure Rust’s known this a while, anyways: he’s the one who leans in for me, kisses me slow.

This time, his hands are quick to curl around my body, where the tension in that tight cord all down his spine has snapped. Or just eased up on him—but that’s unlikely. And unimportant. With his firm touch petting up my spine, climbing each rung, it’s all unimportant.

A pulse of arousal strikes me like an electric current as Rust pulls the blouse out of my skirt, his face close to me.

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, and I hum over the husk of nicotine. It’s a haze in the brain, one I’ve missed. My skin tingles and my thoughts warp in this leer, like a nic rush, only I haven’t had one of those in years and years.

I can’t exactly call what I’m feeling satisfaction. There’s no win to this. My teeth sunk into him so sweet last time, and the thrill of getting him, of tripping him up with his own desire, was almost as good as the actual feeling of him inside me. But it’s different now: so obvious, it’s funny. Though my first instinct is to doubt and pry apart, maybe want is the most trustworthy thing a person can feel. It’s animal and instinctive, and it’s inevitable, so it’s always true. Ugly, sometimes, but always there. There’s no room to question his want, because I can taste it on his tongue, I can feel it pressing over my stomach, I can hear it in the way he hums at the sear of my skin. 

It must be a favour to me: the blatancy of it all. For however direct he may be, I’ve always felt that Rust has these plans within plans. Nothing is as it is on the surface: you have to dig to get to the good stuff. It’s disorienting, having it all laid out for me. And I’ll take anything he gives me.

I don’t want to leave any room for doubt in his mind either. 

So, I clutch at him hungrily, so drunk on his warmth, and thump my back against the door he opens for me to close it again.

I don’t ask, and I’m glad that he doesn’t make me, only presses my body flush against the cool surface of his side-door, until the only part of me free to move are the fingers that curl over his arms, as if they could sink through the fabric and then the flesh underneath. There’s only dogs and ghosts out at this hour, anyway; eyes in the long-grass. No-one but them and him to see my hips jerk against the precise hand under my skirt. 

He hadn’t looked at me this much before. Even when my eyes go glassy and I have to blink hard to try and regain my smarts, to not finish too quickly, I know he’s staring at me like a scientist.

When the next needy noise is drawn from me, I bury my face into his neck to save myself the embarrassment of being seen like this, even though it’s pointless. His fingers are dragging aside the damp fabric of my underwear anyway, sliding through my silky desire. When his knee shoves between my legs to keep apart, he changes the pressure of his hand, circles tightly over where shame does not apply. Restraint is a man-made practice that never prevails over biology. I should know this. Still, though, my face is hot as I whine into his shoulder. 

Rust doesn’t ask me to look at him, not yet, and I’m so grateful for it. I bite into the meat of him at the push of one finger, then keen all the way to my toes at the hook of two, rocking against his palm thoughtlessly as he fucks the both of them in deep.

The clink of his belt buckle barely processes through the smoke of sticky eyes and open mouths and the press of his body. But the absence of his hand from my hip, of it working between us?—that’s what ushers normal sensation back into me. I recover from the limp slump against him, but not quickly enough to understand or resist him guiding my hand to wrap around his swollen cock, coated with spit. 

He grunts as he tightens my grip around him, coaxes my hand how he wants it. In the back of my mind, though, of course I remember. Only, his fingers are so far inside that my head is spinning, teetering on the precipice of another thought I know I’ll lose, one that dissolves at the slight scrape of nail, one that would never matter as much as the soft then firm press of him against my cervix. My eyes water, and there licking at me is only a faint, abstract impression of embarrassment when Rust grips over my jaw, calloused heel of his palm heavy on my neck, and hauls me away from the hiding spaces of his body’s crevices.

“What, you fuckin’ shy now? You wanted it, so look,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into the soft parts of my face a little more, like there’s some hidden button beneath the surface that can make my droopy eyes fly back open. There must be because, somehow, it works. He angles my face by the scruff of my neck.

I can only stand to look between us for a few jumpy heartbeats before my eyes settle on the comfort of his even face, which he seems to accept readily, breath hitching. He does not blink. The intensity of his observations hounds me, lights me up like points on a star, even when my vision smears and melts at the dizzying curl of his fingers. Lucky for my weak knees he’s got his hand over the nape of my neck, his thighs pinning my own. I shake against him, some pathetic thing, and tremble when he keeps massaging there deep inside.

“Don’t go dumb on me, girl,” Rust scolds quietly when my hand loosens around him, his own having to leave the heat of my neck and come down to correct the pressure, the pull. My head lolls without the support of his hand. “Ain’t gon’ say nothin’?” 

Words spill uselessly into a pool before me, slipping through my fingers. My pulse slams in my throat, lower, too, against his touch, each beat meeting him as he works me over again. 

What I manage is a choked noise, all clogged up inside. I have little to do with it: just a body, a heartbeat and a compulsion to be near, nearer, nearest to him. Half a mind that’s lagging worse than the computers at work, that realises far too late that the body is curling into itself again, so tight, so wet, and fuck, fuck. 

He removes his fingers, that slow drag, and tells me to turn. When I don’t—completely without, dull and aching—Rust twists and shoves me against the window, which goes cloudy at the breathy moan pushed up from my slack stomach. 

Slow-like, a cold hand snakes under my shirt, smooths up my burning spine, all the way up, all the way down, hooking in the waistband of my skirt, knuckles burrowing into the soft dimples in my back. My whole body shivers as he slides his palm over the back of my neck—a comfort for which I’m desperate to become familiar—and squeezes gently. If I keep my eyes open, all I can see of him is that black silhouette in the window, a reflection. A homogenous mass, humming at the edges, devoid of the detail of things: can’t see the way he drags his thumb up along the line of my spine, traces where it meets the skull; nor the way he steps forward, teases the air out of my lungs, enjoys it, tugs my hips closer to him by the gusset of the underwear webbed between my thighs; nor the way the cool metal buckle presses red lines into flesh. 

The sight of Rust doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that it’s him behind me, that it’s his truck my cheek is being pressed into, that it’s his—fuck—that it’s him sliding through the heat of me, so close. The tip notches and makes it all the easier for my eyes to flutter shut. It helps with the vertigo that follows the rough push of him inside. 

My fingers grasp for the little ridges in the door. Best place for them ends up to be under my mouth, though, to keep my head on my shoulders, to muffle the noises I was sure only animals made. My knee jerks sharply against the truck at the first white-hot pulse of pleasure – I hiss, smearing the drool at the edge of my mouth with the back of my hand, so glad he isn’t in clear enough line of sight to chastise me with his tendency to notice and never forget. 

But he knows—he must fucking know by now—because the heavy hand clasped over my scruff curls around my face, and Rust forces two fingers into my parted mouth, presses over my soft tongue. 

He pulls himself out just to feel the total length of me taking him again, so painfully slow. Feel the initial resistance, the spongy give, the sweet slip, the drag, all of it. So full, I feel sick with it. Overindulgence. Knocks me weak, doesn’t mind it when I bite down on his fingers to take most of the weight out of my sob. What I take from him, he takes from me—we’re even that way—so Rust, already with his nose flirting with the crook of my sweaty neck, nips over my erratic pulse, pushes his tongue over where I’m sure he can see the skin throbbing with the violence of it. Vampire. He could draw blood and I wouldn’t mind: he knows I need bloodletting. 

So fucking dumb to think for a second it could be sated by just one time. I needed it again before it even ended – I knew it in the split second he touched me. The grief of closure was as adamant as a shadow. Stupid. He must think it, too, because, shit, the snap of his hips is mean. Punishment: you should’ve known. 

“We ought’a be in your bed. I should be fuckin’ you through your bed,” he complains gruffly, his mouth dragging over hinge of my jaw.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth, which hook together with his thumb to pinch the fleshy inside of my cheek, challenging my lost focus. No matter. There’s nothing we can do now. 

The seize of my body doesn’t take him by surprise at all, not that I expected it to, and the words that follow are easy, like he’s been thinkin’ of them as loud and clear as day as it would be to speak ‘em: “Shit, that feels good, sweet girl, huh? Tha’s it, just take it. That’s good.” And he lets the warmth gush out before stuffing it back in. “You’ll take one more.”

I stare at the endless field to the side of us, melted over the curve of his door, shivering despite the humidity that always finds you around here. I choke more on my own tongue than his fingers as Rust fucks me slow, like I deserve it.

“Need it s’bad, huh?” he drawls into the shell of my ear. “Why you gone all quiet on me, baby?—thought y’wanted it.” 

He drags his fingers out of my mouth, daring me to speak. He slides his hand between my stomach and the side-door, gliding down between the thighs, smearing my dripping arousal over the skin. 

My toes curl tight again as he pushes deeper than before, sits there like he knows my mind will do the rest of the work. The grate of his zipper as he shifts draws a mangled sound from the pit of me, not hidden by the brace of my trembling arm. 

He zeros in on my clit, all sticky, and circles tight. I shudder. 

“Give in,” he says to me in a voice so low and soft that it barely reaches me above the high frequency splitting through my skull. He rolls that bright pearl between his finger and thumb. “You feel it?” 

Mindless and eyes all milky, I still manage a nod, grateful for the mean pin of his knees against my shaking thighs. 

He hums. “So give in.” 

Fuck, this is absurd. The mind can just about string two and two together when Rust lends a forearm beside my head for me to rest on, to grip over: so he’s pictured this, wanted this, for how long? I knew the stagnancy was a front, swallowed something else, but—my mouth goes wet and slack over his forearm at the languid roll of his hips—but it wasn’t realistic to imagine it was this. Rust struck me as someone incapable of reconciling himself with his wants. Shame over acceptance because he thinks it’s atonement. Should’ve known better than to think Rust believed in redemption. 

The silhouette in the window is looking over the empty road, scanning for cars that won’t ever come—but his hand is warm under the tent of my shirt, easing over my waist, slow, as everything clamps up, trembling, again. Body and a heartbeat, he tugs my hips back to him, again and again, until he’s a hot, shuddering line all through me, face in my neck, crushing the fight out of my lungs. 

His nose presses over my cheek, and his breath is coarse there, too, panting, when he lifts his heavy head. My throat goes so loose and open, greedily drinking in the sweet-sticky scent of him. 

“C’mon, now,” he says to me once he’s pulled my underwear back up, dragging the cool, damp gusset against the mess of me for good measure. He pinches my hip, then over my thigh, like that might get me to quit shuddering. “Time to go.” 

When I don’t move, he smooths a hand gently over my hair. Tucks a loose chunk of it back into the mess of my braid before deciding it’s best if he lets it loose completely. 

Rust winds down the window as he holds open the door for me to clamber onto the bench.

“Y’can sleep ‘f you want,” he mumbles once he’s got me curled up on the seat, leaning through the frame. He tilts his head – the shadows have always hidden his eyes, but I like how the pinch in his brow has melted away at least.

If I had half a mind, I’d use it to shove his face out my goddamn way. Instead, I settle for the narrowing of my eyes and a decided huff. “Won’t.”

Lie. I fall asleep like anything, mellowed by the sweet rush of wind over marshland, the spirit of it weaving inside, and the weight of Rust’s hand tucked in the tight bend of my knee.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Bloodhound

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader

Summary: Before meeting the ghoul, you worked as a courier. After striking a mutually beneficial deal with him, you become a bounty hunter, but it’s clear that your dynamic is much more complicated than that.

WC: 2.5k words

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, pet play (implied), porn with little plot, dom/sub dynamics, mentions of violence, both praise and degradation, light dehumanization, the ghoul calls you ‘mutt’, unprotected p in v (DO NOT), radiated creampie (dw they use radaway after the fic is over lmao), oral (m receiving), aaaand thats all i can think of but lmk if i missed anything!

A/N: Shoutout to @finniestoncrane who posted an amazing fic w/ the same kink that made me feel brave enough to post this dirty lil fic i could not get out of my head these past weeks :D

——————

A loud, high pitched whistle made you pause mid-sentence. You recognized it as a sign that time was almost up, and you better get some answers before he lost his patience altogether.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before looking back at the small shop’s vendor. 

“You said you heard he was going north?” You asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, heard him mention something about one of those mini-marts. You know the kind. There’s two on the way to Shady Sands that might be worth checking.”

You swallowed hard, but hid your discomfort. “And he was gone yesterday morning? Alone?”

“Yeah, as far as I know he arrived alone, too.”

“You weren’t curious enough to ask?”

“Not the kind to ask raiders more questions than I need to.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or not. He had no reason to be helping raiders, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have other reasons to lie. 

He cleared his throat and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. He’d been eyeing the clunky, collar-like tracking device around your neck, unsure of what it meant or who exactly was tracking you. Clearly, he didn’t intend to find out.

“Alright, I’ve told you enough. You better get out of here before anyone else starts asking questions.”

You nodded once, knowing better than to push your luck. You took three caps out of a hidden pouch on your belt and tossed them at him. 

“Thanks,” you said, turning on your heel and making your way back out of the narrow alleyway.

The ghoul was leaning against the wall just out of view, the brim of his hat pulled low. You caught the edge of his grin as you approached, and he pushed off the wall to fall into step next to you.

“Well?” He asked, keeping his voice low and casual.

You relayed the information you’d acquired about the target — a bounty he’d picked up a few days earlier, at another settlement. A raider had wreaked havoc there and killed two in the process, so the families were looking for some justice.

Easy enough to take care of, the ghoul had figured, and all for a decent price. So he’d immediately put you on his trail, as he always did. Much easier for smoothies to be asking questions and actually get some answers — Not everyone tolerated his kind.

You had a few opinions on what to do next, but you kept them to yourself, knowing he wouldn’t want them unless he’d specifically asked. He hummed, the gears in his mind already turning. 

You peered at him sideways, wondering what his strategy would be. He didn’t often let you in on them unless it was necessary, but based on what you’d experienced so far, you at least trusted his cleverness.

“Good girl, that’s real useful,” he said finally, seemingly satisfied with what he was coming up with.

He flicked your chin up with his knuckle in what could almost be called affection, but not quite. You carefully hid the secret pleasure you felt at his praise, averting your gaze. Somehow, even at his meanest, he always managed to make it sound so good — at least in the same way a bruise felt good.

Formerly, in your life as a courier, you’d been severely underestimated many times. Traveling alone, especially, had its disadvantages, but it wasn’t brute strength that had so far kept you alive. You were cunning too, in your own way. 

Always keenly observant of your surroundings, picking up clues that most would miss. You were generally pretty reserved anyway, preferring to stay quiet and listen. It was easy for you to blend in with your surroundings, seemingly harmless, and people often let their guard down around you. Big mistake on their part.

The ghoul had taken notice of you, though. It had been months ago, at some repurposed saloon further up north, where there was a lot of foot traffic. It was really easy to get jobs there, or exchange information, so you often passed through. As it happened, so did he, and he’d kept an eye out after you initially caught his attention.

Once he’d learned just how useful you’d actually be to him, well… he just couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. He had a certain way with words, exuding charm, knowing very well how to get what he wanted. Despite most people’s apprehension of ghouls, you didn’t really mind them as long as they weren’t feral and trying to bite your face off. 

Clearly, he wasn’t that type. So, you’d made an agreement of sorts with him, splitting the profits sixty-forty for every bounty fulfilled. Easy money, you figured, and some company to boot. More safety in numbers, after all, especially with someone as skilled as him. 

But from the get go, he always made it abundantly clear that he was the one calling the shots. There had been no room for argument on that, though strangely enough, you had felt a certain sense of freedom by submitting to it.

The tracking device he’d clasped around your neck soon after was just a little extra precaution, he had said. You had relatively free rein, but still he didn’t let you stray too far. And if you did, then his lasso would work as a makeshift leash to drag you back. 

Later on, when you’d developed a system of communication without words – especially for greater distances – you realized it’d felt more like training, in a way. Bending you to his will, sometimes with more charm, others with what he called discipline. And soon enough, after nights of growing closeness and a simmering tension, rewards also came into play. 

In the end, it all worked out, and before you knew it, the two of you were running like a well oiled machine. The hunter and his bloodhound. 

You started the trek north, taking advantage of the daylight. You kept your eyes peeled for any distinct tracks or other clues. When you saw an old, rundown shack in the near distance, you glanced back at him and then trotted off as soon as he nodded. 

Once you’d cleared it, you returned to where he was and continued on your way. Three more times, you checked abandoned buildings, but there was nothing of note in any of them. 

The first mini-mart you arrived at turned out to be more useful. The ghoul helped you interrogate a couple of raiders you’d found holing up there. They weren’t very forthcoming at first, but you left the jostling to him, given that it was his specialty. 

Soon enough, he managed to knock a couple of answers out of them, and then you were on your way again. You settled in an abandoned, half-collapsed house for the evening, a fire burning before the sun even finished setting. 

He sat on the other side of it, silently sharpening his machete, lost in thought. You looked off into the middle distance, unbothered by the quiet. It was a welcome reprieve after a long day, when all you wanted to do was unwind.

But that wasn’t to say it was always easy, even if you were on the brink of exhaustion. Sometimes you just needed a little extra help to get you there.

The ghoul noticed the tense set of your shoulders and your restless shifting. He heard the soft sighs you weren’t even aware you were letting out, short and almost impatient. But what could you possibly be waiting for?

His eyes lingered pensively on the tracking device, like a mark of his ownership, before trailing lower, towards your chest. He licked his lips, a few ideas coming to mind. 

“Say… how would you like a little treat for doin’ such a good job today?” He drawled, a roguish grin on his face as one of his hands came to rest heavily on his belt buckle.

Your attention was drawn there, but you quickly looked back up at his face. Instead of giving in to the impulse to nod eagerly, you bit your lip and decided to test the waters just a little bit.

“A treat, hmm?” you said, slightly tilting your head to one side, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

He nodded, adjusting his position lazily, hips bucking. “Oh yes, I’m feelin’ quite generous today, and you’ve earned it.”

This time you couldn’t hide the effect his words had on you, and he chuckled. Truth be told, you’d had this in mind all day, a craving that would not go away until you had him. It was why you’d gone the extra mile, knowing it wouldn’t escape his notice. He’d gotten real good at reading your moods, after all.

“Come sit pretty for me over here, why don’t’cha?” He said and tapped his foot on the ground, spurs jingling softly. 

You made your way over to him and knelt at his feet. He bent forward, looming over you, and grasped your chin with a gloved hand. 

“Well, ain’t you just the most obedient little thing? I’ve got you well trained, don’t I?” he said, his eyes roaming over your face. “Go on now, get your treat.”

He let go of your face and leaned back, adjusting his hips to bring them closer to you. Your fingers shook only slightly as you deftly undid his belt, then bent your head to undo the zipper with your teeth. There was a low sound of approval in his throat as you tugged his pants down, along with his underwear.

Your mouth watered at the sight of his hardening cock, the head of it lazily resting against his lower abdomen. You were about to curl your fingers around the shaft, but he shook his head.

“No hands,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You don’t need to use your hands anymore.”

You nodded, sticking out your tongue as your head dipped once more. You licked a long, languid stripe up the length of it, making it twitch in response. He sighed a rough good girl as his legs widened to adjust his position, a gloved hand resting on your head. 

Your lips wrapped around the tip, teasing it with little flicks of your tongue. He grunted, his hips jutting upwards. Your mouth was warm and wet and inviting as his cock slid inside it with ease. His head tipped back in ecstasy for a moment before he looked back down to watch you take it deeper into your throat. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “I must’ve been real lucky to find such a good lil cocksucker like you.”

You moaned around him, shifting your knees as you felt yourself growing wetter. Your head bobbed up and down at an almost hypnotic pace, hands straining at your sides to keep yourself from using them.

When you reached the base, his cock fully sheathed in your throat, he kept your head down for a moment. You fought the urge to gag, breathing slowly through your nose. 

Then he let you come up for air, the lower half of your face a slobbery mess as you panted. Your eyes were glazed over with desire as you looked up at him, and his cock twitched. 

“Such a pretty mutt, aren’t’cha? I bet you’re all soaked and ready for me,” he rasped, holding your gaze as your tongue lavished his balls with some attention. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, feeling himself start to near the edge. But he didn’t want to get there quite yet, and he didn’t want it to be in your mouth this time.

Still, he allowed himself a moment longer, his hand pushing your head to press your face against his cock, hips rocking slightly. Your tongue was still out, trying to catch whatever skin it could, and he let out a deep groan.

“Alright, don’t get too excited now. Turn around and let me take a look.”

You did as told, hastily pulling your pants and underwear down to your knees and presenting yourself for him. You watched him tug his gloves off over your shoulder, appraising you with hungry eyes, and then he knelt behind you.

“My, oh my…” he said as some of your arousal dripped onto the ground. “Just as I thought… Let’s see if she’s ready for me.”

You felt the head of his cock prodding at your entrance, slowly pushing inside. Eagerly, you pushed your hips back to take more of him, but he stopped you by grabbing your hips.

“Easy, easy,” he chuckled. “You want me to fuck you that bad, huh?”

You nodded, whimpering a little as he thrusted shallowly, stretching you further to accommodate him.  

“Please,” you breathed, your voice broken by desperation, and he pushed your head to the ground.

“It’s cute when you whine like a bitch in heat,” he cooed, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. “Now stay there and take it like the good girl I know y’are.”

Once he was able to fully slide in and out of you with little pushback, his thrusts gradually got faster. You moaned with each rough snap of his hips, deliriously chanting fuck, fuck, fuck under your breath.

He felt impossibly deep at that angle, practically driving you into the ground. One of his hands cracked down on your ass, making you flinch from surprise, your cunt squeezing him hard.

He growled at that, fucking you harder while tugging your hips backwards to meet his thrusts. He was repeatedly hitting a sensitive spot that had your vision going white, eclipsing everything else.

“God damn, this pussy’s so good to me,” he groaned, smacking your ass once more. “You enjoyin’ your treat? Huh?”

“Yes,” you gasped, legs kicking slightly at the intensity, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I-I’m gonna… Can I cum? Please?”

He was pleased that you’d still thought to ask, but he was too keen on pleasing you at that moment to deny you. “Go on, I’ve got you. Come all over my cock.”

The orgasm rocked throughout your body, every one of your muscles taut as you unraveled. His name spilling from your lips as a whimper, something to cling onto. The way your cunt greedily, and oh so sweetly, squeezed his cock then had him right behind you. 

A rough, feral sound escaped him as his hips snapped against you one last time, spilling hotly inside of you. Your walls continued to flutter in the aftermath, milking out his own pleasure. 

After, he pulled out to get a look at the mess he’d made of you. Hummed with self satisfaction as he saw his spend trickling out of you, like another mark of his ownership.

Your head swam as if you were drunk, but still you smiled at him over your shoulder beatifically. Mischief danced in your eyes, but he’d already known it had been your plan to end up there all along.

“Always so eager to please.” He returned the grin slyly. “Maybe I ought to give you treats more often, if you keep it up.”

Perhaps it hadn’t been his intention, but you took those words as a challenge all the same. 

--------

[threepandas]

Bad End: Poisoned Cups

I hadn't adjusted well, at first. I don't think anyone could have. Being an elf sound cool, on paper. The better eye sight, the incredible hearing, the stamina. All sorts of perks right? But what they don't tell you, is that when your soul is human? When you get isekai'd by some divine oversight or fucker with a truck?

It doesn't adapt that well, to a new body. Your soul INSISTS you should still be human, with all the trappings, and throws a FIT, when you just.... aren't. So you end up with migraines. Eyes that swim in and out of focus. Wheezing, struggling, breathe. A body at war with itself.

The world was so loud. Too loud. I could hear EVERYTHING and it HURT. Couldn't breathe and THAT hurt. Was nauseated all the time, from my eyes refusing to focus properly. That too, hurt. All of it, pain. Just? Pain. Day after day, pain pain pain.

My poor parents were helpless. The doctors struggled.

But the King? HE could save me.

And he did.

He was younger then. Just barely into his rule. His Father having just stepped down. My parents, desperate, brought me before him. Waited in line for days. They didn't even know if he COULD do anything, were grimly prepared for him to say that sadly, nothing COULD be done. But? Instead? He looked me over, called for several old texts, looked again, then called upon the strength of the Throne.

My parents apparently started weeping the second I stopped.

All I remember is the pain going away. Being exhausted. A REALLY pretty elf man in a crown. Things getting... better, after that.

I was told that story often, as a child. It utterly transformed our household. From merely loyal citizens, to devote Loyalists. Speaking ill of the King in THIS house? Would now get you HURT. My parents had been convinced they were going to LOSE me. The King as far as they were concerned, saved my LIFE.

Which is why I didn't put anything together. Seeing as we were an "all King all the time" Sort of house. We had one(1) team and we were sticking to it. Permanently. His son? Eeeeh, maybe. We'd figure that out later. We didn't care to know. And I was too busy with school work to CHECK.

Which? Meant I didn't NOTICE? He looked? More and more... Otome Capture Target as time went on. Specifically, he looked kinda crown prince from "Dance of the Secret Forest! A True Love For Me?!" sort of Shaped. Which... gee, what ARE the odds? Especially given that so many OTHER things are named suspiciously similar or exactly the same to that game?

.........yeeeeeah. I decided not to take chances.

I looked that shit UP.

And wouldn't you know it? Protagonist-chan? Not there yet. But she SURE COULD BE! All the legends were EXACTLY what they should be. Forests and locations the same! PEOPLE the same! Oh HELL no. Good to know where NOT to be, I guess.

Not my circus, NOT my Otome Drama Monkeys.

I? Would be working for the KING. My family owed him a debt.

And when I graduated? I applied. Top of my class. I studied my ASS off. Could have gone anywhere. But I was aiming for the TOP. A debt to be repayed and frankly? Excellent job security on top of it! So filling busy work in dusty ass backrooms it was. Gotta start from the bottom, after all.

I exhausted them. Was honestly barely trying too at that point. They should see me TRYING to put my nose to the grindstone. Burn the midnight oil! Ha! HA, I say! Long elven lifespans slow you all down! I? Used to live in a capitalist hellscape! This is NOTHING.

I'm not even multi-tasking. It's not even LUNCH YET.

Did I get promoted? Yes. Do I worry my coworkers? Deeply! But shit needs doing and we don't have all day! There is a nation to run! Have some tea. Eat a turnover. Now~! Where are my fuckin documents~☆?

I get promoted again.

Then again.

Aaaaand again.

I'm pretty sure it's cause I scare people. Am FAST. Efficient. Willing to hunt my coworkers for SPORT, like a god damned bloodhound, if it means we get that one extra tax document that makes or breaks us. I have (and will again if necessary) climbed through people's fucking WALLS. Cause, honestly? If they wanted to stop me?

They should have warded the gods damned vents.

Fuckin casuals. Get on my level.

So, now? I am the baby. King's inner circle. And EVERYONE? Is damn near twice my age! And, granted, yes. It IS hilarious I still scare like half the people working under me... but come ON! You are elite government officials! Do BETTER! (Geez. At least my PARENTS couldn't be prouder.)

But... (and God damn it, why is there ALWAYS a "but"?) here's the thing. It? Took me a WHILE to get where I am now. Long enough, in fact, for our... Problem, to arrive. A Problem which is GOING to cast his Majesty's kingdom into chaos and turmoil, in fighting and divides. Religious upheaval. A PROBLEM, which? In the name of luuuuuv~?

Is going to get NEIGHBORING COUNTRIES involved.

And WHO do you think is going to have to deal with that? WHO will have to prevent all out WAR? Religious schisms? Ward off assassins in the night? Certainly not Mr. "But Daddy, I love her!". Oh no, HE gets to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his father's suffering! Make more trouble! (Fucker.)

But, hey! Maybe I should throw in with his SECOND son, right? The supporting character? He seems vastly more reasonable and emotionally more balanced doesn't he? Well educated, cautious, why, thoughtful even! Ha ha... yeah... he DOES seem that way, doesn't he?

SEEMS.

He Is Not. Little fucker is a SPECIAL flavor of batshit. Completely "wake to find him standing over you, in your LOCKED BEDROOM, asking if you want to see his new favorite knife" nutty puffs. Not sure which side of the family it comes from, to be honest. Disturbingly good at getting past my warding.

Or at least he WAS, until I got the King involved. Ha! Royal wards! You can't touch me! I sleep like a BABY now! The only people who can enter my rooms now? Are literally JUST me and the KING HIMSELF! How safe is that~‽

But for real... poor his Majesty, you know? It's not like he didn't TRY to be a good father. Take time he couldn't afford out of each day, to spend time with his sons. Insist on eating meals together so he could ask them about their interests, how each day had gone. Involved them where he safely could.

He's a somber man. A dignified one. But let NO ONE say, he is not a LOVING one.

And HOW do his children fucking reward him? Middle school love dramatics and MURDER ATTEMPTS IN THE NIGHT! Because, YES, I have found the disturbing murder board that the second prince has in his "secret" room. Right along his equally disturbing stalker board of ME.

I, obviously, told the King.

He did not look pleased.

Don't know if my new reality has, like, intensive therapy programs or something? But I hope for ALL our sakes, that the second Prince is at the winter palace getting HELP, instead of just? You know... plotting.

His Highness has a nasty tendency to plot, after all. But hey, his Majesty says not to worry about it? I choose to believe him. Concern myself with more immediate threats. Enjoy, no longer turning around to find some baby faced little creep with a hunter's stare, just... watching me. As I try to work. As I try to eat. Around corners, still as a statue, yet somehow a THREAT, in lonely and too empty corridors.

God fucking DAMN, his little "crush" was creepy!

If it weren't for his Majesty? I would have run and run FAR. But... but I? And you CAN NOT repeat this, okay? It's WILDLY inappropriate! A-And I SWEAR I'm never going to.. to ACT on it! I would NEVER. So...so PROMISE, okay?

....cause.... I may... MAY! Possibly! Just a LITTLE bit! Sorta, kinda, just a BIT? Have a TEENY? Little crush... on... his Majesty? Maybe???

YOU CAN'T TELL!

It's SO fucking inappropriate. Oh my GOD. I hate this so much!? Cause he's my BOSS! And old enough to be my DAD! I SHOULDN'T be so attracted to him, right?! Plus he's the KING! There's definitely a power imbalance there! How would that even WORK?! We would have no future! I don't know the first THING about how to BE royalty. And no one would accept me!

Not that I think I even have a CHANCE! Fuck no! I'm not THAT arrogant.

But, like? A girl can day dream. Fantasize, you know?

Which is why? Having his SON? Be a creepo stalker at me? Kinda the WORST. I've literally JUST discovered I'm into older men! Thanks! BEGONE, zygote! Also, your vibes are RANCID! No thanks! I hated that and am SO glad it's gone. Now? All I have to worry about? Is Protagonist-chan and the political SHIT SHOW she drags after her like trail of destruction.

Why is she involving foreign royalty? PLEASE stop involving foreign royalty! Dukes! Religious leaders! MILITARY LEADERS. Stop "Helen of Troy"-ing your ass through our nice, PEACEFUL, kingdom!!! What the ACTUAL FUCK!? This is NOT A THEME PARK.

I watch, vaguely horrified, as his Majesty finishes reading three (yes, count um! Fucking THREE!) different royal missives demanding three different women of legend, from three DIFFERENT legends, who coincidentally enough? Happen to ALL BE THE SAME PERSON. Fucking Protagonist-chan.

They were from long standing ALLIES.

We could not AFFORD to lose those.

And the FOURTH message? Oh, THAT? That, was from his SON! Mr. "But Daddy! I Love her!" HIMSELF! He wants permission to marry the random woman of unknown province he found in the woods! Could be a foreign spy! Could be a mad woman. Who CARES right? They're SO in love~

Enough to START A WAR OVER IT.

I skip the tasting cups and instead? Bring his Majesty a bottle of the strongest star wine I can find. The sort that could damn near eat through rocks and vaporizes in air if you pour it out. Pain killers too, for what HAS to be a killer headache. Then I hesitate. You know what? Fuck it. I grab a cart. Make a care package.

Paper, ink, the STRONG tea, that special occasions tea (in case he needs a reason to remember his will to live), some snacks, a few shawls in case he decides to work late...

It's worth it, to see the way his stressed face relaxs when I return. Eyes softening, corner of his mouth curling up in that tiny, secret, little smile. We can get through this. We WILL get through this. I may not be able to stand by his side, but? I can support him. Help.

So long as HE sits in this office, burning himself down to keep this nation warm, so too, will I.

Tea or booze, your Majesty?

"A blend, I think. Unfortunately, I fear it is going to be a long night for us both." He replies. His voice smooth and low, effortlessly filling the room. A lifetime of public speaking, ingrained so very deep. "You should pour yourself a cup as well, my dear. Sleep will be a long time coming, we will need both the calm and the clarity."

I rolled my borrowed tea cart to the side and got to work. Strong tea and stronger star wine. Certainly a... flavor. Fairly certain such a thing should be illegal. Pretty sure our healers are going to be appalled. But, oh well. Needs, must. One for me, one for him.

He held out a hand. It was a sweeping gesture of his arm, a gentle turn of his wrist. I could never get used to his casual... elegance. The beauty of him. Like a living art work. A dancer. As though he were an actor, striking a pose, about to consider the soul of the simple tea cup. I handed it over, gently and with as much elegance as I could.

It still felt clumsy in comparison.

Yet he still smiled, just slightly. In that way I had learned to spot. Tension dripping away from his shoulders like thawing ice. Running in little rivers like melt waters, as he sat back in his chair, half turning it to face me. A brief moment to relax. Before work begins again.

"Ah... completely vile. Thank you, dear. It's disgusting." He said dryly, catching me off gaurd, and making me damn near snort into my cup. "If it did not work so well? I would never consume this swill again. What a perfect waste of tea and wine. We should invite Yevault."

I laugh. A snirking, snorting, choked little thing into my cup. God, but I've been TRYING to laugh more elegantly. Hell, I've even practiced. But when he catches me off gaurd? I swear to God, I cackle and pop. Like some sort of deranged witch pig. Ow, my sinuses.

"Oh but that's right, Yevault is a healer, on the occasions he takes time from being an unbearable snob. He might actually make us rest, dear. Then where would we be?" His Majesty muses, taking another sip before grimacing at the taste.

I go to respond. Probably some quip about "preferably in bed" or "asleep". Only... only to find my tounge sluggish. My exhaustion mounting, not slipping away. The world has begun to sway. Just a little at first, then notable. My mouth... fuzzy? Prickly. W...what?

His Majesty has begun to frown. Delicately setting down his cup... cup? Something about... a cup... I have taken too long to respond. He rises. Strides in a few, urgent, steps over to where I lean. Against the edge of my assistants desk. Swaying~ swaying~ w-why is the ground... my tounge feels to big. Think? I've begone to drool?

Warm, big hands cup my face. Was slipping forward, to the side. Gonna fall? Not anymore. Up. Hi! Is the king. Hi King. I... I don't feel so good...

His eyes have gone focused and cold. Pretty. Crown begins to glow. Leaves. Gold and gold, a halo of light. From within and beyond him. Power of the throne. Oh... oh I was here before, wasn't I? My bones remember. Like the roots to his great tree, power seeping deeper and deeper into my body, finding imperfections to consume. So... so much LIGHT.

I can not look away.

"Poison, was it? How terribly banal. Do they think me so simple to kill?" There is scorn in his voice. Utter distain. But deep beneath, like the hidden embers of a forest fire, there is rage. "How dare they drag you into this. Bad enough they throw a FIT over some trouble making tart, now they get the innocent involved? What if I had not been paying attention? Or you had taken that tea where I could not see it? Unacceptable."

Like spreading branches, like antlers, the light spread. The hands on my face gentle even as his Majesty's face might as well have been carved from stone. I tried to protest, swallowing thinking past the still rolling nausea. It was my fault! The tasting cups exsist for a REASON. They're supposed to test for things like this. I got too comfortable.

"No." The word slammed down as about an absolute as any sentence CAN. A declaration from on high. The commandment of a king. "It takes far more then simple poisons or common blades to kill me. The power that flows through the Throne insures it. You do not have that luxury. You could have DIED."

"....might still yet."

The last bit, almost a confession, pressed to my brow as he leaned down to press his lips to my forhead. His grip tighter, as though to stop his hands from shaking. My joints were starting to hurt, like I had a nasty cold, and I was already starting to feel feverish. I was starting to drip sweat. Shit.

I tried to stay calm. But... but I was scared. What do I do? Your Majesty! What do I DO?!

"We are going back to my quarters. Work can be brought to me. You need to lay down." He decided after a long moment of deliberation. Something had shifted in his eyes. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. Clung to the only trustworthy source of comfort I knew, in the chaos of this moment. "I'm going to take care of you. I have you, dear. Just trust me, darling. I will fix this. I swear it. You don't have to worry about a thing. Just put all of your trust in me, all right?

"Just come with me, dear. Everything will be all right."

"You can trust me."