#backcountry news | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

e1dritchjackal0pe · 1 year ago

Text

ꜱᴛʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴀʀᴇ

Summary: After your least favorite person on the planet manages to singlehandedly ruin your night, you find yourself waiting out the timer on a washing machine in the dusty laundromat of a lonely desert hotel. But the night is still young and yields some . . . unexpected results.

Notes: Ugh . . . this is like 17.7k words. Yeah, this really got away from me. Funny after literal months of struggling to write that a gritty possum of a man from an obscure 1987 vampire film would be the one to light a fire under my ass. But this is literally just word vomit and some porn.

Warnings: This is an 18+ post, so kindly go somewhere else if you're underage. Mentions of cannon typical violence, death, blood is referenced an obscene number of times, the reader is lowkey a bitch (but it is a very intentional characterization), both Severen and the reader are absolute dumbasses, feelings realization, fluff, blood drinking, they're both switches, like one spank, oral sex (f! receiving), rough sex. Lemme know if I missed anything!

This is so far the last part of an ongoing series but can be read as a standalone. Master List.

The noise was almost unbearable. The high pitched repetitive metallic squeal of a machine on its last leg. An announcement of its impending departure, a final outcry, a plea for help maybe. A damned migraine is what it is.

You can't help the glare that you shoot it out of the corner of your eyes. That damn fan. Pathetically whining in the corner of the room while the head rotates on its stand, leisurely pivoting back and forth like it's not shrieking like nails on a chalk board. The colorful plastic array of tassels tied to the grill of the fan wave in the air that it tiredly spits out, sunny yellow, hot pink, a calm blue. All otherwise pretty colors that almost seem jarring underneath the sickly light that the old fluorescents cast. There's a bunch of dead flies stuck in the lights. Their poor withered bodies lie on the cloudy glass, almost as if on display.

There's about a million other ways you would like to be spending your night. Perhaps strolling down an isolated street, peeking into the windows of people's houses from the sidewalk, smiling at or judging their choice of entertainment broadcasted from their television (it's still shocking to you the number of people that leave their curtains open) finally enjoying a moment to yourself, or maybe you could be at the local bar - what was it? The Oasis? . . . No. The Mirage. Yeah, that's it. One of the rare few bars that hasn't been desecrated and set alight by the Hooker clan.

Your unfortunate victims are the ones that had supplied your group with the key to your current place of rest. The room has a strange beach motif. Which is odd because you're in the middle of the New Mexico desert and nowhere near the ocean.

They had also provided you with the keys to their RV which Severen had fished out the husband's back pocket before promptly dropping his limp body on the floor. Like a crushed can of soda that's been sucked dry. Empty and useless.

You could be out right now. Enjoying the night, the cool air that follows the darkness in the desert. You could be sitting at the bar right now, sipping on a drink that you admittedly don't have much of a taste for anymore, but at least you'd get a buzz. Maybe you would have met a cute local by now if this hole-in-the wall town actually has any good-looking men. Not that you have your hopes up based off of the little settlements that Jesse or Diamondback usually stick to. Random, quaint towns that just happen to dot the backcountry routes you take. Unimportant, small, places that no one ever notices. That's why they're so great for feeding. No one pays attention to a body or two, or dozen or even a bar going up in flames in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

Again - great for feeding. But not for fucking.

The people who populate these places are typically retirees in some facet of the word. Veterans of war, old ranchers and farmers, strung out criminals running from the law, or simply quiet people trying to escape the stress and noise of the city. But often times people around your age have already fled, ran off to greener pastures to make a life for themselves that doesn't involve the bored scrutiny that comes with tiny settlements or the same old routine of working at the local mechanics shop or building the same old fences.

Maybe that's why Mae snatched up Caleb when she had the chance.

Probably the first pretty face she's seen in a while. Plus, he has all of his teeth.

You should be out there drinking, flirting and having fun. Pretending you're still fucking normal. And even if you didn't find some guy to take home (well not home. The bathroom or alley way is more than likely) at least you could enjoy yourself and unwind.

But instead, you're here at 3 a.m. at night sitting on a hard plastic chair in the motel's adjacent laundromat, listening to that shitty fan sputter and squeak and the low churning of the wash machine. All because a certain cowboy decided that he has the manners and discipline of a five-year-old.

Ever since crossing over you've done your best not to step on anyone's toes especially when it comes to the act of feeding. They clearly have a system for it, no matter how rudimentary it is. Structure in chaos or whatever. Clear rules to follow. Who you prey on, where, when. But the act of feeding itself? They never seemed to have a fear of leaving evidence. Blood, carnage, panic. It all comes hand in hand with feeding. Any leftover traces would be burned to a crisp anyway. So why worry about how messy you are?

But you do. Perhaps it's something you'll grow out of with the coming years. Why worry about tedious things like blood when you have eternity stretching out in front of you like an unpaved road? There are bigger things to worry about.

But it's also about the hedonism. The blood, the hunger, the adrenaline, the heady scent of fear in the air while your prey looks down at you like a scared animal. They all got off on it.

And despite all of your new instincts yelling at you to drown yourself in the warm red, to lick it off of the floor like an animal without a conscious you've always managed to ignore it. Maybe you're just trying to hold onto whatever shred of human ideals you have left but leaving the scene of the crime drenched in blood never feels right. It's bitter. It's betrayal.

The only time you truly let go of your inhibitions was the first time you truly fed. After holding yourself back from these alien instincts, these horrid dangerous thoughts and cravings, you caved. After three grueling days of ignoring the call, despite Caleb's words of encouragement (even though they came from a place of understanding) and clenching your jaw shut whenever Severen tried to pry your mouth open and spit his blood into your mouth you held back. Until you couldn't anymore.

Despite the reality check that comes with being soaked in blood you also can't stand to deal with the mess. Unfortunately, as a bunch of traveling criminal vagabonds bathing can be few and far between, something that took a while to accept. Truck stops, rivers and stolen motel rooms serving as the only way to shower. So, you do your best to keep as clean as possible, often stealing a pack of baby wipes if you happen across a gas station that has them in stock or a 24-hour grocery store.

You don't like the mess and the feelings that comes with it. It's easy to ignore your lost humanity when you're under the haze of hunger, the temptation of feeding, but when the drunken hunger wears off and your left with the startling clarity that you aren't exactly you anymore. You don't need any reminders. The others knew about your boundary. They respected it even if they didn't understand it. Apart from maybe Caleb or Mae. It was a line they didn't cross no matter how excited or caught up in the moment they were.

Well, all except for Severen. Of course.

The reason why you're washing clothes in the middle of the fucking night when you should be out enjoying yourself. Maybe you should take some of the blame for having expectations of a dog in a man's body. You would think that being alive since the 1800s would give you plenty of time to develop some manners. Who are you kidding, he wouldn't know a boundary if it sat on his face. It's your fault for expecting so much of him.

Wait - no, no, it's definitely his fault. He knows how much you hate all the blood.

If you didn't know any better, you would think that he waited to tear into the poor husband's throat just as you were passing by. If the way that he looked at you was anything to go by, you were correct in that assumption.

He had made eye contact with you while his teeth sunk into the man's flesh, the crystal blue was electric with a depraved sort of glee. The corners of his bloody lips were perked up around the hold of his victim's throat, like he was privy to a joke that you weren't.

When he tore into the artery the blood had splattered across the interior of the RV like something out of a low budget B rated horror film. It coated the fake wooden walls and the beige cloth seats. It also splattered over you. Staining your shirt and jeans. You had frozen, arms raised and tense in the air while you fought between the kneejerk reactions of either punching him or simply walking away. Gasping on oxygen that you really didn't need anymore, muscle shaking with restrained anger all while he chuckled and licked at the spurting gash. He looked so proud of himself. Truly the cat that got the cream. Smirking underneath a layer of haunting red dripping from his chin in heavy rivulets.

You cleaned what you could from yourself in the mobile home's compact bathroom, wiping the blood from your skin as best as you could with the roll of toilette paper provided on the boarder of the tiny sink, unable to find any washcloths or towels inside the restroom cabinets. Trying to forget the way that his eyes had gleamed at you in a sadistic shade of cerulean, the glitter of crimson across his cheeks and nose. His lethal smirk, all sharp teeth and bad intentions. Or the way that he always licks his lips clean after a kill-

Take advantage of patterns like polka dots, rhombuses, squares and stripes to liven up your home - God, like you gave a shit about any of this stuff. You clutch the sides of the magazine tighter threatening to crumple up the pages, hard enough for the ends of your nails to leave crescent shaped intendents on the glazed sheets of paper. The wash machine is still thrumming away, and the fan is squealing in the corner like a wounded pig but what's really getting you is the bastard behind a row of washing machines clinging to a laundry cart like it's an amusement park ride, launching himself down the aisle over and over again. Lurching down across the pale tiles until he meets the wall of dryers and pushing himself off in the opposite direction until he meets the same fate. Over and over again. Like that fucking fan.

It really is a concept that you still haven't fully grasped onto. That he is the reason that your life isn't the same. That you'll never be able to go back to the person that you were before. You couldn't let go of this life. Even if you wanted to. And he's why. Someone you used to fear. That you had looked upon with cold trepidation. He was unpredictable, inhumane, deadly. Still is of course but having insights to all of his little quirks has made him human in a way. Sort of funny considering that you've seen him rip out a man's liver with his bare hands and laugh at the carnage.

But behind the bravado and rough jagged edges there's tiny little cracks in the armor that could almost make him endearing if he didn't have the personality of sweltering garbage cooking in the summer sun.

The way he minutely cringes at the sound of pop music on the radio his eyebrows furrowing and lips curling like he ate something sour, usually followed by a wise quip; how he prefers the blood of someone who's in the noon of their life, not too sweet but not too aged; how he hates the taste of tequila and whiskey specifically; his extreme sensitivity to synthetic fragrances like scented candles and colognes. You all have more heightened senses now, but he seems to struggle with it the most often dramatically retching like he's going for an Oscar whenever he feeds from a person with a heavy aftershave or perfume.

He does still know some Dutch despite it being incredibly underutilized. Having no one to talk to in his parents' native language you've caught him muttering to himself in the secondary tongue. You once found him reading a book in the language and Severen never reads. You assume it's all in an effort to hold onto that tiny piece of his past despite how much he shit talks the fact that he used to be human. You were there when he had crossed paths with an old trucker in a grimy dive bar. Seen the way that he perked up when he caught hint of the mans accented English. You watched from the pool table, marveling at the sight in between the shots you took at the striped pool balls. You don't know if you've ever seen him so . . . casual? Seated across the from the lithe greying man, laughing at the trucker's jokes (you assumed they were jokes but you have no way of knowing for sure), the pair rambling back in forth in Dutch. There was a lively twinkling look in Severen's eyes. A young sort of excitement that you hadn't seen from him before. Not the sadistic violet sort of excitement but a sort of relieved childlike wonder.

He did end up eating the man of course, but it was still sweet to see him in such a way.

There's also his hatred for cops which is admittedly telegraphed by the number of badges stuck to the breasts of his jacket, but you've also gathered that the hatred was personal. And based of the tiny context clues that Jesse has given offhand, and little comments here and there from Severen, you've figured that a sheriff or marshal (or several) may have played a critical role in his human life. You had mentioned it once to him before, a mindless thought that had slipped your tongue and based off of the dangerous way that his body had tensed you had figured yourself right.

But it still shocks you that this man is the cause of your new life. The man rolling down the aisle on a cart like a bored child, humming a choppy unrecognizable tune underneath his breath, sometimes outright shouting at random intervals.

"Uh, why are you here?" Your voice cracks through the background noise like an indifferent whip. The fan, the washer, the dim whine of the laundry carts singular protesting wheel. You clutch the Better Homes magazine in your hands tighter as soon as you register your own question. Like a lifeline. You try and focus on the pale hum of the washing machine, the distant pulsating sound of the sun that's halfway across the globe, the troubling squeal of the fan but none - not even the sound of that heinous fan compared to the dull grind of the cart's wheels spinning slower and slower. Losing momentum one second at a time until it meets a complete dead stop in the middle of the aisle. His singing cuts off all together.

You tear your gaze up from a paragraph declaring that baby pink was the way to go for your bathroom and regretfully gaze up for the pages and past the row of washers to see leather clad shoulders and a head of dark hair.

He tilts his head down a bit lowering it just enough to peer at you from over his dark shades and fixes you with a stare. He's still clutching onto the bars of the linen carts hanging line. The nasty yellow fluorescents are shading flecks of gold onto his hair and blood still stains his wife beater.

Thank God there aren't any security cameras in this place.

That sadistic glint flickers across his face. That look he gets when he's got prey in his sights. A poor soul that doesn't realize the scope of the situation that they're in.

It immediately sets you on edge.

"Unfortunately, the girl I turned is a pussy who doesn't know how to enjoy a meal, " he taunts, gripping the cart before shoving it off into the nearby wall of dryers with a bang. Loud enough that you hope the neighboring rooms don't hear and complain. "Imagine that" he snarks, nudging his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

You can't help the scoff that escapes you plopping the magazine on the out of place mini coffee table next to your seat, a few sprinkles of dust shooting into the air from the impact.

"Well unfortunately I'm here because a certain idiot I know has no manners, " you snap, nails digging into the palms of your hands. " And that wasn't an answer to my question."

He's entirely still for a moment like a predator assessing a wounded coyote in its path, head cocked and contemplating. But despite the once over he's still smiling. Calm collected and cocky. Your least favorite version of Severen- not that there's any other version.

"Since your still so timid and inept I worry about leavin' ya on your own, ya know. Someone might take a bite out of ya. " He chuckles and scratches at the tip of his nose. " Ya know. Like I did."

You nearly snarl at that little taunt having to physically restrain yourself from rising to the jab. And he knows it too. Licking at his chaps like a dog with a bone. But it's all bullshit and that's exactly his game. Since when did he give a shit about what you did? Ever since he turned you, he's constantly seesawed between emotions in a way that gives you whiplash. The most consistent he's ever been, was when he had first turned you. All of the interest that he had showed in you seemed to have come from a place of curiosity and personal entertainment rather than the genuine desire to help you learn your new, forced place in the world. You understand that it was an accident, something that neither of you had wanted but considering that he had agreed to take you in upon realizing that you'd turned your sympathy for him tends to fall short.

He had been unwavering and aggressive in his attempts to get you to feed. Often tearing into the throat of victims himself and at times even his own wrist to take the blood into his mouth so that he could try and force feed you like some deranged mother bird. And you'd clench your jaw together with enough force that you'd worry that your teeth would break. And he would tear away from you like he'd combust if he stared at you for a second longer spewing swears and curses that would make a convict blush.

It was often Caleb who would do his best to guide you with a gentle nudge. Not a desperate shove like Severen. He would come to you from a place of understanding. Being the most recently turned apart from yourself, his conversations with you came from a place of understanding. He would occasionally seach you out, like on the night uptop a travel trailer where you sat staring up into the void of darkness and the twinkling dots of light above like it might give you an answer if you searched hard enough. He had smiled briefly at the sky before turning to face you, who had yet to return the gesture but watched him from your peripheral vision. He went on to explain that Severen was the least understanding of the group - no shit - but it came from the fact that he simply couldn't relate. From what Caleb had heard of Severen's past, he had left his human life behind and accepted eternity with open armed enthusiasm.

Maybe it wasn't Severen's fault for not understanding your struggle, but it certain wasn't your fault for not accepting your fate with the apparent joy that he had. To turn your back on yourself and the family you had waiting for you. Who you hoped was still waiting for you.

"Jus' be careful, " Caleb had warned softly. " The hunger, I mean. It becomes unbearable. You think it's bad now. " He looked down at your hands shaking weakly in your lap, jittering from fatigue and the empty pit in your stomach. " But soon it'll feel like all you are is hunger. You won't know where you begin and where it ends. And it'll make you dangerous. "

You should have listened. Maybe then you wouldn't have found yourself standing over the lifeless of a body of an innocent woman that you had apparently torn into like a mindless animal. Lost, alone and covered in blood.

Severen has always used that horrid night in Texas as a reason to get you to feed. "At least know you can choose who ya kill, instead of pouncing on every poor fucker who crosses your path like a wildcat. " He's correct of course. That if you force yourself to drink every night, you'll keep the clarity to properly choose a target. But that's what angers you the most. That he's right. That if you had just listened to him and fed when he told you to that the innocent woman who just wanted to help. That in your attempt to keep your humanity, you had lost a piece of it.

After the incident, your relationship with Severen became . . . odd. Not to say that it wasn't before. You've always been oil and water, but some of the trepidation he had previously felt for seemed to have thawed after you had succumbed to your urges and successfully fed. Though he still can't seem to decide where you sit with him. Flipflopping between being a sarcastic cold bully to a clingy and overprotective ass, regularly trying to join you on your hunts despite having proven time and time again that there's no longer a reason to suspect you of fleeing. He always tries to weasel himself in between you and your targeted victim for the night. Barreling in with the subtly of a bull, usually taunting the men into an unnecessary altercation just so he has an excuse to swing on them and steal your kill for himself. "They woulda been too much trouble for ya anyway, babycakes."

That's another one, all of the horrid, mocking pet names: sweetheart, sugar, honey, spitfire, wildcat, an obscene usage of baby. And kitten. All a means to get under your skin.

It seems that you have blessing of dealing with clingy Severen tonight. What joy. The disbelieving laugh that leaves you is unrestrained, purposeful even. You thread your fingers together, turning your head to admire the soda vending machine across from you, suddenly finding the array of soft drinks fascinating.

"Oh, I think I can handle myself now, " you plaster a fake smile on your face reaching for the recently abandoned magazine. After all you still haven't figured out what a trendy kitchen from 1980 looks like.

Then he's coming around the row of washers, all black leather, blood and self-assured swagger. Stupid, stupid man. You pick up the magazine anyway flipping to a random page - page 11 it seems - and based off of the paragraph and the picture that the text floats over in a white box it seems to be talking about a Mexican casserole. You can't even eat that. Would that even be good even if you could?

Here's a way to spice up your casserole- The magazine is suddenly ripped from your hands and tossed across the room plopping on the floor like discarded clothing and suddenly your face to face with dark pants and a silver belt buckle glinting in the light.

Then fingers with red still staining their tips and blood crusted underneath the nails are nudging the point of your chin up, directing your gaze upwards until you see his smirking face. Sharp teeth and danger.

"Are ya sure?" He asks. And despite the condescending tone you can't help the slight nod that you give, catching yourself but it's too late. He's already caught the complacent gesture grinning and nodding alone with you. " I worry about ya baby. All still reluctant and helpless. " And then his bloodied thumb is skirting across your bottom lip, catching on the sensitive skin, dragging the scent of his victim's blood across like a lip balm.

You catch yourself leaning into him then gasping at the clarity and clearing your throat. The humility skirts through you like a zap of electricity. It's like being doused with a bucket of cold water. What the hell was that?

"I'll survive," you snap jerking your head back out of his grasp despite the tingling where he had his hand. You clear you throat loudly, further breaking the light fog that has invaded your brain. And like the ringing of a bell the churning of the washing machine rapidly declines until it's dead silent and the analogue digits are down to 0. Finally. All of that for a single pair of clothes.

You hop to your feet and skirt past Severen as easily as possible without touching him, lifting the lid of the machine and retrieving the sopping set of clothes. It always hits you like a ton of bricks to see what little you have now in terms of material things. A tight old T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a bomber jacket and a dreadfully work bra. You'll definitely have to pick up another one next time you get to another store. This all you have. Just the clothes on your back. Well, that and the backpack full of stolen perfume and little chachkis in the motel room. And the baggy sweatpants and sweater that you had to steal from the overhang cabinet of your recent victims RV but that's beside the point.

You grab the clothes from the barrel of the washer and toss them into a neighboring dyer, filling the horizontal slot with 75 cents from your pocket and pressing in the settings before slamming the glass door shut. Anything to ignore the heavy presence standing behind you. Which is about as ignorable as a gun going off or a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse, but you've become desensitized to a lot these past couple of months. Almost a year. It will have been a year in August.

" I know you think I'm prissy, " you huff without turning around, instead glaring at the muted reflection of him the pane of the dryer. " But unlike you I actually like to be clean instead of walking around in filth for days on end." You finally pivot on your heels meeting his amused gaze with your glare before slipping past and taking your place back on your seat, crossing your legs. "Anyways, shouldn't you be out harassing and seducing some poor sap?"

His head cocks loosely, practically flopping onto the shoulder underneath it. His eyebrows perk up from behind his sunglasses just a bit. " I am, " he replies simply like he's mentioning the weather conditions to a neighbor. You can't help but lurch back in your seat, the hard plastic digging into your shoulder blades. A rainbow of emotions running through you. Disbelief, confusion, anger and some other fluttering tingling feeling that you aren't ready to analyze. "Excuse me?"

You do your best not to shrink underneath the heat of his gaze. It's heavy, intense despite the fact that you can't even directly meet the startling shade of blue from behind the cover of his sunglasses.

If you still had a heartbeat, you're sure that it would be thrumming against your rib cage like a bird behind bars. Suddenly he's moving forward, blotting out the glow of the florescent lights until all you see is him, the delicious splotches of red across his shirt, dark leather, and the gleam of old badges and snarling teeth. All you can smell is him. Intoxicating. The natural heady musk of him, notes from the smoke of a fire and cigarettes, the heady iron scent of blood, the faint dampness of soil, the oak of leather and something that's a little spicy. It's suddenly all there, holding you in an inescapable cloud and you swear you could choke on it.

Since when did Severen like you? You rack you brain for answers. Sure, he flirted with you before your accidental turning but based off of what you've seen flirting is one of the ways that he lures in prey. That and shit talking depending on his mood. So, you weren't a special case in that regard. If anything, he was a little peeved when he figured out that you had turned before he could fully feed from you.

It was Caleb, Mae and then ultimately that Jesse persuaded him to quick dicking around and properly show you the ropes on how to properly navigate eternity and survive.

And yes, after the whole Texas debacle he did step up a little bit more (other than his usual overbearing antics). Whether it was from Diamond or Jesse ordering him to or if he genuinely wanted to help you, you aren't sure. But he taught you how to become better in tune with the sound of the sun, how to focus in on the feeling without it always being at the forefront. A reminder, not a distraction but not something to be forgotten either.

He taught you how to properly pick a victim, not to get too cocky (that was rich coming from him of all people) and try and take on too many at once.

And despite how he managed to grind every nerve in your body you often found yourself spending hours at a time with him, even when he wasn't the one latched onto you like a tick on a dog or being forced into his proximity by hotel room or an RV or car.

Even though you're now fully capable to hunting on your lonesome the two of you always seem to end up pairing up to get food. 85% of it is you and Severen throwing sarcastic barbs and snarky remarks at each other wondering how the two of you wound up hunting again. Apparently unable to help yourselves. Especially considering that usually ends up being a disaster with the both of you debating on who's going to be the lure or accusing the other of coming on too strong and scaring the prey too soon.

He even killed a man for getting to handsy with you at the bar. Even though you were intentionally seducing him. Someone you had intended to be your prey but when the young cowboy's hand had reached around to grip your ass suddenly, he was jerked back by his hair and tossed on the floor like a sack of potatoes with Severen's boot on his throat, the sharp edge of his spur digging into his skin with enough pressure to scar.

"That ain't anyway to treat a lady, is it? " He had sneered, "someone outta beat some manners into ya pretty boy."

But he's killed plenty of people for the rest of the family. Even for Homer when a man tried to physically remove the "kid" from the establishment. And it's no secret that Homer isn't particularly Severen's favorite out of the group.

So, what is this? Some sick little game to pass the time? A new tactic to get under your skin and humiliate you?

The thoughts swirling in your head lights a fire under your skin chest heaving out of reflex. The audacity of this man will never cease to amaze you. Not only did he ruin your clothes and by proxy your night, but now he's assuming that you'd actually be low enough in character to fuck him.

"My god you actually think I want to have sex with you?" You chuckle, but there isn't any humor in it. He leans up against the washers behind him not taking his eyes from you lazily propping his body up by draping arms across the machines. Relaxed like a cat lying in the sun. Your anger only seems to amuse him further and that only serves to piss you off even more. " You're disgusting." You seethe between gritted teeth.

"Hmm have I ever told ya I love it when you talk dirty to me? " He tosses his head back with a low groan. The sound is deep and guttural and the fire under your skin flares up and burns hotter. It's anger you decide. Yep, definitely anger. And even with the smart half of your brain telling you that he's trying to joad you, to get you worked up you can't help but bite out even more insults. The filter between your mouth and your brain fully gone. "You're a selfish, condescending, asshole with the emotional capacity of a dead roach." But he's only nodding and encouraging you to berate him with more jibes. "You couldn't pay me to touch you, much less have sex with you."

"Careful baby yer gonna get me all worked up."

"You're delusional!" You're rising from your seat again, a small way to feel like you're somewhat on even ground even though he easily looks down on you even when you're standing up as straight as you can. That final quip seems to hit some sort of mark because the smile that's there is a little less playful than it was before. "Yer about as subtle as a bull in a china shop sweetheart. " The confusion on your face has him releasing a hyena like little chortle, shoulders shaking. He drops his chin to his chest to gaze at you over his glasses. What kind of dick wears sunglasses at 3:30 in the morning anyway?

" I've seen the little looks you've been givin' me when you think i'm busy not payin' attention. "

That dampened the anger in your chest. Dousing the heat from the surprise. You refuse to let it show up on your face though, doing your best to school your features into something calm and neutral. "You mean the glaring and the bitchy eye rolling? Yeah, I was hoping you'd notice those. "

"Nah not those. "

"Then what looks exactly?"

"Like you wanna fuck me."

It's so calmly spoken that it sends you reeling. Yes, Severen is naturally vulgar and he's flirted with you before. But all of that had been suggestions. Fun unserious banter. Not a direct accusation. It flips the entire argument on its head and leaves your jaw hanging open like a fish out of water.

"Careful baby, " he croons, "you might catch a fly. "

You don't even respond to that too busy dealing with the torrent of emotions raging inside of. You do not want Severen. That's not possible. To want the man who had altered the entire trajectory of your life, no matter if it was an accident would be the ultimate betrayal to yourself. Yes, your human life was directionless, a sham. You were lost when the Hooker clan walked into that lonely diner along the dusty Arizona backroad. A runaway future trophy wife who took off in the night to flee her lifeless relationship. A decision that was made entirely on impulse and months of repressed insecurities and ignored truths.

They looked normal enough. A grungy set of ruffians. There were plenty of other people who looked like them. Far from the types you would run across while attending your fiancé's business parties. And you had mused how much they would stick out like a sore thumb among the bubbling champagne flutes, the twinkling diamond chandeliers that cost more than the average person's house, and the passive aggressive gossip tossed between the jaded wives and the young arm-candy of rich men.

But out there in that worn hole-in-the-wall that stunk of burger grease and cigarette smoke they faded into the background.

Or they would have if not for some primordial animal instinct that had warned you that you were looking at something beyond yourself and the human life you lead. There was a strange aura around the group. Something gritty and otherworldly.

And you had noticed him first as if drawn to a magnetic field. Tall dark and handsome is how you could easily describe him. The jingling spurs, the leather, the cocksure grin. He looked like the type of guys that you fantasized about when you were in high school. Criminal bad boys that you and your friends would giggle over during sleepovers while you practiced doing each other's makeup and venting about acne, and boob sizes and gorged yourself on candy that your mother would have grounded you for.

But then you grew up and met Samuel. Ambitious, well mannered, educated, sweet. But not loyal.

He was the complete opposite of Sam. He strutted in like he owned the place while he scanned the room. The elderly couple a corner booth; the frazzled waitress behind the bar, her curly ginger hair was weaseling its way out of ponytail one strand at a time. The diner was practically dead, but you figured that the shouting match between her and the cook that you overheard from the kitchen had something to do with her stressed state. You had planned on giving the poor woman a good tip before you left.

But then his eyes landed on you. He smiled wider and it was a warning sign in its own right.

Maybe in the beginning there was something about him that you found interesting. Being the antithesis of your ex-fiancé, you assumed that you gravitated towards him because you were still hurt. Even though you never pursued anything with Severen there was still a pull there. On you try your best to ignore. He's cocky and selfish but he has a roughish charm, blunt sarcasm and is painfully nonchalance. But it's also a breath of fresh air. You spent too many years surrounded by people who spoke in double meanings and fake compliments. Every word was twisted until you didn't even know what the truth was anymore.

But he was a passing fascination. There wasn't any feelings or desire there. Not for the first few months at least.

So, you absolutely hadn't been seething last week while sitting at a booth with Mae and Diamondback, glaring across the cigarette clouded air while Severen leaned up against the bar, smiling and laughing with a gorgeous brunette. Her long slender legs stretching out from a pair of daisy dukes. Rich brown doe eyes peered at him coyly from underneath thick lashes. Then she placed a perfectly manicured hand on his arm squeezing the sleeve of his jacket and stroking upward. Her eyes were on the patches and badges. Then her lips were moving.

Probably asking him about them. Like she actually gives a shit. A ploy to get into his pants. You nearly rolled your eyes at the gesture, how he used it as an excuse to lean in closer until their noses were practically touching.

"Don't worry honey, " Diamondback's voice had rose over the dim chatter and rock music playing from the jukebox. " Just remember that she's not gonna be alive for very much longer. "

That had snapped you out of it. Blinking and turning away from him to stare down at the watery magarita clutched in your hand. You didn't know how to respond to her insinuation. So, you didn't. You didn't care what Severen did. He could have slept with every patron in that bar, and it would make little difference to you. You weren't jealous. Right?

Right?

It has you thinking back to every little interaction. Running through the memories like files and zeroing in on all of the times that you watched him seduce men and women alike. The sting that would nestle in your chest like a hot coal. It was guilt, right? Feeling sorry about watching his helpless victims naively let him butter them up just so he could lure them away back to their houses or a seedy hotel room so that he could tear them apart.

Sitting on the sidelines idly like you weren't aware of the danger that lies ahead of them.

How your stomach would flutter whenever he throws an arm over your shoulders. How you'd stay up with him for hours listening to his stories of his life before he crossed over despite the fact that he's your least favorite person in the group. Letting him take you down memory lane. Back to the days of outlaws and robbing banks and coaches, pillaging the west and running from the law. And in you'd in turn share with him parts of your old life. The country clubs, the expensive parties, the private beaches with cresting waves, the penthouse apartment in Manhattan. And then you'd jokingly whack his chest with no real force behind it when he'd playfully mock you for being spoiled and spoon fed.

Added together you've probably spent days alone with Severen talking about nothing. Sneaking into movie theaters and shushing him whenever he got too excited, loudly complaining whenever a character makes a stupid decision or whistling and whooping like drunken frat boy whenever a scene got even a little bit suggestive.

And sure, you've caught yourself staring at him a few times here and there. He's an attractive guy. Ruggedly handsome. Just as wild as the lives you lead and equally as alluring in his own right. Sometimes downright overwhelming in the gravity of his charisma and the intensity that radiates from him whenever he has prey in his sights. Of course, you've noticed it all. The veins that bulge underneath the creamy skin of his hands, the dark hair that dangles above his eyes. It's a little taboo but can't help but admire him whenever he's splattered by the fresh blood of a victim. Drops and smears of red contrasting with the dark blue of his eyes. The dangerous crazed sort of glint when he's taunting his prey, and his body language becomes purposeful and lithe. It always sends a little thrill through you.

He even does this stupid laugh every once in a while. It had thrown you off when you had first heard it. It seemed like a complete juxtaposition to his character. You never would have imagined that a man as imposing and unrestrained as Severen would produce a dumb noise that has an uncanny resemblance to Goofy, the stupid if not endearing hyuck sound - Jesus Christ you're so stupid!

You're jealous. You're fucking jealous. And every time you saw him with another person even if they were a means to an end, a nightly meal, it got under your skin. Even though you had no right to feel that way, you couldn't stand to see him walk away with somebody else underneath his arm.

You wanted nothing more than to snatch them by their hair or the scruff of their necks and take care of them yourself.

You meet Severen's gaze struggling under the weight of it. Struggling to grabble the scope of your realization. But you're drowning. The shrieking of the fan, the spice and leather of his scent. The room feels so small now, tight, crinkling up around you like a soda can under a heavy boot.

"I can't do this right now, " you just barely choke the words out around the sudden thickness of your throat and turn to exit. You only make it about three feet before there's a grip on your forearm and you're being spun around. "Wait, wait, wait baby, " he's cooing in soft voice, like he's trying to soothe a spooked animal. "You ain't gotta go and have a conniption fit, I was just playing with ya. " He drops your hand with a defeated sigh like he's not the one who decided to go and be an asshole.

"What?" You snap heatedly.

" Nuthin'. Didn't mean to go and get ya all worked up, " Yeah, like you believe that. Severen's entire M.O. is to cause trouble and stick his nose where it doesn't belong. "You just about got stream comin' out of your ears." He squints his eyes at you like you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. "Why are you runnin' baby? " He asks cocking his head. Then he's stepping closer prompting you to move back to keep the space between you.

"I'm not running, " you deny weakly. He scoffs at that pinning you with a glare that stirs up a thick warm feeling in your gut. And he's still stalking after you like he can't bear having even centimeters keeping you apart. You haven't felt like this in the longest time. Forgotten what it felt like to be pursued. Followed by an apex predator. To be the prey. And he seems to notice the shift in you because to the steady, cautious gate he was keeping suddenly shifts to that calculated tread that he has when he's hunting. "Oh, I don't know babydoll, " he rasps, voice taken on a thick tone. Heavy and low. It has tingles dancing across your skin. " I think you are. You aren't scared of me, are ya? I thought we were past that. "

Your back hits the wall just a few scant inches from the threshold of the open door. You could easily twist on the balls of your feet and slip out of the laundromat, leaving Severen alone and fleeing to the safety of the room. Homer's probably plopped in front of the TV watching some rerun and the other two couples are probably out enjoying some time to themselves. You could leave. Go and lock yourself in the bathroom and sit under the spray of the shower head and pretend that a night of washing clothes hadn't just changed the way that you look at not just yourself but the man that turned you.

But you don't. You're glued to the spot. Helpless to watch as he eliminates the remaining space and now stands toe to toe with you. The tips of his boots nudging the rounded points of your scuffed sneakers.

"No, I'm not scared of you, " you finally respond. And it's true. You aren't afraid of him. You afraid of all of these restrained feelings and urges that are now bubbling under the surface, straining against the lid you have kept on tight now that you've broken the seal and took a peek.

"Then what are you runnin' from? " Hearing the same question twice doesn't make it any easier to stomach. Doesn't make it any less difficult to face. You are terrified in a sense. Terrified that you'll just be used. A passing fancy, just another hole to fuck when he can't find someone to fill the void. Used, discarded and forgotten. You've felt the sting of betrayal before. Blamed yourself for Sam losing interest. That you weren't pretty enough anymore, that you'd become too boring, that you should have been more attentive. You had spent hours lying alone in a cold empty bed wondering where you went wrong while Sam was spending his time screwing his secretary in his high-rise office.

"I . . . " The words die in your throat hanging empty in the air. You couldn't tell him that it wasn't just all physical. How despite how pathetically blind you were to them that over the course eleven months you have managed to develop feelings for one of the most crude and frustrating men you've ever met. That as much as you wanted to grab him by the hair and fuck his brains out you also wanted to sit in his lap in public, to run down the streets with him at night and wreak havoc on the poor unsuspecting souls that cross your path, to hold his hand and kiss his bloodied lips after a successful hunt. It is undeniably corny, but you don't just want him. You want him to be yours.

Taking notice of your internal struggle Severen reaches up to cup the sides of your face. His hold light and unsure but he doesn't remove them. The gesture is so out of character for him that it has you looking up at him in surprise. He almost looks nervous, a streak of vulnerability flashing across his face, but it's gone in a blink and he's back to looking poised and controlled. But you know that he's just as out of his depth as you are, and the realization gives you the footing that you need. This time it's you who steps forward eating up the remaining leeway until your chest is pressed against his and you can feel the metal of his belt buckle and badges digging into you. He drops one of his hands, the remaining one moving to sweep his fingers through your hair, tracing the edge of your jaw with his thumb.

The energy has shifted. No longer pulled painfully taut, and awkwardly nervous. but charged. Still vulnerable, but electricity that steady rises in the air is welcome. The world was at a standstill, holding its breath in anticipation. It was stifling like the both of you had become magnetized and the heat in your abdomen spread further, burning the stagnant blood in your veins. Your nipples stiffen underneath the cloth of your stolen shirt. Everything was too warm, and you hadn't even done anything yet. And the only thing that keeps you from being swept up in your embarrassment is that you remind yourself that it has been a month or two since you've actually been touched by a man. You're just a bit pent up is all.

There's a hardness pressing against you through your sweatpants. That's definitely not his belt buckle. You have to fight to suppress a grin to know that he's already as worked up as you are.

His hand at his side slips to your stomach rucking up the shirt to get to the edge of your pants, fingers stroking the skin there but not slipping any further. You nearly whine, but you still have your head screwed on straight enough to try and cover up the noise, instead opting to lowly curse him under your breath but he definitely heard you if the smug way that he snickers is anything to go by.

"So, you gonna admit it? " The low Texan drawl has your eyes fluttering open. You didn't even realize they were shut. It takes you a minute to figure out what he's referring to. But you don't feel like giving him that sort of satisfaction. Not yet at least, the push and pull is already too fun, too good to give up so soon. You look up at him, feigning ignorance while you nose along his cheek, skirting dangerously close to his lips. "What do you mean?" You ask against his skin, pressing up tighter against him to tease, propping your knee against the bulge straining underneath his jeans. He hisses through his teeth and the hand cradling your face moves to your throat faster than you can blink. His hold is firm enough to keep you pinned in place, but not enough to hurt you. You can't help the satisfaction you feel. He already looks like he's hanging on by a thread, eyes glinting in the light. There's a crazed edge to them that would terrify anyone else, but it has you clenching around nothing, and you have to hold yourself back from grinding on him in a mindless haze. It nearly surprises you how quickly you managed to set him on edge, but then again Severen's always been one to restrain himself. Self-discipline has always been something that he's avoided like the plague.

"God dammit woman, its always gotta be a fight with you don' it."

"You say that like you don't like it," Your voice is amused and breathless but apparently far too cocky for his liking. His hand finally slips past the waist band of your pants. " Well, momma did always say I had a knack for trouble," he agrees like he isn't slipping a dexterous finger against you, parting your folds with an experimental brush that has your jaw parting despite how delicate the touch is. " Hell baby, your gettin' all haughty but I ain't hardly done nothin' and you're already wound up tight. This little cunt's soakin' my fingers."

Your cheeks burn at the remark, suddenly bashful again. It usually took a lot more than some light grinding and teasing to get you up and going, but if you're finally going to be honest with yourself Severen's always been able to affect you without having to do much of anything. But you've never really been one to let him have the last word. "That's funny coming from the guy who's about to burst out of his jeans, " you taunt around an airy moan. He starts drawing circles around your clit. Not enough pressure to bring you any real pleasure, but just enough to keep you hooked. It has the simmering heat in your belly flaring up in a delicious burn. "I'll give it to ya sugar. Ya just gotta say the word, save the both of us from waitin.' "

He releases your throat, trading his hand for his lips, latching onto the soft sensitive skin and sucking. It has your head lolling, thumping back against the wall at the feeling of teeth nipping across where your pulse would have thrummed if you still had one. You tilt your head back baring more of your neck to him which has him purring against you with a pleased hum. You don't even notice the way that your hips have started to roll against his fingers in a desperate attempt to get some sort of friction. Something to hold you over. Just a little bit more please- he's suddenly pulling his hand out of your pants leaving you wet and wanting. You cry out weakly, a protest heavy on the tip of your tongue but you're too busy panting around useless lungfulls of oxygen so you fix him with a glare instead. Quietly seething as he removes his head from the crook of your neck.

His eyes lock with yours, the ocean blue stormy and dark with want and you nearly shake underneath the power of it. He raises his hand up letting you take in the way that the wetness that coats them glimmers under the old fluorescents and then he's slipping them into his mouth. Making a show of it, groaning and closing his eyes like he's savoring a rich wine.

"Severen, " you gasp, fisting the lapels of his jacket in an attempt to anchor yourself. You have to turn the tables somehow. Get him just as worked up as you are. And if the way that he's still drooling over his cum stained fingers is any indication, slurping at the taste in a vulgar display of lust, it shouldn't be too hard. That's the thing about Severen. He's a hedonist in every sense of the word. Once he has something that he wants in his sights it doesn't take much for him to abandon reason and pursue no matter the consequences. Not even a shot gun to the chest can keep him from what he wants. It's a dangerous trait combined with how susceptible he is to his own desires. Running around like a mad dog sniffing after a wounded rabbit. Severen operates off of emotions and desires rather than logic and reason.

It's qualities that makes him a lethal, if not a chaotic hunter. Undoubtedly one of the most dangerous of the Hooker clan. But as commendable as his feral tenacity is it's also a fatal flaw. One that you're definitely going to exploit.

Play your cards right and you'll have him eating out of your hand. Not really playing cards honestly. Severen doesn't require that much strategy. Not when he's already horny and thinking with the head in his pants.

"Yeah, pretty girl, whatcha need?" He's grinning at you again, clearly basking in the affect he has on you. " All ya gotta do is say it."

You grip him by his hair, knocking his sunglasses off letting them clatter on the pale tiles forgotten, drawing him into a heated kiss that lights you both on fire. It wasn't soft or sweet and sugary like the old you would have probably wanted for a first kiss, but this was just as good. Time around you seems to slow down before dimming out entirely as if it was sucked into a black hole, all of the background noise from the outside world now muffled and distant like your ears are full of cotton.

It's sloppy, desperate and full of teeth and you're both squeezing yourselves together, joining like a rough puzzle. You let him lick into the heat of your mouth, shivering at the sweet taste of iron from his recent meal, the earthy musk of yourself on his tongue, angling your head to deepen the kiss, nipping at his lips and then he's moaning in a way that would probably embarrass him if he had the mind to care.

It has you gripping his hair harder and suddenly his hands are all over you. Sweeping down your hips, up your back, reaching to squeeze the swell of your ass like he can't get enough and can't decide where to touch. Like you might disappear if he doesn't keep his hold on you. Nailing you tighter against the wall with his crushing weight.

The firm line of his cock poking at you from between two layers of separate clothing gives you some clarity and you're squeezing an arm through the press of your bodies, which is a task in itself considering that it's near impossible to create leeway, being quite literally trapped between a wall and a hard place. Severen absolutely refusing to inch back to give you room to work, instead growling into your mouth like you're personally affronting him. The sharp nips of his teeth on your lips and the tightening grip on your butt punctuating the complaint.

You finally get ahold of your prize in your blind search. Your fingertips slip on the slick metal while you hastily jerk the buckle undone, hand shaking despite the limited amount of adrenalin now available in your body. And you're thumbing the zipper down just as quickly, desperate to get it down before Severen can focus enough to realize what you're doing. Halfway down the zipper is catching on the worn teeth of its track but it's good enough to work with and you're cramming your hand down his jeans and are immediately met with the throbbing heat of his cock. Of course, he'd go commando.

He breaks the kiss like he's reluctant to do it dragging your bottom lips between his teeth as he pulls away, looking down at you through a drunken haze, eyes already glassy and glazed over and the space between his brows are pinched in way that would make you think that he was in pain if you didn't know any better. Then you're gripping him, feeling the damp stream of precum that's been steadily leaking from his cock and squeeze the head and move up in a firm upward stoke, spreading the wetness up the length of him. Severen's groaning into the air, spitting an array of colorful words under his breath while mindlessly thrusting into the smooth heat of your hand.

It has you burning, legs shaking like you're the one with a hand in their pants. But God you never thought you'd see the day. To have Severen, the guy who couldn't shut up if you paid him to, moaning under you. Arrogant, sarcastic Severen melted against you, barely holding himself up and desperate all from a little hand job. The thrill that you got was unparalleled, dowsing gasoline on your ego, on the inferno of lust already burning underneath your skin. You can feel slick already smearing on the inside of your thighs at the gritty pleasure-drunk groans that keeps spilling out of him.

The angle is hell on your wrist, the lack of room available to move your arm has the muscles screaming. It doesn't help that he's the equivalent of a brick wall, clinging to your body like a desperate, horny leech. But you don't let up, focusing on making him fall apart, twisting your wrist around the stiff velvet of his cock, squeezing the head with each upstroke.

You lick at the flesh underneath his jaw, swiping at the skin with the tip of your tongue, and his upper body practically liquifies while he exposes more of his neck, shoving the expanse of it harder against your lips like he wants you to bite him. Hmm . . . Hardly one to resist your curiosity, you do just that. Opening you mouth to lave your tongue over the chosen spot before sinking your teeth down, not enough to break the skin but enough for it to sting, just enough to test the water. And you aren't disappointed. "Fuckin' shit!" he chokes out, the groan that follows is completely debauched and unhinged, and the obscene amount of cum that leaks from him makes you worried that he might have already came, but he's still hard and pulsing in your fist.

You thread your fingers through the inky strands of his hair, guiding his face back to look at you, admiring his blissed out, barely there expression.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" You croon, still working his cock in a steady rhythm meeting the clumsy roll of his hips. "It can feel even better too. All you have to do is say the word." You can't help but throw his comment back at him, still riding the high of having him at your mercy, of the control you have over him. So, it admittedly catches you by surprise when he's tearing your hand away from him, securing an arm around your back like a lock. "Aw baby, " he snickers, a complete one-eighty from the desperate mess that he was only seconds ago. His grin is all sharp edges and predatory, and paired with the wild gleam in his eyes it sends liquid heat pooling in inside of you. Your toes curl inside of your shoes as eager as you are nervous to see where this goes. " You don' call the shots here. I do. "

Then he's gripping your shoulders and turning you to shove your front down onto the defaced folding table that had sat next to you against the wall, the steel feet harshly shrieking against the floor. The change in perspective is jarring. Squinting underneath the artificial light, allowing your gaze to skirt around the room taking in the row of egg white washing machines, the set of ugly hard plastic chairs to your far left, and the built in dryers lining the pealing mustard yellow walls. The reality of it hit you with the force of a speeding car, humiliation flooding your system and stinging at the apples of your cheeks.

Had you really gotten so caught up in the moment that you completely forgot that you were out in a public place?

"Severen, wait- someone might see," you make to prop yourself up but he's placing a hand on the small of your back and pressing down, flattening your stomach against the cool surface of the table. " You were just jackin' my dick like there's no tomorrow. " He shifts closer, pressing himself into your backside shamelessly humping against the thick fabric of your sweatpants. "No one's been out here for hours. It's just you an' me."

He's not wrong. The last you saw someone outside the motel was roughly after you had all settled into the room, figuring out the sleeping situation and showering after a few days of roughing it. You had finally been able to properly wash your hair after having to settle for awkwardly ducking your head under the sinks of gas station bathrooms. After picking up your soiled blood-stained clothes from the floor and shoving them into your backpack you had stepped out onto the dusty, dimly lit parking lot. The first thing you had noticed was how empty it all was. Apart from the stolen RV that Severen had parked close by, there were only two other vehicles. An older gentleman was sitting outside of his room, smoking a hand rolled cigarette and staring off into the night. But based on the way that he rose from the chair he had been sitting on and turned to snuff out the cigarette on the window seal, you figured he was on his way on his way back inside. And other than the amalgamation of scents that come with well-traveled spaces, there weren't any that have been accompanied by the potent metallic call of blood, or the pulse of a heartbeat. The town is quiet and asleep.

It is just you and him.

A thrill bursts from deep inside you, spreading across your body and shivering up your spine. Something that he without a doubt caught given how tightly he was pressed up against your ass. You could feel the smugness radiating from him, basking in how he could turn you into mush by doing so little. His hands are on your hips now, slipping under your shirt and tracing up and down your sides with electricity following the path of his palms. His fingertips skim dangerously close to your breasts. You lift yourself up on your elbows in the hopes that he'd continue upwards and take them in his hands. But the tips of his thumbs rub across the soft skin just above the sensitive skin of your nipples. Humming a breathless whine your hips start to greedily roll back against his and in doing so the seam of your pants gets tugged up between your bodies and presses up deliciously against your swollen clit making your jaw drop open.

A satisfied hum all warm and heavy dips into a fiendish giggle and then he's taking your invitation, squeezing your breasts into his hands. They're rough, worn from decades of use, calluses and old scars from his time as a human weathering the skin. The texture of them has you mewling and then he's rolling them between his fingers, strumming the unforgiving heat inside you. Your pussy flutters around nothing, reminding you of how devastatingly empty you are.

"Ya know I could always tell ya were a bit sweet on me, " he admitted, leaning over you, followed by leather and spice. His words just barely make it through the thick red mist that packs your mind like stuffing, moving your head so that you could peer at him from the corner of your eye. You should be embarrassed by his revelation, insulted that he of all people (and apparently) everyone else had seen your little crush before you did. But the arousal is already too great. You can hardly focus on much else. But then he's leaning down so his chest is against your back, nuzzling into your cheek and pecking you with a kiss that's too chaste given your current predicament. "I could smell it on ya."

That you get loud and clear regardless of the fact that you're still grinding down on him like a paid whore. Does he have to bring this up now of all times? Who are you kidding, of course he does. Severen would never pass up the opportunity to be petty and knock you down a peg or two. God, the thought of it hadn't even crossed your mind. Your senses have obviously become heightened since your turning, surpassing the human experience by unimaginable extremes. It was almost overwhelming when you were freshly crossed over. For one, you can follow a scent trail for miles, so the fact that you've apparently gone nose blind to your own scent is a bit jarring. A blessing and a curse most likely.

And the fact that you didn't even think of Severen sniffing out your arousal both surprises and disappoints you.

And it's even worse to know that the entire clan must have - nope! No, not right now.

"You like to strut around like yer too big for your britches, but you were jus' achin for it weren't ya."

"Severen, I swear if you don't shut up, I'm gon. . . na . . . " You voice trails off on a choked breath when he cruelly rips his hands away from your chest and the weight at your back lifts away, followed your pants being jerked from your hips and down to your knees with a quickness. The light chill of the room meeting the heat of your cunt has you gasping. "Ya know sugar, you talk too much for your own good. " Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black. Then his hands are on the thick of your thighs, kneading the flesh between his fingers and kisses are being scattered across the sensitive skin, some with just the barest hints of teeth and your brain's turning back to mush. You can feel his hair brushing and tickling against you. His tongue runs up the inside of your thigh, cleaning up the slick that has been dripping from you and stopping just before he reaches where you need him most.

You whine open and shameless rocking back to try and get him to do something. Anything. A shocking sting erupts on the swell of your ass like it's been struck with a heated metal, a heavy clap ringing out across the room making you yelp. Feverous need burned hot in your stomach at the realization that he spanked you. He fucking spanked you.

You nearly say fuck it; you almost throw your pride to the wind and beg but then without a word of warning he's spreading your lips open with his thumbs and the warmth of his mouth is on you. You barely register him groaning over the sound of your forehead slamming on the table beneath you, eyes rolling in the back of your skull at the firm press of his tongue grazing over your clit before swiping over your slit, collecting the taste of you on his tongue and swallowing. He burrows his face as deep as possible, drawing in a deep breath that's utterly filthy so that he could take in your scent while working his tongue inside of you, and his arm is reaching around your bucking hips so that he can drag tight circles around your swollen bud. " 'Amn ya 'aste s' good, " he grunts, absolutely refusing to remove his face by even the slightest degree. Groans muffled and slurred. " 'weet as pie."

Your hands are reaching around the table clawing across the surface until you find the edge of the plastic, desperate for something to ground yourself down to reality while you try not to float away. His tongue is unforgiving, burrowing deep, lapping along your inner walls like he's trying to drink you down. Your legs are shaking and it's searing at your toes and fingertips. The muscles in your abdomen are already tensing and it feels like a wave is rising high. It was almost demeaning how quickly he's working you towards your climax.

He removes his fingers from the swollen bundle of nerves, opting to spread you open with them instead so that he can play with your clit in delicious, practiced strokes with his tongue . . . Sharp repetitive shapes coaxing you closer and closer. It takes you a second to focus around the pleasure clouding your brain, but you catch it. Blunt capital letters crudely shaped by the curl of his tongue. An 'S' an 'E' followed by five more letters before being repeated.

His name. The bastard is spelling his name on your clit. Then his lips are sealed around your slit, gulping down the wetness that smeared down his nose and chin and groaning wantonly, and you fleetingly wonder if he's touching himself from eating you out.

The thought has you jerking against him, back bowing taut and he has to grip you with his free hand to keep you from wiggling free from his hold. Hard enough to leave a bruise behind. The vibrations of his voice against your pussy, the scratch of his five o' clock shadow rubbing against your skin, the suction of his mouth, the unforgiving strum of his fingers, it's all too much at once. It's good. it's so, so good . . . Your hips snap sharply in a shameless grind, riding his face as the wave rises up, looming over you, dangerously close to sweeping you under. Fuck, just a bit . . . more . . .

Then it stops as soon as it started, and your body is aching in an almost painful way fluttering and shaking violently around the loss of his tongue and fingers. But before you can berate or beg him, he's hauling you up by the nape of your neck and jerking you around to snag your bottom lip between the hold of his teeth, pulling you into a kiss that's hungry and burning. You melt under the heat of it like wax, compliant and wanting.

He's reaches down to grip the swell of your ass and lifts you up like you weigh the same as a sack of feathers to deposit you back on the table, pulling back away from you, ignoring the helpless moan you emit so he can fervently start tugging at one of your shoes, swearing when it catches on the heel of your foot. He tosses it once he finally wiggles it off, the leg of your sweats quickly following. He doesn't even bother with the other sneaker, apparently deeming it too much of a hassle to remove, leaving the thick fabric of your sweats to bunch around the shoe and hang uselessly.

You're tugging him closer by the lapels of his coat as he's done, spreading your legs wide, offering yourself up for him to finally take. An offer that he doesn't refuse, reaching to grip you by the throat and forcing you to look into the wide feral glint of his eyes. He looks like he's a man possessed, lips still glistening with the dewy gloss of your arousal, and he's never looked hotter. But you can't help but wonder if you're going to make it out of this alive.

"As much as I love the taste of you, sugar, when you cum it's gonna be on my dick. " He growls, grinding the thick head of his cock against your clit, making your cunt quiver, still sensitive from your denied orgasm. It has strings of pleasure shooting deep and latching into the muscles and sinew of your body. You secure the hold of your legs around his waist, panting and begging against his chest, hoping that he'd finally give in and let you have it.

"Yeah, ya want it? " His voice is all condescending and cocky around its southern drawl. On any other night, in any other moment it would have absolutely pissed you off. It still kind of does, cutting into the lustful haze and striking a chord. But he's tapping the thick head of his cock over your slit in steady teasing motions, over and over like he's got all the time in the world.

"Yes, yes, please. I want it." You beg, officially throwing your pride out of the window. You barely get the words out before he's pushing within the wet velvet of your cunt, the both of you groaning with shard relief at the sensation of him finally stretching you open. He doesn't wait for you adjust, and you're thankful that your already so worked up and ready because he immediately sets a brutal pace, punching into you without a shred of mercy, bottoming out with each stroke. All you can do is cling to his shoulders and do your best to chase the wild rhythm. The ecstasy is already boiling and pulsing up your spine. He takes a nipple in between his rough fingers while rutting deep, groaning into the junction of your neck with a faint hint of teeth like he might bite you.

If someone had told you hours before that you would be getting railed in a laundromat at 4 in the morning by Severen, you would have laughed in their face. But now that he's actively turning your brain into liquid mush you can't help but mourn the fact the two of you probably could have been doing this regularly if you had just put your differences aside.

"Ya gotta be quiet. " He huffs, nuzzling against your cheek. You hadn't even realized the increasing volume of your hiccupping moans. You burry your face into the hollow of his throat, biting into the skin in an attempt to muffle yourself, but it proves to be useless with the broken, pleasured sobs still escaping around the makeshift gag. " Unless you wan' someone to hear. " Then like the devious bastard that he is he's shifting on his feet, spreading his legs wider to pour more power into his thrust, grabbing the meat of your thighs to hitch them higher around his waist so that he can punch deep and absolutely flay you open and pour molted heat inside, setting every singular nerve alight like sparklers.

"Oh, fuck! " You cry brokenly, voice already raw. He's suddenly there, the drag of his cock repeatedly grinding against that devastating spot inside of you with deadly precision, like he's fucked you a million times. Like he already has every inch of you mapped out. Now you're just along for the ride, clinging to him helplessly while the pleasure lights up like a live wire thrashing across steaming water. Your back arches almost painfully and your fingers rake down the smooth leather of his jacket, no doubt leaving raged scratches across the expanse of it. You are a little disappointed that it isn't the flesh of back that you're slicing angry red streaks across - not that the scratches would last long either way, but it has the possessive part of you mourns the lost opportunity.

He doesn't slow his rhythm in the slightest, delighting in the way that your body writhes and jolts. The laundromat fills with the lewd sounds of your coupling, the wet slap of skin on skin, the restrained moans and cries, the filthy, repetitive squelching of his cock filling your cunt.

You aren't even in control of your own body anymore, completely enslaved to the burning syrupy pour of pleasure that courses through your veins and across each piece of you like lava, a mindless animal chasing after the high. You catch little compliments and curses under the ragged gasps of his breath, weak, wrecked sounds. Some have your heart going all melted and fuzzy, praising you so sweetly, but you're also gasping at the pure shameless filth that's pouring out of him like a fountain. You've never heard him sound so mindless, so gutted. His honeyed drawl is wrecked, frazzled around the edges while he pants in your ear like he's been wounded. And the fact that he's just as affected as you are, just as fucked out, has you clenching down around him like your pussy is trying to milk him for all he's worth.

"God damn, yer fuckin' squeezin' me, " he groans, shuttering at the scrape of your nails across his scalp, leaning into it like a purring housecat. And then he's pulling your face away from the crook of his neck to stare you down, gripping you by the jaw. The wild glare of his eyes is electrical, sharp and dangerous. A trickle of fear steaks deep across your frying nerves before swiftly mutating into an aching throb of lust. The satisfied wolfish grin that greets you tells you that he knows. "Feelin' good? Yeah, ya are. My good girl ain'tcha, takin' me so well. " The praise has you gripping his shoulders like you'll fall apart without the support. And right now, you probably would. "You're mine now."

Not just 'baby' or 'sweetheart', but his. It has another feeling welling up, tearing at the walls, a possessive urge that you've been too been to ignorant, too scared to acknowledge. Months of pent-up jealousy and want. The need to stake your claim after standing on the side lines and watching just about every man and woman in the U.S flirt and feel him up.

You meet him with an unwavering stare of your own threading your fingers through the dark strands of his hair in a jealous hold. "Then I guess that means you're mine, too, " and then you're yanking his head back and sinking your teeth into him just above his beaded necklace. Skin breaks underneath the cut of your teeth, splitting just as easily as warmed butter. Iron and smoked spice gushes across your taste buds, spilling into your mouth like a fine aged bourbon. The sinful flavor shreds your brain, sinking you deeper under the burned haze of need and want. His skin is vibrating under your mouth, shaking from the volume of his gutted moans. He grips you closer, jerking up inside the quivering heat of your cunt with rabid unrelenting thrusts.

You preen under his desperation, swallowing around the tendons of his throat, gulping down mouthfuls of his spiced blood like its ichor. You haven't drunk his blood since the night you had crossed over and then you had been sluggish and confused under the stress of the night. But no matter how muddled your memories are you do remember his taste. You always blamed it one being recently turned, the foreign torturous hunger seizing your body that made him taste so good. But now you know that it's just him. Heat and cream and spice. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull as you greedily gulp at the wound while the essence of him flows into your stomach.

"You dirty fuckin' minx!" He slurs out on drunken words, barely forming them around the moan they chase. His wrecked reaction and the high you feel from successfully getting the upper hand on Severen has you smiling around the bite of your teeth. Now that you have knowledge of this little chink in his armor you can't wait to abuse the hell of it. But as good as it is you don't want to take too much and hurt him. So, with a great amount of restraint you remove your teeth from the meat of his neck, ignoring his protesting moan and reluctantly pull back just enough to lap the flowing wound, admiring at the way that it pours down his chest, joining the rest of the red that soils his wife beater.

"You were made f'r me. Made for my cock, " he rambles somehow driving himself into you with even more vigor.

The buckle of his belt is digging into the back of your thigh with each pointed thrust. It's messy and ragged and feral. Perfect. It has the heavy, burning pressure steadily climbing up, your body tightening like a rubber band being stretched to its limits. The pleasure that looms over you is almost daunting, fizzling at your skin like a lit fuse burning closer to a stick of dynamite. "C'mon baby, I can feel ya, " he grits fervently. He's pressing a rough thumb to your swollen clit, grinding it in perfect timing with the burning drag of his cock. But a part of you didn't want it to end yet, too scared to face what may follow afterwards. You couldn't help the bitter fear of rejection. That this was just a one-time thing. You don't know if you'd be able to forget tonight, to brush it off and pretend that it didn't happen. To just sweep it under the rug and face eternity. You willed your body to hold back, doing your best to extend the pleasure afraid of letting go of this moment. But he could feel it. "It's alrigh,' let go. I gotcha. "

Then he's licking into the bloodied hollow of your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. It's messy and debauched and decadent all at once. It has you gasping into him, riding his fingers and cock in a wanton abandon, the fear that parades around in your head discarded to the side like useless, broken toy. The world spins on itself as the pleasure arches high. You could feel it there, taste it on the tip of your tongue like lightning and honey, a wave ready to take you under and drown you alive.

"Lemme feel ya. Be my good girl and cum."

Everything - the world, time, your body - seizes. Muscles shaking like you've been tazed, writhing under the sweetened, stinging claws of ecstasy as it tears through your body in unforgiving pulses. Fuck. Your jaw drops open in a silent wail, arms, legs and cunt tensing around Severen's body like bands of steal while he continues his heavy thrusts, intent on dragging out your pleasure until you can't take it. Everything is muffled like your ears are stuffed with cotton and your heads packed with fuzz, and you swear you've died, unable to form a single coherent thought. All you can do is feel. You're a nerve of fire and electric heat. Suspended and lost adrift in the moment and an overwhelming cocoon of liquid euphoria. He still hasn't stopped. His cock is still filling you with sharp jolts, hellbent on wringing out every burst of bliss that he possibly can.

"Sev, please. I want you to fill me up, I wan-" his mouth meets yours with the clacking of teeth, and you're drinking each other down. He only manages a few more sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts of his hips before he's burying deep, shoving himself against the cradle of your thighs and coming in thick heavy pulses while his body shakes and quivers. The raw, aggressive drag of his lips has melted into a softer exchange. Delicately nipping and pecking at each other's lips while he still rocks against you in lazy, unhurried drags. You're covered in blood and filth but it's still so sweet and sugary. You don't want the night to end.

It has you stilling. The weight of your actions settling over you like a winter breeze. You had just fucked Severen. The man you're supposed to hate. You should hate him. You shouldn't be lamenting the very big possibility that he'll pull out, buckle his belt and leave you sitting in your collective mess to stew in your humiliation and guilt. You don't even know how you would cope living with him after tonight. Sleeping in the same rooms as him; listening to the that cute, weird little piggish snort that bubbles out of him when he tells a joke, to walk around and act like he didn't hold up a mirror and force you to acknowledge the feelings that you've been carting around for months on end.

Worn hands are cupping your face in a delicate hold, like you'd fall apart if they gripped to hard, gently directing you to look up and meet a set of hooded baby blues. Concern melting into the lust glazed pools. "Why the sour look?" He asks, voice raw and strung out from use. "I didn't think I did all that bad."

Despite the inner turmoil, the little joke has a smile weakly quirking your lips. You shake your head as best as you can while being restricted under the hold of his palms. "Well, you weren't the worst if that helps, " you quip back, trying to block out the ice of your insecurities, even for a moment. " For a second there I thought you had killed me."

His eyebrows shoot up dramatically, followed by an awed whistle. "Damn, knocked ya dead twice. That must be some sort of record. "

He catches the playful punch you try to throw at his chest, nipping at the knuckles. You could lie to him. Tell him that you're fine and go on with your night. Even if he doesn't believe you there's a fifty-fifty chance that he won't pry any further. But . . . You also don't want to walk around without closure.

"It's just. . . the 'you're mine' thing . . . " Jesus Christ, you feel like a teenage girl again stuttering in front of your crush in the middle of the high school hallway. And the intent way that he's staring at you does little to ease the fluttering ball of anxiety in your chest. It's too much. And so, you look anywhere but him. Sweeping your eyes past him to study the old, questionably stained wall that has suddenly become very interesting. "Did you mean it or was it just sex talk?"

The grating voice in the back of your head crooning that he's going to laugh at you. Call you stupid for assuming that he had actually meant it. You're waiting for the rug to be pulled out from underneath you and to be left to bust your ass on the cold floor. Alone, dumb, and useless. A girl with a crush.

But he's gripping the exposed flesh of your thighs- god, he's still inside you. You're trying to be all vulnerable and he's still ins- and sweeping soothing circles across the stretch of them with his thumbs. It pulls you out of your head a bit, focusing you just enough to really look at him. His dark hair is tussled, hanging in front of the gorgeous blue of his eyes in a way that you always found attractive on him. Scarlett lightly stains his lips from the bloody kisses you had exchanged, making them glisten lightly under the light. The bite mark on his neck has yet to fully heal, ugly and blunt and bleeding, it has the possessive streak inside of you preening and strutting. You did that. You marked him, not someone else. He's ruggedly handsome, lightly panting from the exertion despite the fact that he doesn't need to. Just over a centuries old habit.

"I said it didn' I? I meant it. " He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you feel stupid. "It's you an' me."

That has the ice thawing, snapping off to drift downstream and far away. You pull him to you again to peck at his lips, completely overcome and basking in the glow of it. The relief. Your chest is bursting, filling up with the sun. The sun before all this. Before the dark and the blood. Soft, and fuzzy and inviting and warm. A sun without consequence or death in its wake " Ya know- " Severen starts, talking between your kisses. " Yer about as dense as you are beautiful."

That gives you pause, briefly wondering if you heard him right. You stare at him like he's grown a second head, eyebrows furrowing. There's that unforgivingly sharp tongue of his, always at the ready to strike. But it doesn't ruin the private moment between you, it just shifts gears. The jab is spoken much more softly than it would have typically been. It's more playful, lacking bite. It keeps you from heating up a cutting remark of your own. Instead of bristling and shaking out of his hold like the old you would have done you level him with a glare, a teasing warning all in its own, cautioning him to explain with no real gall behind it.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, " He scoffs petulantly. " I've always been a bit sweet on ya too. I made it pretty damn obvious."

"You did not-"

" Hell woman, I killed about damn near every guy you ever flirted with!"

Wow, he really thought that being an obnoxious douche and outright taking your diner was the equivalent of flirting. Like a bully pulling at the pigtails of his crush because he's too bullheaded to have a conversation. Figures that Severen would think that singlehandedly snatching your meals from you is a declaration of feelings. "I thought you were being a dick!" You counter, " you're always stealing my food. "

"I wasn't stealin', I always give the bodies back to ya. I was jus' . . . doin' the dirty work for ya. " You suppose that he is correct now that you think back on it. After tearing the unfortunate souls' throat out with his teeth or slitting it from ear to ear with a broken beer bottle or at times the lethal silver of his spurs (often saved for the people that piss him off the most) he'd discard the body at your feet like a feral barn cat dropping a hunted mouse on the doorstep of its owners front porch like a twisted offering, beaming at you with his mouth smeared red and his chest puffing out like a strutting rooster. Wait . . . offering. You always thought that his habit of killing your prey came from a place of malice. A way to poke and prod at you. A grim reminder that you still weren't as ruthless as him. That you still aren't a good enough hunter after all this time.

But like a dumb ass you were reading it all wrong. Blinded by forced disdain and your own insecurities. But then again, it's not your fault that he's apparently allergic to simply sitting down and talking. Roughly two hundred years old and he still can't seem to process his emotions like an adult. You truly know how to pick them.

But the sadist- the betrayed fiancé in you wants to hear the confession out of his own mouth. You need the confirmation for yourself. "Why?"

His eyes soften around the edges, melting like slates of ice. It's a look you've only seen twice from him since the months you've been a part of each other's lives. And it's a soothing balm on the old scar that still hasn't fully healed inside you.

"You've come a long way from bein' that scared girl, jumpin' at shadows like a cute lil' scaredy cat. I mean, sometimes the way you go after those poor bastards really gets my blood pumpin' down south. " His voice drops to a husky timbre, reminding you of nights spent in neon lit bars, filled with the high of adrenaline sizzling in your veins from a successful hunt, tinged with the sinful iron bliss of blood. That southern is twang rounding out and cutting edges, dripping with heat and melted honey. You feel him twitch inside of you, clearly enjoying the memories parading around inside his head. You almost worry that he'll try to use it as an excuse to ditch the current conversation and try to get in your pants again (like he still isn't inside of you and like you wouldn't enthusiastically indulge in another round regardless) but to your relief he doesn't. "But I can still see ya hesitate sometimes- drag it out longer than necessary. So, I figured it wouldn't do any harm if I stepped in from time to time and took care of 'em for ya. Not that I wantcha goin' soft on me. "

He wasn't wrong. You have accepted your new life. Finally stopped struggling against the dark fate that's been set out before you regardless of your initial reluctance. Your outright refusal to partake in the night and the eternity it promised. Until you couldn't resist its call. Crawling to the whispered lure of the dark instead of staggering out into the morning light one last time like you had once promised yourself. But despite accepting your new family you've never completely been able to shake the guilt that comes with killing. Even though it's done purely out of self-preservation - at least on your part.

So, sometimes you do drag out the flirty exchanges between the oblivious men at the bars. The men who come to unwind after a grueling day of work, the men who are just trying to escape the unrelenting weight of their lives, hoping to find reprieve at the bottom of a bottle; the men just out to chill with their buds and maybe get laid if they're lucky enough. People just living their lives. Diamond's always tried to reassure you in her own motherly yet blunt way. Tough love. "They're dead men whether you eat 'em or not. They died as soon as we stepped foot in this place. No reason to go hungry, honey."

Just a fact. But a hard pill to swallow regardless. They would be killed even if you weren't the one to eat them and so just like Diamond back said, you might as well as feed. They'd be bodies in a burning building either way.

But the fact that Severen noticed and didn't pull on your hypothetical pigtails but opted to help you in his own crude, silent way instead. It had your chest warming like the morning sun was going to burst out of you. Perhaps some would see it as a small gesture. But coming for Severen, the guy who you had convinced yourself (well, not convinced- he was definitely more than on the fence about you when you were new and kicking and screaming) hated you, took your reluctance into account and decided to do something about it. Especially considering that he is the second eldest of the Hooker clan - apart from Jesse himself - and took to the bloodshed and violence like it was second nature.

"Plus, they shouldn't have been puttin' they're hands on ya anyway. " You just barely manage to catch that little remark. Maybe you should be concerned about the happy little thrill it gives you, but you aren't. Instead, you pull him closer by the ornate lapels of his jacket until your chests are pressed together, smoothing your hands up until they meet skin. And a part of you silently mourns how the once gnarled mark on his neck has begun to seal closed, now a faint set of scars underneath a coat of smeared crimson. And you're a bit tempted to give him another.

But you're too transfixed on the soft baby blues studying your face to try. "Thank you, " you responded with a smile, toying with the inky strands that collect at the nap of his neck. "We both seriously could have pulled our heads out of our asses, but seriously . . . Thank you."

" Don' mention it. " He replies, a bit of mischief shifts through the sugar in his gaze. His smile turning from relaxed and sweet to quirking up a bit too sharply at the corners. " . . . Kitten."

"Don't start with that, " you warn, nose crinkling at the old nickname. "I'm serious."

"Alright, twist my arm why don't cha, " he grumbles like he's annoyed but he's nuzzling against the rise of your cheekbone playfully, nipping at your jaw. "I'll spare ya. For now."

You look over to the little wall of dryers, skipping down the rows until you find the machine containing your clothes, now idle with the black material of your shirt peeking out over the circle rim of the door. It all comes in one after the other: The faint buzz of the florescent lights above, the metallic squealing of the fan in the corner, the dull grind of the sun still somewhere on the other side of the planet but growing closer with each passing second. The gravity of it finally dropping on your shoulders but all you can do is laugh into his chest. The both of you had sex in the grimy laundry room of some hole-in-the-wall hotel like a pair of horny teenagers. Jesus, you could have been caught.

"What?" He asks, now stroking up and down your bare thighs like if he quit touching you it would kill him.

"Did we seriously just fuck in a laundromat?" You question like you don't already know the answer, a disbelieving laugh trailing after your words. Then he's chuckling in that goofy, charming way of his. "Better strike it off the ol' bucket list. "

You swat him on the arm like you mean to scold him, but it does nothing to quell the little puffs of laughter that hiccup from his chest. Not that you want it to. "Have a list, do you?"

"Oh, you have no idea, darlin.' " His voice is lowering in that sinful pitch again and it has a bit of heat pooling in your abdomen. " I could go on and on talkin' but we'd be here for weeks. 'Sides, I'd much rather show you."

"As much as I'd love to take this table for another spin, I think we should save the fun for another time." You unlock your legs from their loose hold around his waist, allowing him to finally move back. You hiss lightly at the drag of his soft cock slipping free from your sensitive walls, a trail of cum pouring down your thigh. You nearly cringe at the feeling and now that you're no longer distracted by the haze of sex it finally sets in how disgusting you are again, smeared in blood and cum. Looks like another show is in order. The two of you are quiet while you straighten yourselves out, simply enjoying each other's presence. Severen tucks himself back into his jeans, securing his belt while you reach down to thread your foot through the dangling sleeve of your pant leg. You hop down from the table to work them over your hips but seriously underestimate how wobbly the relaxed and used muscles of your body are. Your knees shake and you have the fleeting thought that you might just crumple to the floor, but then a set of sturdy arms are looped around you, securing you to an equally firm chest.

"Like a newborn fawn," he quips, oozing ego and smoky satisfaction. Jesus, he is going to become unbearable with that self-assured bravado. He's already dangerously cocky, walking around like the world spins for his entertainment alone but now that he's successfully blown your back out, you're never going to hear the end of it.

"Oh, shut it. " But you smile regardless and the feel of the cold tiled floor underneath the thin material of your sock reminds you that he threw your left shoe somewhere in your mindless scramble to get to each other.

"Well, speakin' of time, we've got a couple more hours a' dark." He says drawing your attention from its light search of the floor. " Wanna go kick up some trouble? Bust a couple headlights? Scare some drunks?" The grin on his face is boyish, displaying the charming gap between his teeth. And the excitement radiating from him is infectious, practically vibrating where he stands from all the chaotic possibilities running amok inside his head. No doubt ideas of burning buildings, of shooting fireworks into the night; of speeding down quiet desert roads in stolen cars, blaring music and howling into the air. Forever is a long time. And although you've only gotten a taste of it, of the long sleepless nights ushered by a devilish primal hunger that guides you to the steady pulsing heartbeats of lonely, unassuming people, you were never sure how much eternity you were willing to take. Would you finally crack after a decade of dodging the sun? Tired of taking cover inside seedy motel rooms and taping tinfoil to the windows of some unfortunate strangers' truck? Would it be fifteen years? Twenty? A century? Or maybe by then you'll be a completely different person who will scold the current version of yourself for not fully embracing the dark and all of its gifts. Maybe she'll be able to cut down her prey with the same deadly indifference, the same wild joy that the others do. Maybe one day you'll bathe in the blood of your prey instead of flinching from it before you regretfully gulp down the metallic nectar. You can't say for certain. Now that Severen's at your side it doesn't just null and void all of your fears and internal struggles for the present and future. But it helps to know that you have someone to lean on, even though he can't personally relate to most of your struggles. To have someone with you on your walk through eternity. And now that you think about it, you wouldn't want it to be anyone else. You can't imagine spending the rest of your time on earth with anyone other than the devious violent cowboy standing in front of you. His eyes lit up like a fresh blue morning sky, staring at you like you hung up the moon and set the stares alight. It's a look you've seen before out of the corners of your eyes. Too foolish to correctly recognize it, often presuming that he was looking at you to be rude. Mistaking the intensity in his gaze for annoyance. But now you melt under it, threading your fingers between his and squeezing his hand in a reassuring grip. Maybe forever wouldn't be such a long time after all. "There's nothing I'd love more."

" . . . but first you need to find my damned shoe."

#Severen x reader #severen van sickle #near dark #near dark x reader #vampire #slasher x reader #severen van sickle x reader

168 notes · View notes

possibilistfanfiction · 1 year ago

Note

for surgeons au.,, perhaps some hurt/comfort :,)

[hbd @gohandinhand. sorry but tbf... u asked for this lol (also so many of you asked for 'what if bea gets hurt' bc we all share one collective grey's anatomy-ass braincell // also on ao3]

‘dr. silva is still in the tumor resection?’

it’s only, like, your fifth week being a doctor, so there are so many things you don’t know all the time; you add dr. villaumbrosia asking this question to the list. still, she’s kind of the scariest person you’ve ever met in your life — unflappable and a little mean to everyone but her patients and their families, talented and whip-smart beyond belief, willing to take on the hardest cases — and so you answer anyway with a nod. you only know this because zaire promised he would come find you just after he’d finished with dr. silva — to celebrate at the bar down the street and hopefully more than that too — but you don’t add that; you don’t think dr. villaumbrosia would appreciate it all that much.

‘okay,’ she says, more shaken than you’ve ever seen her.

‘is something… did something go wrong, or?’

‘with ava’s surgery, no, i don’t think so.’

ava is new; you’re not embarrassed to admit that you and basically your whole intern class has been keeping track of who’s with whom amongst the attendings, so you know they’re all either dating or friends or some kind of family. still, dr. villaumbrosia never uses first names at work.

‘there’s a trauma being flown in,’ she continues. ‘there was an avalanche, and dr. choi was skiing in the backcountry today. i don’t — i don’t know more details.’ she worries her hands for a moment. ‘she hasn’t answered her sat phone.’

‘oh,’ is the best you’ve got, disarmed by the obvious fear that lingers around every inch of her.

‘dr. silva can’t know, if she does come in. not until after he’s finished the hardest part of the procedure and can pass it off.’

not that you were going to be the one to randomly decide to go to dr. silva’s OR and say any of this, but you nod. ‘of course.’

‘i need you to go check on tai; she’s in daycare.’

‘uh, i don’t — i’ve never —‘

dr. villaumbrosia waves you off. ‘she’s cute. looks like choi, acts like silva.’

when you don’t respond immediately, dr. villaumbrosia just glares. ‘yeah, of course,’ you hurry to say.

‘and then i need you to go to the ER for the trauma. dr. masters already knows you’re coming; you’re going to see what’s going on and tell me and no one else. got it?’

‘yes, dr. villaumbrosia. will do.’

‘great.’

to be honest, you have no idea where the daycare even is, and this certainly isn’t what you went to a bazillion years of school for, but whatever. maybe this will get you on dr. villaumbrosia’s good side.

‘and dr. al-najjar?’

you nod.

‘i know this seems ridiculous. but dr. choi is — she’s my favorite person. it’s important.’

you understand in your own way: you facetime your little brother every day, no matter how tired you are, no matter how late or early it is for you. ‘i’ll tell you everything as soon as i can.’

‘good.’

tai is, apparently, a fourteen month old, very cute toddler, who really does look like dr. choi. when you explain, very briefly, to one of the daycare teacher that dr. villaumbrosia sent you to see how she’s doing, make sure she’s okay, she nods and shows you over to an area of the room with soft mats and some wooden blocks. tai smiles at you, all baby teeth and big cheeks, and says mostly nonsense but a few words — blocks, doctor, mama — and then promptly knocks over her block tower with definite glee.

you snap a nice, cute picture of tai smiling in her little giraffe hoodie and send it off to dr. villaumbrosia. you’ve never been a baby guy, and you’re certain she isn’t either, because there’s no way you could ever possibly choose her specialty if you were, but she loves the photo anyway — the first and only time she’ll ever respond to a text from you like that, you’re absolutely certain — and it makes you smile, just for a moment. when you wave goodbye to tai she laughs, and you hope, very concretely, that she goes home with both of her parents tonight, or soon, at least, that her family stays as full and happy and warm as it had been this morning.

you feel genuinely nervous and way too invested: you’ve met dr. choi in passing a handful of times, and she’d assisted on one of dr. villaumbrosia’s surgeries once that you’d gotten to hold a retractor for, but according to emma — the best gossip and also dr. choi’s favorite intern, allegedly — says that dr. choi is kind and quiet and a wonderful teacher, patient and skilled and efficient. you’d been looking forward to being on her service soon, honestly, and, even in the past few weeks, you’re starting to understand that the people here, that you spend so much time with, are starting to feel like family.

dr. masters nods at you, her braids already tucked away beneath a cap, trauma gown on. you’re on peds, so you don’t know if you’re really here to help with anything — dr. villaumbrosia wasn’t called down for any consults, still set for the routine bowel repair she’d been scheduled for this afternoon, so you’re fairly certain there weren’t any children coming in — but she gestures toward the gown and gloves anyway.

‘just in case we need more hands on deck,’ she says as way of explanation. ‘there’s four people, and we don’t really know the extent of their injuries.’

you nod — what else is there to say — and things are very, very still until dr. masters gets a page and then everything is moving — loudly, organized, seamless — and you’re in awe, for a moment, of dr. masters’ ER. you love trauma surgery and she’s, like, kind of the biggest badass in the country, and it’s pretty fucking cool to watch her very quickly get everyone exactly where they need to be in the amount of time it takes for her to walk to the elevator that leads up to the helipad.

the wind whips from the blades when the doors open, rainy and miserable, and your heart is caught in your throat when the door opens. you see dr. masters’ hands shake, although you’d never, ever mention it, locked behind her back in tight fists, until dr. choi’s face — a bruise along her jaw, a scrape that runs underneath her eye, all the way into her hair, the tip of her nose and the tips of her ears a painful red, probably from frostbite — comes into view.

dr. choi, strapped into a stretcher, covered in a blanket and hooked up to an IV, immediately starts talking, before the stretcher is even fully out of the helicopter. ‘the three coming out,’ she starts, ‘i dug them out as much as i could. i did an emergency thoracostomy on david, you need to push a ton of antibiotics. anna needs to go to the OR immediately for her pelvis, make sure cam —‘

‘—beatrice,’ dr. masters says, rushing to her side and, if you were to bet, wanting to sink to her knees in relief. ‘oh my god.’

‘i’m fine,’ dr. choi says, annoyed at being made to stay on the stretcher. ‘i properly deployed my avalanche airbag. but mary, listen —‘

dr. masters holds dr. choi’s face in her hands and then kisses the top of dr. choi’s head. it’s tender, and you wonder how long they’ve known each other to afford that level of intimacy, that level of care. ‘i got them, bea. i promise. we gotta take care of you too or ava will kill me.’

dr. choi relaxes, just minutely, but you can tell — maybe because you would trust dr. masters with your life or anyone else’s, maybe at the mention of dr. silva, maybe some combination of both — and she nods.

dr. masters rolls her eyes and kisses the top of dr. choi’s head once more. ‘stupid hero. let me go make all your hard work worthwhile.’

dr. choi smiles, definitely reassured now. ‘you better.’

you’re not surprised, exactly, that chief superion is waiting to take over dr. choi’s care, but you are a little surprised when dr. superion squeezes her shoulder gently and smiles, a little sad.

‘ava is still in surgery, so let’s get the worst of it taken care of before she’s done, yes?’

dr. choi nods, growing more exhausted by the minute. which is fair, you think, as she tells dr. superion — and you, because you’re stuck in this room until you have a real report for dr. villaumbrosia beyond the text you’d sent that just said Dr. Choi is talking and moving, no head or neck injuries — about how the avalanche airbag had worked, even if it was frightening; about how her transceiver, according to SAR, had helped them get there faster than they would have otherwise.

‘ava always teased me about how expensive the gear was, but look who’s laughing now.’

‘well, to be fair,’ dr. superion says, looking at dr. choi’s x-rays, ‘i don’t think either of you are laughing.’

‘oh, yikes,’ dr. choi says, looking at the films too. she’s on a fair amount of pain medicine at this point, but she’s right: there’s a few nasty fractures along the bones in her left wrist. but, other than those and a few cracked ribs and some mild frostbite on her nose, ears, and the tips of her fingers, it seems like it’s just cuts and bruises: nothing she won’t heal from, and far better off than the others who came in with her.

‘i, uh — sorry,’ you say, feeling like you’re interrupting, but they both just shake their heads, waving off your apology. ‘dr. villaumbrosia sent me to see if you’re okay, and i’m supposed to go talk to her once i know. which, i guess i know now.’ not your best work, and in front of the chief, but oh well.

dr. choi smiles fondly. ‘thank you for telling me. i’ll never let lilith forget it.’

dr. superion doesn’t smile, but it seems like she wants to. ‘go ahead, dr. al-najjar. you can tell her that we’re admitting dr. choi to ortho; dr. alvarez will operate tomorrow, once the swelling has gone down.’

‘and tell lilith i love her too.’

‘i — uh—‘

dr. superion laughs. ‘go, dr. al-najjar.’

you’ve just finished your report to dr. villaumbrosia — in the middle of a surgery, but it’s clear her shoulders relax immediately, continuing to operate smoothly — when dr. silva flings open the door of the OR.

‘hello ava,’ dr. villaumbrosia says, not even looking up from the stitch she’s putting in. ‘she’s okay.’

dr. silva, breathing so hard her mask is getting sucked into her mouth and nose, doubles over, her hands on her knees. ‘i gotta do more cardio, oh my god,’ he mumbles, then takes a deep breath and stands. ‘you’re sure?’

‘yes,’ dr. villaumbrosia, ‘i had dr. al-najjar make sure personally. he also checked on tai; she’s doing great.’

‘very cute,’ you say and then debate just quitting residency here altogether, but dr. silva smiles at you.

‘thanks man,’ she says. ‘sorry you missed this surgery.’

‘the bowel was perforated,’ dr. villaumbrosia says. ‘it was quite disgusting, to be honest.’

‘well then,’ dr. silva says, ‘hey, you’re welcome! you got to see my adorable kid and my sexy wife. who, as lovely as your company always is, lil, i’m gonna go see now.’

‘she deployed that avalanche airbag, dug three other people out, and did a field chest tube by the time SAR got there.’

‘hot.’

‘insane, actually,’ dr. villaumbrosia says. ‘but give her my love.’

two days later you’re back on shift — after drinks and truly, genuinely great sex with zaire that still ended up happening despite everything, god bless — and you swing by ortho before you go up to peds. you’re not friends with dr. choi or dr. silva, but you do want to see how things are going anyway. your mom always says it’s better to be kinder than necessary, and you’re starting to believe it.

they’re an adorable family, you think, tai showing dr. choi her lion stuffy and babbling excitedly, sitting on the hospital bed between her legs, turning every now and then toward dr. silva in a chair by her bedside. dr. choi, her arm in a brace and a sling, looks pretty good overall: her eyes seem clear, the bruises along her jaw are already starting to turn green and yellow, a great sign of healing, and the redness on her nose and ears has lessened considerably.

also, she’s sitting up and talking animatedly, clearly happy with her daughter and her wife there. from her chart — you looked it up in the system before you came, whatever — you’re pretty sure she’s going to get to go home today, which you suspect is what the small duffle bag by dr. silva’s feet is for.

‘all i’m saying,’ you hear from dr. silva, ’is that your nose could’ve fallen off.’

‘ava,’ dr. choi says, exasperated and laughing.

dr. silva sits back and pouts, exaggerating with crossed arms.

‘i will be more careful,’ dr. choi concedes, but it doesn’t feel much like a concession the way she smiles at tai and then runs a gentle hand over her wispy hair. emma — who is an incredible gossip but you’re starting to think she also just has a giant crush — had told you and zaire that dr. choi is, like, an experienced outdoors person with certifications in all kinds of different safety courses and activities; you know she and dr. villaumbrosia have done stints with MSF together too.

‘good,’ dr. silva says. ‘because lord knows i cannot raise tai by myself.’

dr. choi frowns, then offers her good hand to dr. silva, who scoots closer and takes it with a kiss to her scraped knuckles.

‘plus, while i would deal, obviously, you’d probably be less hot if your nose fell off.’

‘“probably”?’

dr. silva shrugs. ‘i love you.’

‘i love you too.’

‘would you still love me if my nose fell off?’

‘ava.’

‘good morning, dr. al-najjar,’ dr. choi says when you knock lightly on the open door of her office. it’s impeccably neat, a few pictures of dr. silva and tai on her desk. she’s wearing the brace on her wrist still but no sling; her bruises and frostbite have faded. in her scrubs and white coat and clogs, a fresh buzzcut and a cup of coffee in her good hand, she looks exactly the surgeon you’ve looked forward to working with.

‘good morning, dr. choi. welcome back.’

she smiles and closes her office door, starts leading you down the hall. ‘thank you. and, apologizes in advance that you won’t have any surgeries with me for the next two weeks until i’m officially cleared.’ she rolls her eyes.

‘that’s okay,’ you say. ‘more sleep, honestly.’

‘true. and,’ she says, opening a door to the most incredible, brand new lab you’ve ever seen, ‘i can promise that the research we’ll get to work on will be worth it.’

‘i always thought i would go into trauma,’ you tell her, ‘but i think i just fell in love.’

she grins. ‘the heart wants what it wants.’

you pause a moment but then you can’t help yourself: you laugh.

‘in that case,’ she says, ‘let me show you around, and let’s get to work.’

#wn #wn fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #surgeons au #this is not nearly as angsty as it could've been! ur welcome!#butch bea 🥺🫡#am i making up interns as i go?? why not i love to spiral! lmfao #also the real hardest part of this was spelling lilith's fucking long ass last name jesus christ

87 notes · View notes