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st4rg8te · 2 days ago

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The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)

Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader

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Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.

This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality?

(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)

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✦✧✦✧

The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed.

Or so you thought.

When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.

Was this the afterlife?

Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.

What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?

Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.

The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.

On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.

The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.

The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.

You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.

At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.

The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.

Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.

Then your fingers freeze.

Your name.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.

You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.

That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.

With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.

Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.

“She’s awake!”

You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.

✦✧✦✧

Human beings are resilient.

So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.

There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.

The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.

They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.

They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.

It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.

In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.

You feel lost.

But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.

“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”

The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.

It’s Your Doctor ♡.

Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.

"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."

He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.

"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."

"Home?"

Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?

Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.

A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?

They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.

The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.

"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."

"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.

Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.

"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."

In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.

He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.

He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.

And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.

✦✧✦✧

To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.

It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.

The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.

"Have a nice day, miss."

"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.

You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.

Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.

Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.

At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.

"Hello?"

You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.

Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.

You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.

Locked.

Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.

Again.

Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.

The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.

You miss your family.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.

You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.

But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.

And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.

And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.

You don’t belong here.

✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"

The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.

The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.

"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.

"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."

His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"

"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."

As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.

What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.

"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."

"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"

The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."

A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.

This is your punishment.

The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.

"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.

She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!

"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"

BAM!

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.

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Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.

Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.

When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."

He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.

"Holy shit. You made this?"

It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.

I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.

It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."

Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"

He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."

There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"

That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.

A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.

Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.

You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.

Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.

One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.

When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.

“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”

He couldn’t hold back his grin.

The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.

On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”

He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.

The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.

Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.

After all, you were his to protect.

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EXTRA:

After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.

Finally, some peace.

Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.

"What the hell?!"

The walls were plastered with posters—of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.

You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.

It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.

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A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.

I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!

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#yandere writing #reader insert #x reader #yandere x you #yandere blog #tw yandere #fem reader #yandere x reader #villainess reader #female reader #male yandere #oc x reader

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scented-morker · 2 days ago

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⇢˚⋆ ✎ The only exception

in which Seungmin is a menace, but his girlfriend is always the exception… 605 words, established relationship, fem!reader

Your boyfriend was a menace.

This was a fact that you accepted long ago, even before he was your boyfriend.

In the few hours that you'd been at his dorm, he'd teased you for overpacking your bag, needing help reaching a glass from the cupboards, and even bringing you a towel after you'd gotten in the shower without one.

You'd playfully rolled your eyes and smacked his shoulder after every one of them, knowing and loving this part of your boyfriend's personality.

But when you were all curled up in his bed with your head on his chest, every teasing moment is long gone.

One of Seungmin's big hands rests on your hip while the other strokes against your hair.

"Are you sleepy?" He asks, voice soft as a whisper.

You hum in response, burying your head into his neck and feeling him chuckle against you.

"I'll take that as a yes."

You felt a soft kiss on your temple as you slip into sleep, your boyfriend's breath ghosting over your skin.

Seungmin is half asleep himself when he feels you start writhing in your sleep, a small move followed by another and another.

He sits up, scanning your face for hints of discomfort or pain.

He grabs onto your shoulder to ground you as you're jerked out of your sleep and back into consciousness.

"Hey, hey, hey," his voice is soft and attentive as he pulls you to sit up and into his own body. "You're okay, baby. Are you alright?"

It takes a few moments for you to find your voice, but he hears you mumble the word 'nightmare' into his shoulder.

"Back to sleep or are you awake?" He questions, trying to gauge how bad you were feeling.

"Can't go back to sleep."

He nods in acknowledgment, grabbing the back of your knees and your shoulders to carry you out of the bedroom and into the living room.

Felix and Hyunjin are playing a game on the couch, and they send him a smile and soft 'hey' when he enters.

Seungmin sits down on the couch, still holding you against him while he grabs your water bottle off of the coffee table to let you get a drink.

"She okay?" Felix asks.

"Yeah. Nightmare." Is all he says, setting your water bottle back when you're done with it.

"Isn't she a little old for that?" Hyunjin asks, and immediately regrets it.

"Last I checked you weren't too old for them when you crawled into Changbin hyung's bed last week."

He feels your laugh, and Hyunjin rolls his eyes.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I get them all the time," Felix shrugs, "nothing to be embarrassed about."

You peek out from Seungmin's shoulder, giving both boys a smile.

"Thanks guys."

Your boyfriend grabs a blanket from off the back of the couch and pulls it around your shoulders, letting you snuggle into him while he leans back on the couch and puts on a random movie.

He keeps a protective hand on your back, and you feel yourself melting into him. Even as he makes fun of Felix for something you weren't paying attention to, he stays quiet enough to not disturb you and even whispers into your ear what happened so you can feel a part of it.

You smile deliriously as you feel yourself slipping closer to sleep, all thoughts of your previous nightmare gone as your boyfriend sits sturdy and protective under you.

Seungmin was a menace, but you were always the exception.

"Go ahead," he encourages as he notices your telltale signs of falling asleep. "I'll take you back to bed."

#requested !!!#stray kids fluff #stray kids scenarios #seungmin fluff #seungmin scenarios #seungmin x reader #stray kids seungmin #stray kids Seungmin fluff #stray kids drabble #seungmin drabbles #stray kids x reader

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lightlycareless · 3 days ago

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to celebrate both the new masterlist I made for Toji, and the newyear (and also his birthday??? damn) I decided to write a little something for him :) it was somewhat inspired by these other works that aren't really necessary to read but you can go ahead if you'd like.

warnings: none. domestic fluff. megumi is your son :) also please excuse my oocness with him, I have yet to grow accustomed to writing him 🥺

happy reading!

The bedroom door quietly creeks open, followed by the sound of quick, pitter-patters making their way to your side.

And then, after a few seconds of apparent reluctance, a gentle nudge on your shoulder finally wakes you up.

“Mom, mom.”

“Hm—hmm? What—what is it, sweetie?” you murmur, slowly blinking your eyes open and getting to see your favorite batch of unruly hair, alongside a cute, oh so adorable frowning face staring back at you. “Is everything alright, Gumi?”

“I can’t sleep.” He quietly confesses, gently clenching at your sleeve.

“Oh, that’s not good. What happened?” you lament. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Megumi nods.

“With the wolves?”

He nods once again.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You don’t bother asking him anything else, instead, you simply smile, carefully lifting your blanket and gesturing him to join you, which he does without hesitation soon after, your bed barely budging underneath his weight as Megumi accommodates himself between you and his father, who barely acknowledged his presence given the way he remained soundly asleep.

“Are you ok here?” you ask, pulling the blankets over the two and wrapping your arms around your baby—well, he’s hardly a baby anymore at his 6 years of age, but to you he’ll always be your baby.

“Yes.” Megumi responds, snuggling closer to you and sighing, already feeling his fears vanishing underneath your comforting warmth. “…goodnight, mom.”

“Goodnight, honey” you smile, giving him one quick kiss to the top of his head before closing your eyes and returning to your peaceful slumber…

…

Amidst Toji’s snores, which your child, poor little Megumi, was not accustomed to—waking up soon after the first round of beastly growls (his words) graced his ears.

“Hmm—! Mom!” Megumi groans, quick to cover his ears in hopes of easing silence, to no avail. “Mom!”

“What is it, Gumi? The same nightmare?” you murmur.

“No! It’s dad and his horrible snores!” he cries back. “How can you even sleep?!”

“Oh, that’s—” you giggle, causing your son to complain once again. “I just got used to it.”

An impossible endeavor that would have him reconsidering if his nightmares were all that bad to begin with, maybe he’d rather deal with them that his old man’s literal growls… unless he were to get a combination of the two.

Now that is a true nightmare.

But contrary to you, he’ll never get used to your and his father’s nightly dynamics, and the longer he goes on awake because of the latter, the grumpier and decisive Megumi becomes.

It’s not Toji’s fault that he has the tendency to reach out for you when asleep, drape his arm over you as if to check you were still there, perhaps afraid that he’d wake up and you’d be gone—but to an exasperated Megumi that was just the needed excuse for his patience to reach his limit, quickly pushing himself off your embrace and towards his father, a prominent scowl on his face as he waits for him to give him another reason.

Just one more snore and then, he smacks him! A sound so loud that it makes you jolt fully awake and instinctively looking over to your son, primarily worried that he might’ve unwittingly hurt himself, before realizing Toji was the one in danger after all. Yes, someone as robust as your husband could still fall victim to Gumi’s punch; hence the laughter you’re trying so hard to hold back.

“Huh—what?” Toji breathes, half awake, half asleep, but completely in pain. “What was that??”

“Shut up!” He cries back, attempting to hit him again; luckily Toji’s reflexes were quick to kick in, saving himself from another humiliating endeavor. “You’re too loud, I can’t sleep!”

“When did you get here?” Toji asks, holding onto Megumi’s wrist and keeping him from afflicting him again.

“Our little blessing had a nightmare.” You begin to explain, placing your hand over Toji’s grasp and releasing your son. “And wanted to sleep with us, that’s all.”

“Did he?” Toji smirks. “What’s it about? That he smiled for the first time in his life?”

“Toji…”

“What?” He laughs. “You know I’m just teasing.”

“I didn’t want to sleep with you dad, I only wanted mom!” Megumi declares, ready to go back to his rightful place, until Toji decides he’s not gotten enough of making fun of his child, quickly encaging him within his arms and keeping him away from you. “No, you—Mom!”

“Oh, too good for your old man, now?”

“Toji!” you gasp amidst giggles. “Leave our son alone, or we’ll leave!”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Toji responds.

“Try me.”

It’s a mystery how Megumi fell asleep, probably relented himself to his situation and just gave up, but the sight that welcomes him that morning is one that Toji has him smiling: you, cuddled up with his 6-year-old son underneath the warm blankets he hates to leave but must do so because of work.

All to give you the life both deserve; one he never thought he’d be gratuitously given—unless it was with you. Only if it was with you.

Time certainly passes by so quickly, to believe that he once believed himself deserving of nothing but loneliness, he now has this:

A wife that loves him unconditionally, wholly, with all his scars and fears…

And a son that only grows bigger and snarkier each passing day. The similarities between the two are uncanny to say the least, but when he finds you in him, he can’t help but smile. It makes his heart… warm.

For the first time in his life, he looks forward to what the future holds.

#toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #jjk toji #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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boypied · 3 days ago

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succumb to the darkness

[admirer] count orlok x male reader

summary: plagued by horrific visions and an increasing sense of dread, the male reader soon encounters an evil force that's far beyond his control.

wc: 2.1k

notes: MDNI, FDNI, creature [vampire] fanfic, mentions of blood, neck sucking, mentions of stalking, brief mention of smut.

Being tormented by horrifically vivid nightmares that plague your mind wasn't what you expected from your future when you were a little boy. You were being haunted by a deeply dark presence that you could feel was obsessing over you, obsessing in a way that wasn't right. It wasn't normal. You didn't know what to do or even what IT was, or maybe you were just completely losing your mind, but something had to budge and make this foolish game come to an end. Every night, you would see what it wanted from you. It craved you in more ways than one. It was hungry... and horny. Your eyes widen as you throw your body upwards, your back cracking slightly at the swift movement right as you awoke from your slumber. You felt it. You felt him calling to you. Something was pulling you towards the dark presence. Maybe the time has finally come for you to meet it or maybe it will be to meet you. The creatures craving for you were finally coming to an end. Your body practically moved on its own away from the safety of your husbands sleeping body and the warmth of your own home. You won't know this just yet, but Count Orlok has been craving you for such a long time. You weren't just a blood bag to him. You were so much more. You were just as sick and twisted as him. At least, that was what he had assumed considering just how haunted you've been from such a young age seeing premonitions of dead bodies, being able to smell what the stench of death was. You were sculpted by the gods to be owned by him. You must've been.

Your body is moving on its own, not listening to what your mind is telling it as you get to your front door, swinging it open as a gush of wind flows through. Your bare feet touch the cold, wet concrete of the outside as you slowly start making your through the run-down town. He must be demanding you quicker as your body slowly lifts up of the ground in a levitating motion, and your heels come off the ground and your toes drag along the cold stones as you start being pulled by an unknown force towards the forbidden castle that shall not be entered. Your body freezes, no longer being controlled or forced by a dark being, your eyes slowly travel up along the run-down bricks, and they finally stop and focus on a broken window where a large figure stood, he was being perfectly captured by the moonlight that was being shon down upon him. You both locked eyes. Even though he was so high up, you could feel his eyes burning into your soul. He was staring through you. Just one look from him, and you felt as if your soul was already being corrupted. Seeing him all your life in vision and premonitions was terrifying, but being in his presence, in his grasp, was simply more haunting than anything. You felt a confliction of emotions, feeling his eyes burn down on you. A sense of dread as you watch tall frame tower over you from so far above but also the feeling of a twisted love for him, a yearning to feel his touch against your skin. Your body convulsing for him, needing him inside your body.

Your body is simply frozen in place, terrified. Your eyes slowly travel down from the large open window down to the doors, as you hear them slowly begin to open with a loud scrape against the bricks that layer against the floor. Your eyes widen in pure fear as the dark presence that you have called you hear and watch you from up above now stands a couple of feet in front of your frozen body, he slowly begins to travel forward getting closer and closer against you yet you still can't work out his face entirely because he is being masked by the darkness of the night. His tall exterior towers over you as he stands right in front of you, your eyes slowly travelling upwards to stare at the dark abyss that covers his face. He brings up his large hand as he gently scrapes his nails against your cheek, tracing circles against your body. The moon lowers as the time slowly moves on from dusk to dawn and the dark shadow that was covering his face gets ripped away from him, his true face revealed to you in quite a drastic matter. Your eyes widen in shock and his face contorts in anger as his hand leaves your cheek and grips around your neck choking you, you jump up in shock and fear screaming in agonising fear as you close your eyes only to open them once more to find out you're in your bed chambers laying next to your husband. "Baby, what's wrong!" Thomas calls out to you as he lunges himself forward to wrap his arms around you bring your body close to his.

Your paralysing fear slowly drifts away as you become slightly numb to the feeling, "I have seen the face of God." You mumble out under your breath as Thomas holds you close his face contorting with confusion, "...and he called to me." You continue speaking until your eyes slowly flutter shut drifting off into the dark abyss of sleep where you'll be having dark terrifying nightmares till morning comes once more. Your eyes slowly flutter open to see the sight of your husbands Thomas with a worried look on his face and Professor Albin Ebehart Von staring down at you, "He has been having terrifying nightmares where he mutters out the strangest words" Thomas says in a low tone to the professor as he studies your body language as you try to understand what is going on as you've just woken from your slumber. Your eyes flutter open fully now as you prop yourself up at an angle as you look up at them. The professor looks down at you with a concerned look "what's the problem here then?" He asks you in a soft gentle tone trying not to cause worry or concern for either of you, "Professor my dreams are growing darker by the night... tell me, does evil come from within us? or beyond?" The moment that sentence leaves your lips the professors eyes widen in shock, not knowing what to say to answer your querie. You are about to continue speaking until you hear a voice in the back of your head, the voice that was calling to you in your nightmares just moments prior for you, you stop dead in your tracks listening to what he has to say.

Your mouth becomes a vessel for him to speak through, for the monstrous voice to get you to notice him. "Come to me.." You mumble out in tongues, making no sense to Thomas and the Professor but perfect sense to you. "...hear my calls and come to me," you mumble out in deep tongues. Count Orlok using your body to speak is his way of forcing you to give permission to allow him to come and collect you. The professor suggests that you are in desperate need of some rest and that you should be left alone and under any circumstances should not be bothered by anyone. Once dusk finally arrives and the moonlight shines down on everyone, Count Orlok makes his way across town by flying over the town in a haunting manner getting closer and closer to Hutter Manor, where you lay rested and free of nightmares because what you've been tormented about in nightmares all your life was coming to life at this very moment. You rise up out of your deep slumber as you know that it's time. Your body moves on its own once again, not having control over yourself once more as you slowly move towards the large window as it flies open and your drapes flow back into the room as the wind pushes it, your eyes flutter and widen as Count Orlok slowly lands inside your bedroom, standing opposite you except this time you can clearly see him for what he truly is, you body shudders "...Nosferatu" you mumble out as he takes your hand pulling you out of your bedroom taking you across the wind and over the town you grew up in, until you finally make it to the forbidden castle at the end of the town.

The moment your feet touch the ground of his castle, your eyes wander around, as does your body freely. No longer having a dark presence control you, you no longer feel the constant dread of fear and need to be frightened. Your eyes latch onto Count Orlok's bed, which is a large delicately carved coffin that has many intricate symbols of animals, among many other things that look like some sort of fabel that you've read previously or maybe a story that you could've possibly live in another life. You feel Count Orlok's presence behind you as you stop moving. You feel as his fingers trace along your neck as you turn your head to the left to reveal more of your delicious neck to him, "mhm," he mumbles out as his mouth is watering just at the sight of your exposed neck. He bites his lip softly until he leans down to run his tongue across the side of your neck until he bites down sucking up the sweet, succulent taste of your blood. The blood that Count Orlok has craved for so many years is finally in his mouth, tasting it for everything that it's worth. Your eyes flutter slightly in slight pain but also pleasure feeling his lips against your neck, something that you didn't even know that you craved. This was meant to be. Count Orlok pulls away, watching as the blood drips out of the two punctured holes in your neck. He licks his lips as he manages to restrain himself. "I need you," he mumbles out in his thick accent that unleashes something within you the moment you heard it for the first time. Hearing it in your head was different from hearing in a seductive mumble right against your ear as he traces his long nails over the two wounds at your neck coating his nail in your blood as you whimper slightly at the feeling.

Count Orlok begins to walk away, trying to have some self-restraint until he hearing the floor boards creak as he turns to see you down on your knees. "Don't go," you plead with him as he slowly begins to walk over to you again, enjoying seeing you plead for him. "Come to me...hear my calls and come to me," you repeat yourself over and over until he pulls you up. "pathetic mortal" he says to you with a smirk on his face as he traces his nail along your lower lip wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his large body causing you to look up at him. "Thomas could never please me the way you could," you say in a seductive whisper as you admire his face and presenting exterior. Count Orlok laughs at what you're saying "Thomas is a pathetic mortal" he mumbles out as he grips your cheeks squeezing them, "I'm going to have a lot of fun with you" he says in his thick accent that you love so very much as he scoops you up in his arms. He carries you over to his coffin laying you down against the soft interior, your eyes stay focused on him as you watch as he takes off his cloak and climb into the coffin, hovering over your body slowly closing the lid with a smirk on his face as he slowly unbuttons his trousers leaving the lid off slightly allowing some light in. Orlok traces his finger along your clothed body enjoying the warmth of your skin against his cool feeling one, After a while you both manage to strip off naked throwing your clothes out of the coffin, you open your legs as wide as you can in the coffin feeling his length pressed against your hole. "My king, guide me through this, and when morning comes, turn me into your kind." You mumble out to him, feeling him thrust himself inside you, your eyes fluttering back knowing that this is what you get to look forward to for the rest of your life.

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lizziesangel · 8 hours ago

Note

AN ANGSTY ASS REQUEST, I wanna cry and I know you are gonna do amazing. Love your writing. Kind of backstory: So.....Reader is the love of Rafe’s life and the only person who has shown him kindness and given him affection. They are kidnapped for some reason, perhaps kept on a boat, and she falls overboard. Rafe escapes. A BODY (not hers, but can’t be certain) gets washed up at some point and she is determined to be dead. So just kind of as back story....you don't need to write that part if you don't want to <3 So present/and well....the request really: Funeral is held and everything. He is walking around for about 2 months, mourning her, being an ABSOLUTE WRECK. He has nightmares constantly about her and when he’s awake, she haunts him still. He is drinking all the time because he can’t cope. UNKNOWN……she survived but was still held captive. She manages to escape and breaks into his house. HE THINKS HE IS OUT OF HIS MIND, DRUNK but it’s such a teary felt reunion when he realizes that she’s real. Maybe he gives her a bath (cus lets be real) and takes care of her (and again, let's be real, she is probably really weak) and is just shaking with relief, happiness and is so soft with her :(

wow, this is such an amazing request, i absolutely love this!!

the salty air was sharp and cold, biting against your skin as the boat rocked beneath your feet. it wasn’t the gentle sway of a calm ocean—it was erratic, violent, as if the sea itself mirrored the chaos that had unfolded in the past few hours.

rafe’s face was bloodied, his lip split and bruises already blooming along his jaw. his wrists were bound behind his back, the ropes digging into his skin as he struggled against them. he was glaring at the men surrounding him, his usual cocky bravado barely masking the sheer terror in his eyes.

“look,” rafe growled, his voice low and dangerous, though it cracked with desperation, “you’ve got me. i’ll get you your money. just let her go. she doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

one of the men, a grizzled figure with a jagged scar running down his cheek, barked out a laugh. “you don’t get it, do you? you think you can screw us over and just walk away? nah.

“you’re gonna feel what it’s like to lose everything.”

the words sent a shiver down your spine. you’d known rafe’s life wasn’t clean—he carried the weight of bad decisions and even worse company—but you never thought it would come to this. the fear in his eyes, barely veiled beneath his fury, was enough to make your heart clench.

“please,” you interjected, your voice trembling as you stepped closer. “please, just let us go. we won’t—”

the sharp crack of a slap silenced you, the force of it sending you stumbling back. rafe surged forward, his shout of rage muffled by the gag they shoved into his mouth.

“enough talking,” the scarred man said coldly. “you want to play the hero, cameron? let’s see how much you care about her.”

before you could react, multiple strong hands grabbed your arms. you thrashed against them, your heart pounding as you looked back at rafe. his eyes were wild, his muffled cries growing frantic as the men dragged you toward the edge of the boat.

“no!” you screamed, your voice raw as the dark water loomed closer. the waves were fierce, crashing against the sides of the vessel, the moonlight glinting off their surface like shards of broken glass.

“rafe!” you cried, your voice breaking.

he was struggling so hard now that blood began to seep from where the ropes cut into his wrists. his muffled shouts were desperate, pleading.

“throw her over,” the scarred man commanded.

“no! please—” you begged, but it was too late.

the cold hit you like a thousand needles, stealing the air from your lungs as you plunged into the frigid ocean. the world above became muffled, the boat a distant silhouette against the black sky as you were swallowed by the waves. you fought to stay afloat, the current pulling at you like unseen hands.

above, rafe was a man undone. he thrashed violently, his screams muffled and his face twisted in agony. “let me go! i’ll kill you! i’ll kill you!” the men barely paid him any mind as they turned the boat, leaving the spot where you disappeared into the water.

“you better hope she’s a good swimmer, cameron,” the scarred man sneered. “and you’d better figure out how to pay us back.”

the funeral rafe held was a quiet affair, not because you deserved anything less, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of it being a spectacle. the small, secluded chapel was filled with the scent of lilies and a suffocating weight of sorrow. he sat in the front row, shoulders hunched, his trembling hands clutching the edge of the pew.

he couldn’t look at the casket, though it was empty.

the minister’s words were hollow, background noise to the storm raging inside him. “a kind soul, taken too soon…” “beloved by all who knew her…” every word made his chest ache. rafe clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, willing himself not to break down in front of the small group of mourners.

afterward, when the empty coffin was lowered into the ground, he stood motionless, staring at the fresh mound of earth. a few people offered condolences, their words shallow and meaningless. he didn’t respond, barely even acknowledged them. what could they say? no words could bring you back.

once everyone left, rafe stayed behind. minutes turned into hours as he sat on the damp grass, staring at the grave as though he could will it to undo itself. he whispered apologies to the air, his voice breaking. “i should’ve done something. i should’ve stopped them. i’m so sorry, my baby.”

the days that followed bled together into a haze of grief and self-loathing.

rafe couldn’t stand being at home. every corner of the house reminded him of you. the couch where you’d curled up with a blanket and a book, the kitchen where you’d danced with him to music only the two of you could hear—it was all too much. he turned to the only thing that numbed the pain: alcohol.

whiskey became his constant companion, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the ache in his heart. he barely ate, barely slept. the nightmares wouldn’t let him. every time he closed his eyes, he saw you falling, the cold water dragging you under while he screamed your name. he’d wake up drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, the echo of your voice fading into silence.

he stopped answering his phone. friends tried to check in on him, but he pushed them away. he couldn’t face their pity, couldn’t stand the thought of them telling him to “move on.”

how could he move on when the love of his life was gone?

the two-month mark came and went, and rafe was a shadow of the man he used to be. his once meticulously styled hair was unkempt, his clothes rumpled, his face hollow from lack of sleep and too many sleepless nights spent drowning in liquor.

he spent most of his days wandering aimlessly, haunted by memories of you. he would catch glimpses of you everywhere—in the stranger who had your laugh, in the perfume that smelled like yours. his heart would leap, only to crash when he realized it wasn’t you.

one evening, he found himself on the beach, the waves crashing against the shore. he sank into the sand, letting the cold wind whip against his face. he stared at the horizon, the sun dipping below the water in a blaze of gold and crimson.

“i don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered to the empty expanse of ocean. his voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands, the weight of his grief crushing him.

for rafe, the world had stopped the moment you disappeared. time dragged on, but he remained frozen, lost in a limbo of regret and longing. he didn’t know if he could survive without you.

he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

his nightmares were relentless. every second he closed his eyes, he was back on that boat, watching helplessly as you were thrown overboard. the icy waves swallowed you, your desperate cries for help echoing in his ears. he’d wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he reached out for you in the darkness—only to find cold sheets and empty space.

you weren’t there, and the realization gutted him every time.

the only way he knew how to cope was to drown himself in alcohol. bottles littered the floor of his house, their contents his only escape from the crushing weight of his grief. the whiskey blurred the edges of his pain, but it never truly numbed it. instead, it left him hollow, stumbling through a life that felt meaningless without you.

the storm outside was fierce, rain pelting against the windows and wind howling like a wounded animal. rafe sat slumped on the couch, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. he stared blankly at the television, though he wasn’t watching it. the sound was muted, the images flickering across the screen as if mocking his apathy.

the sharp sound of glass shattering upstairs jolted him from his stupor. for a moment, he froze, his foggy mind struggling to process it. he shook his head, muttering to himself, “you’re losing it, rafe.”

but then he heard it again—a faint creak of floorboards. His heart began to race, adrenaline cutting through the haze of alcohol. grabbing a nearby lamp as a makeshift weapon, he stumbled toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

he pushed open the bedroom door, his breath hitching at what he saw.

you were there.

at first, he thought it was another cruel trick of his mind. you stood by the window, your body bruised, your clothes torn and soaked from the rain. your hair was a tangled mess, your face pale and gaunt, but it was you.

“rafe…” your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

“n... no,” he muttered, shaking his head. his grip on the lamp tightened. “you’re not real. you’re not—”

“i am,” you interrupted, taking a shaky step toward him. “i got away. i—i’m here.”

the lamp fell from his hands, clattering to the floor as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. when your knees buckled, he lunged forward, catching you before you could hit the ground.

the moment your weight fell into his arms, he knew. you were real.

a sob broke from his throat as he held you tightly, his fingers digging into your sides as if afraid you’d disappear again. “you’re alive,” he choked out, his voice raw. “oh, my God, you’re alive.”

“i am,” you murmured weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt. “i am.”

rafe carried you to the bathroom, his arms trembling with relief and adrenaline. he set you down on the edge of the tub, his hands shaking as he turned on the water, testing the temperature to make sure it wasn’t too hot.

“i... i need to—you need to get cleaned up,” he said, his voice unsteady. he avoided your eyes, his movements jerky and unsure. “you’re freezing. God, you’re so cold.”

you didn’t protest, too weak and tired to do much more than nod. he helped you out of your soaked clothes, his touch gentle, his eyes filled with guilt and tenderness.

once the tub was filled, he eased you into the warm water, his heart breaking at the way you winced. he knelt beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up as he carefully washed away the grime and salt from your skin. his hands trembled as they ran through your hair, untangling the knots with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

“i thought i lost you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “i thought—i thought you were gone forever.”

“i almost was,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

tears streamed down his face as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your damp hair. “you’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “i’m not letting you go again. i promise.”

after the bath, rafe wrapped you in the softest towel he could find and carried you to his bed. he brought you water, food, anything you might need, though you barely managed a few bites. he sat beside you, his hand never leaving yours, as if reassuring himself that you were really there.

that night, for the first time in months, he didn’t have nightmares. Instead, he fell asleep with you in his arms, the steady rhythm of your breathing the only sound he needed to finally find peace.

CURRENT TAGLIST⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@maybankslover ⟢ @diorstarkey

#lizzieswrites𝜗𝜚 #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x you #drew starkey x you

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work.

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you.

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could.

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him.

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty.

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that.

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible.

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you.

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.”

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something.

But you can’t talk to John Winchester.

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time.

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester.

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you.

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat. “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort.

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all.

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place. It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?”

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave.

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in.

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut.

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are.

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl.

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?”

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone. “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this.

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you-

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down.

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you.

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy.

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then.

“Winchester.”

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves.

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur.

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball.

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face.

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away.

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that.

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door.

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?”

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed.

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture.

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too.

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do.

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.”

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too.

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh.

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy.

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.”

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away.

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone.

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists.

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in.

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet.

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one.

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do.

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it.

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this.

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it.

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution.

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn.

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare.

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction.

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it.

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive.

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real.

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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littlemissmentallyunstable · 2 days ago

Text

title: put your hand on my heart

pairing: micheal townsend x reader

synopsis: you know you’re panicking but you can’t stop it and nothing is helping. the last person you want to see you like this turns out to be your saviour

warnings: panic attack, overwhelming anxiety, dark thoughts

a/n: thanks for reading 🤍🤍

taglist: @inmyheaddd @midiosaamor @lyrakanefanatic @aleatorio1234 @maybe-dj124 @book-nerd-emi @maybxlle @foreverwinter22 @sweetreveriee @hermesenthusiast @shattered-glass-roses @gandergaal @sheisntyou @arias-archive @lila-77 @downrightbooks

Please, please, please. Not again. Not this again. I stumble into the bathroom making sure the door shuts behind me, hastily trying to reach a source of water. My finger shake as I turn on the bathroom tap, they can barely grasp the metal. I wait for the cold water to run before splashing my face three times. It’s meant to be a shock tactic, it’s meant to pull me together, it’s meant to help, but it isn’t doing what it’s meant to, it isn’t doing anything. It never does anything.

I try to swallow but it feels like I’ve forgotten how. It feels like my trachea is slowly constricting, the walls on either side slowly closing in creating a claustrophobe’s nightmare. My throat aches as my mouth fills with saliva that I’m desperate to get rid of. I touch my neck, my fingers scraping against the skin. I want to pry it open. Maybe then I’ll be able to breathe, be able to swallow.

I glance up at myself in the mirror and don’t recognise the girl staring back at me. Her eyes are rimmed with thick black smears, her lips are dry and cracked, there are red streaks of art winding down her neck and her face is a sickly pale colour. I’m but living in the shell of body that used to be mine. The things that made me myself are long gone, a ghost of a whisper living somewhere deep within my veins. I don’t know what parasite has infiltrated my body, all I know is I want it out. I want it gone.

But some things you can never kill, so long as they live in your mind, you’ll never truly be rid of them.

Panic wraps bony fingers around my ankles and yanks me into murky waters, Fear holds my head under and makes sure I can’t scream for help. Is this how you felt mum? Is this how you felt when they drowned you? My lungs burn, scream, beg but I already know I won’t ever get to grace them with oxygen again. My hands and feet are bound with thick rope that cuts deep into my flesh. They tied you up too mum. Why? Did you even fight it? I glance at my captors with pleading eyes, they only laugh. Amused by the emotions that fed them running riot through my soul. Did you look at them like me mum? We always had the same eyes, that’s what everyone said. Did they laugh at you too mum?

I feel my body grow weak, I watch as the world spins and I grow dizzy. I’m lost in a state between life and death, beneath this ocean of panic. My body is still trying to fight for survival even though I want to give up. You never wanted to give up, did you mum? But you had to, they forced you to. Panic gives me one last gift, placing something heavy on my chest. It crushes my rib cage but there’s nothing left in me to cry out. No one would hear anyway, I was underwater. No one heard you, mum. I didn’t hear you either. The weight pushes me down further and further from the surface and slowly, slowly it all grows black. Is this what you saw mum? When your body sunk to the bottom? Were you plunged into the darkness the same way I am?

I’m gasping and spluttering. My chest is in agony, red hot pain prickles over my torso. I want to rip my skin off, claw every inch away with my nails. I throw my sweatshirt over my head so the cotton of my shirt was the only thing touching my upper body. I look back to the stranger in the mirror and prod my face with unfamiliar fingers. The veins under my skin throb, almost like my pulse is so fast it might burst them altogether. Part of me hopes they might, at least I’d be rid of these feelings.

My heart thumps loudly through my ears, each boom more demeaning than the last. It feels like the organ pulsating out of my chest each time it beats. A torturous, monotonous thunderstorm that I can’t avoid.

“I don’t like the thunder,” I tremble in my mother’s arms, clinging to the soft fabric of her shirt as if my life depends on it.

“It can’t hurt you little one,” she whispers, stroking my hair with her tender touch, “but don’t fret, you’re safe, I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’m here.”

I don’t like thunderstorms. I never have. But my mother’s arms aren’t here to be my refuge, all I have are these four bathroom walls.

I try and will myself to cry but there are no tears. My face isn’t damp and my eyes don’t water. They refuse, my mind too stubborn to give me an outlet for my pain. I should be crying, I know I should, it’s unnatural not to, it’s not normal.

But I’m not normal.

I feel the dreaded panic attack me again. It’s like a million tiny bullets are being fired at my body all at once. I can’t avoid a single one, I’m stood in no man’s land. And yet despite being shot so many times, I don’t seem to be able to die. Only writhe in my own agony.

My breathing quickens still, which by now I’d thought might be medically impossible. I wish for Sloane to be here to give me a statistic about breathing or wallabies, I wish for Lia to tell me the lie that I would be okay a thousand times over, I wish for Cassie to hold me until I stop shaking looking at me with her kind eyes, I wish for Dean to help me understand why I’m like this and I wish for Micheal to never, ever see me like this.

My wishes don’t come true. Wishes usually don’t for girls like me.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have control of my own body, of my own mind, thoughts and feelings. They’re constantly hijacked by a stronger power. A power that comes dressed in black hood and carries weapons of destruction. Though he doesn’t always use them, not straight away. He presents them first, the fear of the threat. Then at the moment of his choosing - the middle of the night, when I’m out shopping, the early morning, in the middle of a case - he would use them.

I have become a prisoner to the man in my mind.

He remembers everything. My mother. He knows all. She was kind and smart and funny and passionate and bold. The details I wanted to forget. Her cold dead body, hauled from the bottom of a lake. Blue skin, closed eyes, hair plastered to her forehead. The things I’d left in the past. She used to tell me I could do anything, be anything. That I was something. That I was special. Brighter than the stars. All that I’d blocked out. The killers that I couldn’t find, that I’d failed to find.

Another overbearing wave of panic crashes into me and my legs begin to feel unsure of themselves adopting an unnatural wobble. Sure I might fall, I sink to the floor in a helpless heap of heavy breathing and blurred thoughts. The cold tiles that press against the back of my thighs are the only thing to remind me that I can feel.

I need five things. What can I see? What can I touch? What can I hear? What can I smell? What can I taste?

I pry my eyes back open. I can see the bathroom door, it’s white with a golden handle. Two towels hang on a hook from the back of it. They’ve been recently used and are still a little damp. The smile on my mum’s face.

I can touch the fabric of my shirt. I play with it between my fingers. It’s soft, it’s smooth, it can’t hurt me. Her fingers weaving a braid through my hair.

I can hear my heart. No, I have to hear past it. I strain my ears. Talking, I can hear my friends talking in the room next door. Sloane, Cassie, Lia, Dean and Michael. I can hear Sloane’s voice most immediately, then Lia’s. The words are blurred, a soup of sound, too overwhelmed by the pounding in my chest. The hum of her sweet song, the one she wrote just for my name.

I can smell bleach. It’s strong and sterile. The bathroom has been recently cleaned. Rose water and buttermilk. She always smelt of rose water and buttermilk. As long as I could remember.

I can taste nothing. My throat is dry, my lips are dry, my tongue is so dry it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. The honey sweet syrupy liquid she often gave me before I slept.

I lean back further into the wall and close my eyes again. Is it working? Is it helping? I’ve listed the five things, my task is done. Why do I still feel the same? I shouldn’t still feel the same. It’s not working, it never works, I don’t know why this time I thought it might. I’m an idiot. I always have been.

“y/n? Are you in there?”

I know that voice and I know I don’t want him anywhere near the door. I know I’ve forgotten to lock it and I can’t move from the position I’m in. I know I need to tell him I’m fine, that it’s okay. I know that I should then explain I need Lia to get me a tampon to scare him away.

But I can’t speak, I can’t answer him. When I try I end up gasping for air like a fish out of water. I grip the side of the sink, my knuckles going white, trying to hoist myself up. He can’t see me like this, out of everyone it can’t be him. The moment I get myself to stand, my legs give way and I fall back to the floor. They’re too weak to support me anymore.

I’m too weak.

I land with a crash, sending a shooting pain up my back. I wince and make some sort of strangled sound, a scream but with no breath to make it sound like a scream. Immediately he bursts in, uninvited in classic Micheal style. Though he might be the emotion reader of the two of us, I see the worry on his face, through his eyes. I try to glare at him but can’t even muster that. I know there’s no getting out of this now, the moment he lays eyes on me he knows exactly how I feel. Even if I were Lia I don’t believe there’d be any lie good enough to cover up my situation.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he rushes, dropping to his knees immediately, “hey, it’s okay, I’m here.”

“It’s okay, I’m here.”

My mother’s words echo through my mind. His hand settles on my thigh. I don’t need you here’ I wanted to scream. I need Sloane, Lia, Cassie, Dean, Judd, heck even Briggs just anyone but him. He shouldn’t know that this is the real me, that this is the kind of relationship he is really getting into.

He sees it. He sees my fear, my desperation, my panic, my worry, my pain, my anger. He sees it all in technicolour.

Micheal takes my face between to soft palms, “breathe with me, sweetheart,” he says very slowly, “I need you to breathe with me.”

I can’t even talk. I try to reply, but I physically can’t.

“Don’t try to talk,” he tells me gently, “it’s not going to help you. I need you to try and breathe with me.”

I can barely hear him over the sound of my heart raging through my ears yet manage to shake my head vigorously. I need to explain to him that it won’t work, that it never works.

“Try,” he murmurs, understanding, “with me. In… and out…”

Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Nothing overtly complicated. Yet it feels like the most difficult task I’ve ever had to do in my life.

“In…” he guides me, steadily, “…and out.”

One. I do it once.

My breathing is still rapid, I am panting like a dog but I did it. Once. He sits down beside me, interlocking his hand into mine. A constant, a rock, he’s telling me he isn’t leaving. His back is up against the cool tiled wall. Gently he puts his hands on my hips. I don’t shy away from his touch, I don’t flinch, I don’t slap him away. I want his hands on me. I want him to distract me.

He pulls me between his legs. I lean on him pressing my back up against his firm chest. I need to feel something, someone, anyone. I need to know that I’m not alone. I want his lips to transport me somewhere else, I want his hands to make me forget everything. I tilt my head so ours eyes meet. I plead silently. I know he can read what I want, what I need. I know he can see it all displayed on my face.

“You have to get your heart rate and breathing back to normal,” he says, “a distraction won’t help that.”

“Need,” I choke, through loud gulps of air.

He presses a kiss to my temple, “breathe, my love, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

“You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

I see my mum’s face. I roughly grab onto his legs, clawing at the material of his trousers, digging my fingernails in, like some sort of scared animal. I feel his hands on my waist as my chest heaves up and down, still uncontrollable. The untameable beast in my brain still a torrent of darkness.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he repeats, his voice so smooth, so soothing. I want to believe him, “focus on me…”

I do. I’m focusing on his breath I can feel tickling the back of my neck and his outstretched legs I can see in front of me. I’m focussing on the shade of blue the sweatshirt is and how he smells of that fancy cologne he insists on buying. I’m focussing on the tingling sensation his lips let behind on my temple and the warmth of his body against mine.

“My voice…”

It’s low and even. Steady and constant. The words he says are sweet and soothing and kind. He wants to help me. He cares enough. They’re said softly, gently, tenderly, calmly. He wants me to know I’m safe. He wants to fight the man in my head as much as I do.

“My touch…”

His fingers are delicately wrapped around my waist, but one hand is drawing slow, light circles on my stomach. I feel the shape spiralling in and then back out again. The muscles in his upper arms are against the muscles of my upper arms, they brush together. His heart is beating a little faster than usual against my back.

I think about Micheal. I focus on what he tells me to. Each time I take in oxygen it gets the slightest bit easier. I inhale and I exhale. He waits and he listens and he draws circles on my belly. Sometimes he talks and sometimes he stays silent. But we stay like this until my breathing is only a little worse than normal. The breaths are still short and jagged but they’re less of a gasp, less of a prayer for air.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, “I’ve got you, you’re safe, I’m here.”

I twist my neck to meet his eyes. He looks like he’s in pain. I never meant to cause him pain.

“I’ve got you. Can you feel me?” he whispers, “I’ve got you in my arms. That means you’re safe.”

Safe. Would I ever really be safe when my biggest enemy lived in my own mind?

“I… need… touch…” I tell him, through little breaths.

I haven’t heard the man in my head since Micheal got here. I know this will help. I know I need it. He can make things go away, he can help me, he can keep me safe. He’s got me in his arms. That means I’m safe.

“Okay,” he whispers.

His hand slowly moves from the tight grip on my waist to the bottom of my shirt. It slips under the material, slowly trailing up the bare skin of my stomach. His fingertips skim over my bra and find their way to just below my collarbone on the left side on my chest. He flattens his hand against my heart, pressing down firmly. It’s warm in contrast to the coolness of my skin.

“Breathe again love,” Micheal says in my ear, his voice in the back of his throat, “breathe for me.”

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again. It’s getting easier. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. It’s getting easier. It’s getting easier.

I can feel him, only him. Micheal Alexander Thomas Townsend. My heart thumps against his palm. I close my eyes and rest my head back onto him. I feel it, as he presses the lightest of kisses onto my face, first my forehead, my nose, then my lips. Him, it’s all him. He can take this away, this darkness, this sickness, this disease in my mind. He can make it leave.

After what feels like a while, I’m somewhat what I was before. I can’t say things are back to normal because I am not normal. But I can breathe again, my chest doesn’t hurt, my heart isn’t the only thing I can hear and the man in my head has left. For now.

I realise for the first time how Micheal has seen me. This isn’t the me he’s used to. I take his hand from my shirt and move away from his touch. I stand up shakily and he’s quick to follow, ready to catch me should I fall. I lean against the sink, breathing deeply in and out. I can’t rely on him,I can’t afford to. The last person I relied on was my mother and look where that got me.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” I say, my back still towards him. I can’t bear to look him in the eye, not even for a second.

“It’s not a crime to panic,” he tells me slowly, there’s something tentative in his tone.

I turn around to face him, “yes. It is.”

I’m no emotion reader but something in his face looks scared. I had been taught long ago that I had to stay in control. That if anyone saw me out of control, unnatural, disobedient to the requirements set, that I would be less of a person. A nothing in this world. I’m not going to let this make me nothing. Not after I’d been something for so long.

Something to my mother. Something at school. Something to Briggs and his colleagues. Something to the Naturals program. Something to the friends I’d made here. Something… something to Micheal.

“I’m strong Micheal,” I say trying to steady my shaky voice, “I’m strong, I don’t break,” I falter as tears fill my eyes, I haven’t cried in so long, “I’m not like this, it’s not me.”

I meet his eyes again. He can see all of it, the emotions I show him and even the ones I’m holding back. I’m like a naked body in a room full of mirrors.

“Oh sweetheart,” he says, reaching out to take me in his arms once more.

And as much as I want to, crave to, yearn to, I don’t. I jerk away from his quickly, hitting my hip on the corner of the sink. The porcelain sends a sharp jolt of pain through my body. There will be a bruise tomorrow. He immediately backs away, a concern I’m not used to seeing rippling through his features. He could hide it if he wanted but he’s choosing to show me. He’s showing me he cares.

“Don’t pity me Micheal,” I try to snap but instead my voice strains and instead sounds like I’m in pain, “please.”

‘I’m not pitying you’ the unspoken words hang in the air but never reach his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks instead.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, fumbling over my words, “I don’t know.”

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms again. This time not reaching out for me, this time letting me choose to come towards him.

And I do.

I fall into his arms and melt into his touch. When I feel him around me, everything falls silent, the noise, the stress, the expectation. It’s only him and me. Him and me.

“You are still strong, even after breaking,” he says into my ear, such power in his words but gentleness in his voice, “because you haven’t broken completely, you’re still here,” he murmurs, “and that’s the strongest thing someone can ever do.”

There isn’t any words to reply and he knows that. I let him hold me for a long while before finally, finally I let myself cry.

ahhhh this is my first naturals fic so I’m lowkey nervous… i try and avoid y/n at all costs but I felt like it was sort of needed here. anyways i hoped you liked it and let me know if you want to be on the taglist :))

the natural’s masterlist

#bella writes 🤍#the naturals #the naturals jlb #micheal townsend #micheal townsend x y/n #micheal townsend x reader #micheal townsend x you #micheal townsend one shot #micheal townsend x lia zhang #micheal x lia #jennifer lynn barnes #deancassie #cassie hobbes #dean redding #lia zhang #sloane tavish

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writingwisterias · 2 days ago

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How would the different eras of leon comfort a reader who had a bad childhood/ still dealing with abusive parents? For material, theres lotta nightmares about parents, hallucinating, and anxiety symptoms

-🪻

Hi 🪻!

I would love to do this for you! I hope you enjoy and have a good day!! 💕 I rambled a lot with this one as well, just healing myself along the way

Warnings: Nightmares, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Fluff, PTSD, Mentions of abuse

Gn!Reader

RE2:

He has the most experience with nightmares, he would have them to after everything

I'm thinking of a Leon between RE2 -RE4R

So because he has his own he would have a way to calm down quickly without waking you up. That is until he notices you suffer from them to.

His nightmares make him a light sleeper so I think he would notice something wrong very quickly and immediately pull you into his arms to wake you up.

Depending if it's a night terror or just a nightmare he would wake you up slowly, kisses, soft talking etc

If it's a night terror he would want you to be awake as quickly as he can. So he's shaking you or whatever.

If he knows about what happened in your childhood say for example abuse from parents, he would keep his touch firm but caring if he's waking you up from a night terror.

He'd prefer if you would be open about what the dream was about and your history so he can help you in the best way he can without further causing issues.

Also wouldn't care if you need plushies to sleep, he'd rather have the whole bed covered in them if it would help you sleep. (Really like squishmellows or any Kenji plush)

RE4R:

I like to think this Leon is probably the quietest. Like he's a simple guy and would have music in the background of his apartment at low volumes etc

So you find a lot of comfort here, if you still lived at home with your parents he would let you use his apartment even if he was away on mission

He wouldn't even talk to you either if you didn't want it, he's happy to just have you in his space.

If he's not around and you use his place, he'll make sure to leave a hoodie/shirt for you to use and he doesn't care if you use his bed

He's also happy to do whatever you want to do, so if you do want to talk and chill then he's more than happy to do that.

His chilled out attitude is just great if your household is chaotic and loud, it's a mini escape.

Infinite Darkness:

With this era of Leon I think he would be really good at either preventing anxiety attacks or helping you out of them.

I mean look at how he comforts Patrick at the start of the show, it's such a small interaction but he stays for like an extra few seconds to ensure he's okay because he spots that he's not

He's like a quite observer

So if your anxiety is based on childhood issues like maybe expectations that your parents have placed on you whenever they mean to or not.

He would be very quick to spot any signs of you becoming uncomfortable

Let's face it he's probably already watching you anyway because he always does but he's the type of person to acknowledge the signs that you are doing to have a panic attack

Leon is also not the type of guy to make it a big deal either, like I said with Patrick is a small conversation that no one else really sees or pays attention to so hes not going to bring attention to you at all

It could be a small touch or hand hold. Maybe even creating an excuse to leave

If you are in private I think he would talk to you to distract you from it, or just sit there in silence if you wanted to walk through it alone.

Damnation:

I think he gives the best hugs and has a really protective nature

Again let's say it's something to do with passive aggressive parents I don't think he would hesitate to jump in and defend you

If he found out that it was perhaps more physical abuse than mental he's not letting you near them at all

He would understand if you didn't want to cut them off like he's not going to force you to do that

But he would be silently mad and very watchful when you do interact with them

He's also mindful of how he interacts around you.

Especially with his drinking habits if that's something that makes you feel uncomfortable

RE6:

Following along with the protective nature I think he would amplify this

Like he's not letting anyone near you during an anxiety/any type of episode

I also think he's a great listener so if you do need someone to talk to he's your man

He would offer advice if you need it, he has a lot on how he deals with things and will try his best to not let you follow in his footsteps.

Again with his home being a safe space I think he would actively make sure it is one for you instead of himself

Like say you go out shopping and spot a blanket or something you like he would buy it and keep it at his place

Your parents didn't let you have this toy dw he's got it

He has a lot of money that if you came from a poorer background and are conscious about your own money he will spend it for you

You cannot mention you want anything around him because he'll find it and get it

Vendetta:

Considering in the film Chris mentions that Leon is drinking early in the day I think he would drink that early to either forget a nightmare or get an early start to being able to sleep

So I would think him helping you through your own nightmares would draw him away from this behavior

Both of you working together to create an environment that helps you both sleep is how you would do it

By this I mean,maybe you need nightlights so you would find one that works for the both of you. Same with bedding or the general layout of the room

I think he would prefer to be the bigger spoon, since a lot of Leon's trauma comes from failure to protect people it would make him think he's doing a good job.

I would also say that he would prefer it if the bed was as far away from the door/window as possible and against a wall so you can be tucked away from danger behind him

But if you do have a nightmare and wake him up, he's not going to be mad. He'll talk to you about it if you need that and will help soothe you back to sleep

Not only because he knows you'll return the favor but because it actually helps him

Like maybe he runs his hands through your hair it's almost soothing for him doing the same motion over and over again

Death Island:

Much like infinite darkness I think he's going to be the quiet observing type so if you do space out or start of have anxiety he'll spot it

He's still wouldn't make a scene but would prefer to remove you from the situation entirely with or without an excuse

He doesn't care what your parents think they are assholes anyway for treating you like that

In the same scenario he has an idea of how he would be a parent so I don't think he would baby you but almost apply some of the methods to actually help you out in terms of feeling the right love

I also think he would just generally heal you in any toxic relationship you've had by just showing you the opposite whenever he's doing it on purpose or not

He would make sure he's not overstepping any lines in your healing journey and would want you to take the reigns but if you need to hand them over to him he's okay with that

He'll be your brick wall in whatever you need him

Can't sleep? He's staying up with you and even after you fall asleep don't worry

#resident evil x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #~mads rambles #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #~mads~mail💌#~eras leon kennedy

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pinkolve · 3 days ago

Text

A Missing Lunch and Soft Kisses

Summary: Your boyfriend forgets his lunch at home so you decide to bring it to him.

Genre: Fluff only!

CW: A bit of social anxiety on reader's part, first person point of view, use of y/n, a little ooc Aaron Hotchner, a few little kisses <3

Word Count: 556 (very short, sorry!)

A/N: I wrote this really quickly just to have the motivation to post more stories here, so pardon any mistakes or poor word choice! Let me know if I missed anything that should be a CW, and if you'd read more fanfics written by me!! (I promise I usually write longer stories than this.)

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I walk out of the elevator, looking through the glass doors that await me. There’s a brown paper bag in my hand and my bag is slung over my shoulder. I’ve never met any of Aaron’s coworkers, I’m nervous as to how the first impression will go. I originally wasn’t supposed to be here, this was never planned. Aaron and I haven’t even started planning an occasion for us to meet. If only he had remembered to bring his own lunch, I wouldn’t be here.

I push open one of the glass doors and walk through. No one looks my way which is already a weight off my shoulders. I completely expected everyone to immediately stare at me, like they did in highschool when someone was late to class. I shiver at that memory.

I start to walk past some desks and avoid any gazes sent in my direction. I obviously don’t recognize anyone. The nightmare is almost over as I reach the steps leading to Aaron’s office. I knock and wait for a response.

“Come in!” He orders. I push open the door and watch as his face lights up at the sight of me. I push the door closed behind me. “Y/n! How are you doing, sweetheart?” He walks over to me and kisses my forehead, resting his hand on my hips.

“You forgot your lunch.” I smile as I lift up the bag in my hand.

“Thank you for bringing it all the way here.” He grabs it from me. “You know you didn’t have to do that.”

“I couldn’t just let my man starve, now could I?” I blush at my own words.

“Mm, how thoughtful of you.” He hums before kissing me again, longer this time. A knock interrupts us, pulling us apart.

“Yes?” Aaron calls out and the door opens. His hand is still on my waist.

“Hotch, I found-” A bubbly blonde woman stops mid-sentence. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you had company!”

“Don’t worry about it, I just came to drop off his lunch.” I respond.

“Ah, well, it’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Penelope.”

“I’m Y/n, it’s nice to meet you too!”

“How have I never met you before?” She asks.

“You know Aaron, he never tells anyone about his personal life. He’s been keeping me a secret for a couple years now.” I whisper. Aaron groans at me.

“Honey, I was not ‘keeping you a secret.’ No one asked me anything about my love life so I never mentioned anything.”

“Whatever you say.” I shrug. He rolls his eyes at me and smiles.

“Do you ever believe anything I tell you?”

“Depends on what it is.” I smirk up at him. I look back at Penelope and her eyes are wide. Her mouth hangs open as she stares between us both.

“Are you two…?” She finally asks.

“Yes, Garcia. We’ve been together for two years now.” Aaron chuckles. Penelope’s face stays the same.

“Excuse me, I have to go talk to…Someone. Bye!” She practically runs out the door. I look at Aaron with a puzzled look.

“She’s about to tell everyone in the bullpen about this whole thing.” He smiles.

“She doesn’t seem like a very good secret keeper.”

“Trust me, she is not.” He laughs, placing another gentle kiss against my lips.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #penelope garcia #x reader fanfiction #x reader fic #x reader fluff #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x reader fluff

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logansbelt · 3 days ago

Text

౨ৎ ‎ ♡₊˚・₊✧ This is based off of a nightmare within a dream I’ve had, about him in conclusion I’m ill!!

Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

Pairing: Logan x Gn!Reader

Warnings:

Mentions of vomiting, anxiety ,panic attack

Terms of Endearment/Petnames ౨ৎ ‎ ♡₊˚・₊✧

. . .

The soft hum of the apartment was the only sound, the kind of quiet that settled around you after a long, full day. Logan had already fallen into a deep sleep beside you, his breaths slow and steady. But you weren’t sleeping. A nightmare had shaken you to your core, ripping you from sleep with a sharp, breathless gasp. The remnants of fear lingered in your chest, suffocating you as you tried to shake off the lingering dread. Your heartbeat was erratic, an anxious pulse that wouldn’t stop thumping in your ears, and your mind raced with images you couldn’t quite escape. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the side of the bed, but before you knew it, you were stumbling out of the sheets, desperate to escape the suffocating darkness of your own mind.

Panic overwhelmed you instantly. Jagged feeling of worries clawed its way up your throat, and before you knew it, you were rushing to the bathroom cold, smooth tile of floor felt like ice against your bare feet as you kneeled by the sink, pressing your palms against the cool porcelain. The room spun around you as nausea bubbled up in your stomach. Then, it hit. You threw up violently, your body convulsing in waves of sickness and sobs, tears blurring your vision.

Logan’s sleep was broken only by the sound of your breathing, now erratic and strained. He’d always been able to sense when something wasn’t right, and tonight was no different. The absence of your warmth beside him had him stirring, his instincts waking before his mind did. His eyes snapped open in the darkness, the sound of your muffled sobs piercing the silence.

His heart clenched as he shot out of bed, his movements swift despite the grogginess that still clung to him. His senses immediately picked up on the faint sound of your weeping—barely a whisper in the vast quiet of the apartment, but enough to send him into action. Logan’s feet thudded softly against the hardwood floor as he rushed to the bathroom, He was used to protecting you, and something inside him snapped when he found you on the floor, disoriented and shaking, tears streaming down your face. —Kneeling on the floor, trembling with your hands pressed against the sink.

Your sobs racked your body, and when you saw him, it only seemed to make it worse. You were shaking uncontrollably, eyes wide and unfocused, still trapped in the aftermath of the nightmare. Logan’s chest tightened, a familiar ache spreading through him. He kneeled in front of you without a second thought, his large hands hovering for a moment, unsure of what you needed but knowing he had to act.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay, sweetie’,” his voice was rough but soothing, a deep, gravelly sound that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket. He cupped your face gently, his rough thumb brushing away the tears that had fallen freely. “Look at me, baby ,” he coaxed, his eyes softening as he searched your face, his gaze filled with concern. “Talk to me. What happened?”

You turned to him, your eyes wide with fear and confusion. The tears didn’t stop, and you could barely get the words out—your voice breaking under the weight of it all. “I—I couldn’t… Logan, I couldn’t—” The words tumbled from your lips in a tangled mess, your chest heaving with sobs.

Logan’s hands moved to pull you toward him, and without hesitation, you fell into him, burying your face against his chest. He was warm, solid, and so unbelievably present—everything you needed in that moment. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so close you could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. He didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t push. He just let you cling to him, his large hand smoothing over your back in slow, even strokes. The rhythm of his touch was steady, unyielding, like the man himself. You were small, vulnerable, something so precious and fragile.

He spoke low, his voice soft as he rested his chin against your head. “I’m here, darlin’… I’m right here. You’re safe, okay?”

You nodded against him, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed him to remind you that everything would be okay, that the nightmare wasn’t real, that you weren’t alone.

“I’ve got ya, sweetheart,” he murmured, his arms tightening around you, not to restrain, but to offer comfort, as if to say that nothing—nothing—would hurt you while he was around. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm but searching. “You’re safe here with me. Always.”

He brushed your hair back, fingers gentle as they ghosted over your skin. Logan’s voice softened as he spoke again, his tone a quiet reassurance. “What you saw… it ain’t real, I promise. But you’re here now. And you’re okay.” His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb running along the curve of your jaw as he looked at you, his eyes searching for any hint of comfort you might need.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Logan murmured, his hand stroking through your hair,. “Just breathe, darlin’.”

His big hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your lips, before he pulled you in close. His kiss was slow and tender, a soft press against your lips that lingered, grounding you in the moment, making sure you knew he was here, and nothing else mattered. You let yourself melt into him, your body finally starting to relax as you felt the weight of his care wrap around you.

When he finally pulled away, his lips brushed your forehead. “C’mon, baby,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Let’s get you some water, alright?

With one arm wrapped securely around you, Logan guided you to your feet, holding you steady as you stumbled toward the bed. He was gentle, never rushing, always there to catch you when you needed him. He handed you the glass of water, his eyes never leaving you, watching for any sign that you weren’t okay, that you weren’t healing.

When you finished, he took the glass and set it aside before he crawled into bed beside you, pulling the covers over both of you. He didn’t let you go. His arms were around you again, warm and strong, the kind of embrace that made you feel like nothing could touch you. His lips found yours again, this time a brief, loving kiss. “I’ve got you, darlin’,” he whispered against your lips, the words full of the quiet intensity that only he could convey. “I won’t let anything hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

“Better?” Logan asked quietly, his hand moving to cradle your face again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

You nodded, “Thank you Lo” your eyes meeting his for the first time since the nightmare. There was something in his gaze—something soft and full of care—that made your heart ache in the most tender way. Without thinking, you leaned into him, closing your eyes as you let him hold you. His lips brushed your forehead in a kiss that was so gentle, so full of love, it left your skin tingling.

. . .

“I got you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple next, his hands securing you against him as he laid you down in bed, his body following you. He moved with ease, tucking you against his chest, enveloping you in warmth and safety. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

“You’re safe now,” Logan murmured softly, his voice rumbling against you, sending a wave of comfort through your body. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. Not with me here.”

As his lips pressed gently to the top of your head, you felt the last of the fear slip away, Your breathing slowed as you settled into him, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, and you allowed yourself to relax in his arms. Logan’s steady, rhythmic heartbeat was the lullaby that carried you back to sleep, the terror of the nightmare slowly fading into nothingness.

Lying there, nestled in his arms, you turned your head up to look at him, your voice thick with emotion as you whispered, “I love you so much, Logan.” Your words were soft but full of everything you felt in your heart. You never needed to say it, but tonight, in his arms, it felt like the most important thing you could say.

His gaze softened as he looked down at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I love you, too, baby,” he murmured, pressing one last gentle kiss to your forehead before settling in beside you, pulling you even closer.

#wolverine #logan howlett #hugh jackman #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #hurt/comfort #logan wolverine #hugh jackman wolverine #comfort #fluff #logan x reader #older boyfriend #oldermen

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typewritingyip · 22 hours ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty One - A Sense of Struggle

Part Twenty

———

Overuse was not something the companies and governments of the world initially expected, then again the development of a neural interface had been unexpected but welcome.

It had been alarming, when pilots started to mention the irritation around their new implants, which back at the beginning of the program were big and bulky, not easy to hide. Then a list of side effects started to accumulate.

Headaches, migraines, dizziness, vision issues, sensitivity to light and noise, vision loss, loss of hearing, brain damage, fatigue, insomnia, nightmares, short-term memory issues, confusion, brain fog, nausea, vomiting, lack of appetite, inflammation, rash, joint pain, loss of sensation in limbs, muscle degradation, muscle tears, muscle atrophy, loss of bone density, nerve damage, irritation, mood changes, changes in behavior, depression, anxiety, heart palpitations, iron deficiency, tremors, leaking around implants, rejection of implants, fever, increased risk of blood poisoning, sepsis, hallucinations, seizures, paralysis, organ failure, heart attack, stroke, and death.

Now, the sample size was considerably small, being that it consisted of only those found compatible and made into pilots, but it persisted. Not everyone experienced every side-effect but the warning label existed for a reason.

Seven pilots have died from overuse and its side effects.

—

The shuttle was bumpier than normal leaving the atmosphere and Hound leaned back in his seat the best he could, with his visual feed turned down to near darkness. He was the first one shipping back out on a mission and he was exhausted, but he spent two days after the blow up fight not attached to his suit. That would probably explain why Mirage was sticking to him like glue now, missing for a few days and still having bad reactions to sound and lights probably were entirely normal for Cybertronian’s, “Are you feeling okay?” Mirage’s hand was hovering over Hound’s shoulder, almost nervous to touch him.

Nodding a bit, Hound’s visor brightens slightly, “Yeah, I took something for the headache before we left Iacon.” And he had more in the cockpit with him. Mirage nodded a bit and rested his hand on Hound’s shoulder, “I hope you start to feel better soon Hound, it’s unfortunate that your helm-ache has lasted this long. Are you sure you don’t want to see Knockout?” Sighing, Hound shook his head and adjusted on his seat, “It’s nothing he’d be able to help with, not without frying my system.” Scratching lightly at his implants, his helmet tipped forward slightly. It pulled tightly at the skin on his head and neck. Wincing slightly, he rubs at the area, Mirage looked more worried, “I swear to you Mirage, I will be alright with time.” Shifting again in his seat he leans back and slightly into Mirage’s touch, sighing and darkening his visor.

Mirage stared and smiled softly, the level of trust was sometimes hard to understand or see. But in the quiet moments like this, where Hound was able to relax without having to fill the air with constant noise like many other soldiers or others of Hound’s own unit, it was easy. He shifted a bit and leaned his head lightly against Hound’s, smiling across the way to Skywarp, who was gaping at him. Then scowled when the seeker made a rather crude gesture.

Hound had his visual feed turned off, eyes closed, and external microphone off for the moment. Jazz was scowling at him through the camera, but he had his visor turned off so all he could do was hear him, “You shouldn’t have gone out this soon Hound, you still look like the other side of death.” Humming a bit, he scratches lightly at his jaw where the skin was red and inflamed, “If we are going to keep our cover we have to maintain life as it is. Not all of us are going to be in deep space with just Prowl when you pass out from overuse.” Sighing slowly, he turns his visor back on and squints lightly at Jazz, “Besides, I’ve dealt with overuse before. The best way to handle it is to get it over with.” Jazz scoffs and Hound rolled his eyes some.

“Oh yeah, getting it over with and having a heart attack pair very well together.” Shaking his head, Jazz rubs a hand over his face, sighing, “Take care of yourself Hound, alright? I don’t think Breakdown or Sunstreaker would ever forgive you.” Smiling a bit, Hound tilted his head slightly, the suit bumping lighting against Mirage, “Not Sideswipe?” Rolling his eyes, Jazz tries not to smile, “The kid will come around. Just don’t die.” Hound hummed and cut the feed, turning the visor off again, shifting again and leaning his helmeted head back up against the piloting seat.

To the appearance of everyone else, Hound was deep in recharge already and Mirage was completely content with that. He knew the mech wasn’t asleep, the subtle shifts were a dead giveaway but that was fine. Hound hadn’t shoved him away yet and it was as if he could almost feel the mech's closely held field when this close. Smiling a bit, Mirage kept his cheek on the side of Hound’s helm, which was now just about resting on his shoulder. He knew people were taking image captures and sending them around but for the moment, he didn’t care and eventually when he did, well, he was sure he could weasel a favor out of Prowl.

Thundercracker smacks Skywarp upside the head for good measure as he goes to make another crude hand gesture.

—

“I can’t believe him.” Sideswipe was pacing, scowling at the gin still which was still just dripping away, “Reaching overuse and now separating us.” He turns to watch Sunstreaker get into his assistance suit, they would be leaving the next day but Sunny was always particular about his routine when he had the time, “You can hardly call what we’re doing being separated. You and I are just under different commanders on the same battlefield, what, they said 95% of the time? Hound and Breakdown will still be together and Jazz is going back to what he’s been doing for five years.” Sunstreaker shrugs lightly, pulling at his suit a bit and scowling at the chipping paint, “Did you throw this?” Sideswipe turns away and goes back to pacing.

When he turned back Sunstreaker was still glaring and he sighs, “It’s the overuse.” “Oh don’t use it as an excuse!” Sunny turns away and goes to where he kept his paint, “I can’t believe that this thing gets scratched by you and not some alien with tentacles.” Sideswipe tries not to smile, moving over slowly, “Sunny, aren’t you a little mad about this? Hound is separating us.” Groaning, Sunstreaker turns and points at him, “Because otherwise we’ll be dead in a year and you know that.” Taking a breath, he grabs his paints and brushes before walking over to leave the suit against the wall.

Sighing deeply, Sunstreaker drags a hand over his face as he removes the suit, “We fought one of these things at a time, solo, back home. Now we're on a battlefield with dozens and pressed so close together we all keep looking over our shoulders to keep an eye on each other.” Sideswipe scowls, “Yeah, but so what.” Sunstreaker shoots him a scathing look, “I know you aren’t really putting the pieces together, but one of us would be looking at the other and do something stupid to protect them.” Sideswipe shrugs and Sunstreaker throws his arms in the air, “Simon, we’re dying out there and you don’t even realize it!” Sunstreaker was face to turn, face flushed with anger.

He nearly kicks his open paint can but stops himself, taking a breath, “One of us was going to die to protect the others. Whether it was Breakdown with his overheated canon, you trying to kill the literal assassin for the Autobots, Hound having a fucking heart attack from overuse to protect us, or me using my suit till my implants reach stage three rejection.” He picks up one of the paint brushes and twirls it lightly in his hand.

Sideswipe was staring, breathing deep before walking over and resting a hand on Sunny’s shoulder, “Are you facing rejection?” His hand lightly brushed over the implants at his shoulder then up his neck to the back of his head, Sunstreaker almost flinched away, “Not yet, but they haven’t been this sensitive since the compatibility testing.” Dripping his arm around Sunny’s shoulders, Sides drapes himself on his brother, closing his eyes, “I’m sorry.” Sighing, Sunny pats his brother's arm, “I know.” They stood there staring down at the paint can and assistance suit, Sideswipes hand coming up to rest protectively over the implants on the back of his brother's head.

—

The shuttle landed roughly and Hound shot up, wincing slightly, stretching out the best he could, “God, could that landing have been any rougher?” Mirage chuckled, “Welcome to New-Kaon, I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.” Pausing, Hound looked to Mirage and tilted his head slightly, “I’ve been to Kaon before,’ but Mirage was already shaking his head, “No, not Kaon on Cybertron, New Kaon is a colony of the cons’.” Nodding slowly, Hound wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, clearing his throat a bit, “Right then.” The back hatch opened with a hiss and bright sunlight came streaming through along with a burst of sand.

Noise filtered through in abundance and the hatch opened up to a busy space port, filled with mecha of dozens of shapes and sizes. Hound gapped and slowly stood as Megatron went past, he almost took a step back before the bigger mech rested a hand on his shoulder, “Come Hound, I will show you New Kaon while the shuttle refuels and we wait for intel.” Mirage stood but Hound nodded slowly, not entirely sure how to politely decline a tour, Megatron grinned, “You may very well come to love New Kaon, Jazz seemed to find it strikingly familiar.” They stepped off the transport and familiar would certainly be one way of putting it.

If Iacon Headquarters looked like Fort Liberty, this place looked like Fort Irwin where he’d trained back in his army days. It took his breath away and Megatron was smiling, “The sand is irritating but you grow used to it.” Shaking his head a bit, Hound scratches his jaw lightly, “I was from a place with a lot of sand, you get more than used to it, you adjust to it being everywhere. Sir.” They spared each other a look before Megatron folded his hands behind his back and started to walk through the port, nodding to nearby mechs who stopped to either stare or salute.

”New Kaon was my stronghold during the last war, a great deal of energon was hidden on this planet back at the beginning of the war and there are some naturally occurring energy sources here. Wind and sun being the easiest to harness of course, we would store what we could on our old warships.” He gestures in the direction of multiple large hangers, “We’re currently salvaging what we can for shuttle craft and re-building efforts.” Hound nodded but paused, “Rebuilding? Here or?” Megatron chuckled lightly, shaking his head, “You’ve seen the rebuilt parts of Cybertron, Iacon and Kaon, but there is still a great deal to repair from our mistakes.” Nodding, Hound couldn’t help but sigh, “I understand. My own home has been rebuilt from multiple wars in the last hundred years or so. Cold War conflicts, Vietnam, Korea, uh, the world wars of course and local conflicts.” Megatron stopped dead in his tracks as Hound kept walking.

“None of those worlds really translate well besides World Wars and the Cold War? I don’t quite understand.” Hound glanced around and waited for Megatron to catch up, “Well, uh, Vietnam and Korea are countries, both are located on the same continent and generally are in Asia. Which also doesn’t translate to much.” Megatron moved over slowly before they resumed their leisurely pace, “Countries? Plural?” “Of course.” Nodding a bit, Hound sighed, this was something he could handle, “There are nearly two hundred countries on my planet. Very different from your one government for the entire world.” Megatron hummed deeply, “So, when you’ve mentioned the odd names of where you are from,” Nodding a bit, Hound glances around, “Jazz, myself, and the twins are from the same country. Breakdown is from Ukraine, which is across an ocean from where the rest of us are from.” They kept walking even as Megatron’s mind worked.

His voice was nearly quiet, clearing his throat a bit, “How many governments control your world Hound?” Hound paused and tilted his head slightly, before shaking it, “There are one hundred and ninety-three member states apart of the UN, the United Nations, plus the potential for two observer states supposedly in the next few years.” He scratched at his jaw, frowning slightly when he felt the skin break and blood slide down his jaw and neck, Hound barely bit back a swear, “One hundred and ninety-three member states. Of an entity called the United Nations.” Nodding some, Hound uses the back of his hand to wipe at the blood a bit, frowning.

“Uh, yes sir. It’s a general governing body for the world to hopefully follow, make international laws, etc. I’m not very versed in it, politics were not my strong suit before our war sir.” Megatron nodded but cleared his throat again, “Then what were you versed in, Hound?” He had to pause before speaking, “Organic nature.” He almost smiled, “Our planet isn’t made of metal like Cybertron, at least not entirely, so when there was free time before the war I was interested in organic life.” They fell silent as they walked up the street, mecha simply going about their day around them.

Coming up on one very large building, Megatron hummed, “I apologize Hound, I will continue the tour once I have checked on something inside. Do you mind waiting?” Shaking his head, Hound tried not to hold a hand to his bleeding face, “Of course not, Sir. There was a cafe a little down the street, do you mind if I go sit there?” Waving a hand, Megatron smiled fondly, “You do not have to ask permission to sit Hound, I understand your kind needs more rest than my own. I will come retrieve you when I am done.” “Thank you sir.” Nodding his head slightly, Megatron entered the warehouse and Hound turned away, heading for the cafe.

He honestly just needed a place to sit, but Hound would not just sit on the ground and slump over while doing this. Hound was still bleeding after all. Being able to take a seat and disable the mobility of the assistance suit, he went digging around for the first aid kit. His jaw wasn’t the only thing bleeding anymore, “Fucking, damnit.” Grabbing the first aid kit, he pulls out gauze and cotton balls, along with several mecha themed bandages. Not many people were looking his way, he could tell that with keeping the visual feed on low but there were a few just watching him. It took longer than he’d hoped to get patched up, The entire back of his head was now covered in an overly large compression bandage to cover the worst of it from his implants without disrupting the connection and the lower part of his face was covered and clean.

Two nearly identical mecha had spent this whole time watching him, but Hound knew them and had seen them around before. When he got back into his piloting seat and reactivated the assistance suit, the twins were gone, likely reporting to Soundwave or Megatron on his condition already. Rumble and Frenzy seemed like a handful from a distance, he didn’t want to get any closer than that.

Taking a slow and deep breath, Hound looked at his hands briefly and had to pause, for a moment he swore his mechas hands were covered in blood and not his own flesh ones, “Hound, would you like to resume the tour?” Looking up, he stands and subconsciously wipes his hands on his legs, “Of course Sir, where to next?” Megatron smiled and gestures, “You might find our fighting pits entertaining. Our best warriors train there for Quintesson attacks, to ensure New Kaon’s safety.” Smiling a bit, Hound nods and follows, “It sounds interesting.” The city was almost peaceful other than for the sounds of conflict in the distance, in the direction they walked, one could almost forget that there was a war or had been a war before that one in moments like this.

His bandages were already soaked through with blood and discharge, unlikely to stop soon, not losing enough to kill him but certainly more than any human would like.

———

A/N

Alright, so this is where my posts start to get delayed. I take the LSAT this month and probably won’t have a ton of time to write. We are projected to get hit with a pretty bad snow storm this next week so we’ll see if we even have power, but idk yet.

Thank you everyone for showing me so much love on this story, I’ve been enjoying it so much.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble

And once again, I want to thank the amazing @keferon for this amazing AU, it’s such a blast seeing everyone just dog pile onto it.

#transformers #maccadam #tf mecha universe #mech pilot jazz au #The Arcturus missions #jazz #hound #prowl #sideswipe #sunstreaker #mirage #Megatron

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e1dritchjackal0pe · 3 days ago

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ℑ𝔰 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯?

Summary: You hate your new life. You hate him. You've been turned into a prisoner in your own body, haunted by urges that threaten to turn you into a violent mockery of yourself. You told yourself that you would never forgive him for what he's turned you into, but it seems that there are a lot of new things that you can't resist.

Warnings: 18+ content minors scram. Bite kink, blood consumption, blood-kink. Sex in public (don't do this in rl ya'll), spit as lube, handjob, fingering (F!Receiving), unprotected sex, dubious consent (they both get a little drunk from feeding). A little angst.

Notes: Wasn't expecting this to be this long and ended up cranking out 18.9k words for this bastard. Not proofread.

It's like running with a pack of feral dogs, the fear, the buzz, the noise. How they howl into the air; laughter scattered on the wind and cackling high as they all merge off of the parking lot and cut directly onto the boardwalk, forcing people to disperse out of the way to let them run wild, trying to avoid being struck. The strangers in the crowd turn their heads and observe in equal levels of fascination and bewilderment as they carelessly cruise their bikes through the masses, navigating the chaos with an expertise that shows how many times they've done it.

You still haven't entirely gotten used to it all. The repetitive roar of the motorcycle engines rumbling in a metallic growl, commanding that the bodies' part and allow them entry down the wooden street. It's difficult to resist the excitement in the dark air, all charged and sparking in your stomach like fireworks. Your laughter fizzes in your stomach, just as bright as the streetlamps and carnival lights glinting around you in a passing blur, and you're unable to stop most of it from trickling out.

It makes you want to snap your mouth shut, but you know that it's too late, he definitely heard you with how closely you've been forced to cling to his back, wrapping a hesitant arm around his waist to keep yourself from being shaken loose by the bike and tossed onto the ground. Sometimes you think that it would be worth it.

It's odd, looking out into the crowd now, seeing the way that they stare at you all as you pass. You hate that you can find yourself in most of them, the envy in some of their eyes as they take in glimmer of the bikes beneath the glow of the boardwalk; dazzled by all of the leather and roguish charm that almost permeates from the four of them like a glamour. You were dazzled too. And now you're here, strapped to the spine of the devil while he cheers into the night. His friends answer with equally demented hollers.

You long to finally get off of this damned bike. To lose the weight of his back pressed to your chest. To get the woody spice of his stolen cologne out of your nose and breathe in some fresh air. But unease pulls you down. Nausea rolls in your stomach like oil, slick and heavy. And it makes you almost prefer to stay here, clung to his shoulders, rather than stop now. It would keep this night from happening. Prolong the inevitable for a blissful second or two. There's an unspoken expectation looming thick over the group. A spilling of blood to finally seal an unwanted pact.

You try to ignore it, focusing on the sensation of the summer breeze instead, warm and soft as it drifts over your skin, tugging at your clothes. You count people in the crowd, a meaningless one, two, three and so on until you lose track and the spirited commotion around you fades out into a pleasant blur. Giving you a moment of peace before the bullet hits. For a small breath you can pretend that it's all just a dream.

But then the bike engines all die out, and it's like a door slamming shut while you're asleep. Instead of tearing you out of a nightmare, it shoves you headfirst into it. Abrupt and dragging you out of your daze without a single warning. You hadn't even noticed the group slowing down and backing their bikes up to the fence of the platform. It's all too loud now. The fun music pumping out from overhead speakers, the fluctuating murmur of passing conversations, the roar of the nearby waves crashing over the serf. It all rattles around your skull like thunder.

None of them wait to dismount their motorcycles, killing the engines and swinging themselves over the leather seats to stand. One of the firsts is Star. You catch her eye when she slips herself free from David's back, and she's quick to shift away from the group, waiting only for Laddie who runs to take ahold of her hand once Dwayne plucks the boy from his bike. The look she gives you is fleeting, but it says so much. It's understanding and hopeful, but the reflection of the lights makes her fear plain. You can see it clearly. An unspoken sorry passed to you before she ushers Laddie into the drifting crowd and disappears for the few hours of freedom she'll be afforded.

"You ready?" Marko voice severs your attention from Star, forcing you to glance at him and meet his eye as he peeks at you from over his shoulder. It's as though he's staring through you.

"Yeah, ya ready?" Paul echoes obnoxiously from beside his motorcycle, but you ignore him entirely.

You try to swallow down your nerves as you shift to raise yourself up from the bike, only sparing Marko a brief nod. And then his hand clasps around your wrist in support, firm but just light enough to let you move unencumbered; chilled leather on skin and it makes you jerk out of the hold keeping you steady. It's reflective when you tear your arm out from his palm, twisting quickly off the seat to create space between your bodies. You don't look at him as you pull your arm from his grip. You don't want to face the exhaustion or irritation that might show there.

It's like your joints are made of stone, sluggish and graceless as though you're running nowhere in a dream. When the soles of your shoes meet the boardwalk, you might as well as been doused with a bucket of cold water. Reality strikes in without any subtly, and you know that they can all hear the frantic pulse of your heart, pumping and thrashing in your chest like it means to escape.

Paul chuckles, casting you a glance that's full of mockery, like your apprehension is the most entertaining thing in the world. You have to ignore the urge to snap at him, sucking down the insult like something bitter. The sound of Marko standing up behind you, the shuffle of his boots on the worn wood, has your voice snuffing out anyway.

But really, it's David that makes you fall silent. He's the only one who hasn't gotten up from his bike, opting to sit lazily as though the world turns for him. Maybe it does.

The blue of his eyes is ice on your skin, and you try to ignore the weight of it. Staring so intently like he's trying to burn a hole into your head, like he's trying to read your thoughts. But you doubt he needs telepathy to be able to do that. He has a way of getting under people's skin. Of burying down deep like a parasite and latching onto the things that make them human, weeding through their ticks and habits as though they're maps to their souls, and you're no different. When he watches you, you think he's looking at your spirit, staring into your future and past and found that he's already disappointed.

Like a gnat buzzing around your ear, Marko's hand finds its way around your waist, tugging you close just enough that your shoulder brushes softly on his chest. Taunting you with your new reality. The awful truth that this going to be your life. Eternally damned to live amongst them.

David watches you both, seemingly evaluating you as you stand. You can't tell if he's pleased with what he sees.

"Be safe." His eyebrows perk a little when he speaks. An order, not a courtesy. He reaches for the cigarette he tucked behind his ear and balances it between his lips, his other hand already going for the zippo lighter in his coat pocket. Be safe. It's really just his way of saying don't do anything you'll regret. And he was making direct eye contact with you when he said it. The message is crystal clear.

Marko gives him a mock salute, already pulling you away from the group to usher you off into the thick of the crowd. Guiding you forward akin to a predator with its teeth locked around its prey's throat.

"Let's go get something to eat." He murmurs, tucking his face close to yours to be heard over the commotion. It's such a simple sentence. One that's kind out of context, but the knowledge behind it digs into you like lethal talons. And it feels too intimate, how closely he's tucked himself to you. It stirs up a ghost of emotions that you don't want to relive. Old echoes of a schoolgirl crush that bubbles in your stomach with the pain of something poisonous. You want to hide from it, snuff it out as you would old embers. You fantasize about slipping out from under his arm, shrugging him off and disappearing inside the masses. But you wouldn't get far. You don't think there's a single place on this planet that you could hide from them now.

To outsider who happens to glance at you two, you look like a pair of lovers. A girl and her boyfriend taking a night out on the town, but it couldn't be any farther from the truth.

It's difficult to look at anyone in the crowd now. Seeing them is like watching unknowing lambs trickle into a slaughter shoot. Darting about without a single concept of the danger among them. Ignorant to the wolves prowling about with snarling teeth. Blood is shed nightly in Santa Carla, people vanish. It's become a natural law to the locals, similar to how the sky appears blue and the earth orbits the sun. But the deaths and the disappearances have always been given speculation - runaways and serial killers mostly. You don't think they'd all be able to take the truth.

You hardly had. Not even when it stared you down with bloodied lips and molten eyes. Death walks with them every night, and they don't have a single clue.

"See anybody you like?" he asks suddenly.

He can't ever let you drift off. You can't escape, not even in your own head. The cruel reminder of his words digs at you with all the care of glass shards. You have to turn your head, pretending to scan the crowd even though you know that your glances are probably too frantic to be convincing. You know he can hear your pulse, too; he can smell the tart rush of your adrenaline in the air.

"Uh, no." You finally spit it out, all clunky on your tongue that now seems too thick. "I - I don't."

"We'll find you something, don't worry." It sounds like a taunt. It has to be. Subtly demeaning as though he's insulting you for being terrified.

God, you want to slap him. You want him to hurt just as much as you are. To make him taste just a fraction of the betrayal and anger that you do. But that would require him to care, and you doubt that he has the compacity for that. It's all impulse and bloodlust for him. The only loyalty he feels is towards his brothers. Everyone else is expendable. Dolls meant to be toyed around with for his entertainment.

All of the smiles he had given you in the past were fake, played up to win your trust. Just the same as a mouse lured in by the scent of sugar, you had stumbled directly into his trap, captivated by his charm. And the friendly banter and flirting that you'd exchange in the guise of insults were carefully constructed to trick you into a false sense of camaraderie. It's only been about a week or so since then - time doesn't make sense now - but it seems as though decades have passed. Stretched wide and distorted; broken as your mind struggles to come to terms with its the existence.

You still can't fully fathom how they all live these lives so easily. Cutting, maiming, and killing as though it's as simple as breathing. Ripping people open to gorge themselves. As though they aren't people at all, just piles of flesh and blood. Not individuals with jobs and loved ones and purpose, only piles of meat. Animals bred for slaughter.

They all strut around this boardwalk as though it's theirs, scouting out potential prey with all the casualty of someone checking their mailbox. Foxes sneaking into a henhouse. And the weight of Marko's arm secure and resolute around your waist burrows tonight's intentions down into your bones like a sickness. There's a line that they expect you to cross. A chasm that they command you to leap. You don't know if you'll make it across. And if you do, it might not be you who comes out on the other side. Not anymore.

He's expecting you to pick one out. To look out across the sea of hundreds and pluck one unfortunate soul out from the others. To smear the mark of the damned upon their forehead and take their life for your own. You can't do that. You won't. You don't even know how to. Which steps to take. And Marko seems content in letting you figure it out for yourself. Or maybe he's just finding enjoyment in your distress, in watching you panic and glance around the boardwalk with fear in your eyes.

You want to shout at him. To take him by the shoulders and rattle him until he either lets you go or gives you some answers, but you can't seem to get your body to yield to either of those desires. You remain tucked to his chest, allowing him to cling to you as you wander through the crowd. Scattering cursory glances over the strangers who pass you both. All of them just as oblivious as the last. Caught up in the night, the laughter and lights; the carnival games and tourist traps glazing them over the danger crossing their paths.

It strikes you, almost suddenly, why he has allowed you to amble around slowly without any sense of urgency. Like usual as of late, there's hardly any buildup. It doesn't settle in, or creep up. It's just there. You can feel it running beneath your skin, running hot and burning, carving out a hole in your stomach. Gnawing and pulsing until you nearly feel hollow.

It's so abrupt that it strangles a ragged gasp out of you. You almost turn into him, catching yourself just before your knees can go boneless and send you sprawling down onto the boardwalk. It strikes under your ribcage as though you've been stabbed, twisting and sharp.

You would think that you'd be used to it by now. Prepared for the abruptness of it, but you don't think that there's any way to truly ready for the magnitude of hunger that lashes throughout your body. It's almost crippling every time. The pain that seers across your chest alongside the ache in your gut. The first time you felt it; you'd thought that you were having a heart attack with how vicious the agony was, with how wildly your heart had convulsed inside of your chest.

But you know now what it really is: An inhuman hunger.

You've fought so hard to resist it. Stuffing yourself full of anything that you could get your hands on. Cramming you mouth full of junk, pillaging through the old, canned foods stored within the back of the cave. Anything to try and satisfy the hollow pit growing in your body, but it never worked. It only ever eased the mental part of the hunger, like chewing gum on an empty stomach, hoping that you could trick yourself into believing that you aren't hungry, but that vacant pit never closes.

You always knew that you wouldn't be able to coast off of the false sense of satisfaction for so long. Star had warned you as much. It gets harder each day. That's what she had told you. The more you try to outlast it - the more you resist, the more insistent it becomes. And unfortunately, she hadn't lied.

God, you can smell them all now. Warm and rich in the air, tinged with salt. It makes you mouth water, saliva pooling on your tongue. There has to be thousands of them. Heartbeats fluttering, some thumping and racing, others skipping a beat; the air alive with the musk of adrenaline. You can feel it all, pulsing in the atmosphere, turning the breeze into something living. It's overwhelming, all electric and humming. It skirts across your teeth, trembling over your fingertips and toes, bumping steadily in your ears in a raucous rhythm.

You can't help it when you turn to hide your face in the crook of Marko's neck, drawing in greedy lungful's of his scent to orient yourself. You hate that you have to rest your weight on him to keep yourself from sagging over. He doesn't shove you away. He remains firm against you, the arm on your waist squeezing just a little bit tighter. He's the only thing keeping you from completely doubling over in pain, the agony scattering up your stomach bites through you.

You want to collapse in a heap, but the scent of blood and life takes ahold of you like a physical thing. It seems to grip you by the throat. Lashing around you tightly and keeping you from falling onto your knees. You try to ignore the scent of iron in the air, the subtle sweet edge lacing through it. Instead you huff pathetically at his cologne to try and mask the fragrance of all the warm bodies wandering around you. Sucking in the perfume of amber and spice, the now familiar undertone of damp earth to keep yourself present.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Breathe in and out slowly." It's hushed between the both of you to be heard from around the excitement. Said softly. Perhaps in one of the gentlest tones he's ever used. And your body is unable to resist the command, complying as though its instinct. You want to lean into it. To let yourself drift back into the sweetness of it while agony continues to spiral through you. To indulge in the relief that settles over you from the low rumble of his voice. There's that urge to jerk away from him, rising up high, angry and pained, but you can't manage to actually act on it. The wild hunger eating away at your body keeps you almost lax against his body. All you can do is clench your teeth together as another rush of pain trembles through you, choking another gasp from your lungs.

You wish you could create some space between the two of you. You need a second. A moment, no matter how small to get yourself together. You can't think when he's around. He floods your senses for all the wrong reasons. Wiping your mind blank until all that's left are the muddled hues of endearment and betrayal. The hurt that comes with it. The regret wells up in an acrid pour. They're voices all clamoring up in painful reminders that they had all warned you to stay away from him - that he was nothing but trouble. But like an idiot you had ignored all of them, telling them that they were all just paranoid. Judgmental.

You loathe the night that the boys had all walked into your job, cackling amongst each other while they poured in through the front door. Acting like the diner was all theirs and you all just didn't know it yet. Leslie refused to serve them even though they sat in her section, climbing into a booth tucked into the far corner of the dining room, and yet they somehow seemed to pull all of the focus in the room. They remained unbothered by the blatant staring from the other customers, snickering and joking while the old man at the bar glared at them from over the edge of his western novel. Undisturbed by the family seated across from them and the scathing glare from the uptight looking mother, openly scowling without a lick of shame as she muttered heatedly to her husband.

You had elected to cover them for Leslie who eyed them from behind the counter as though they were a pack of wild animals. It was a slow enough night, and it didn't give you any extra trouble by taking them on. Their focus had zeroed in on you when you approached their table, introducing yourself despite the engraved name tag pinned onto your shirt. They were undeniably charming then, carrying around them a kind of mystery and magnetism that you couldn't have helped but to be a little captivated by.

But it had been one in particular that had truly entranced you. Looking back on it, you can't say what it was in particular that had done it. Maybe it was just everything about him. He was kaleidoscopic, a splash of color against the dull blue vinyl of the booth and pale fluorescents. It struck you how cherubic he was; rounded, high cheekbones and tightly spun curls that seemed to be fashioned from the sun itself. But what really got you was his eyes. Expressive and wide. It would have given him an innocent, doe eyed look if it wasn't for the impish kind of playfulness glinting in the stormy blue of them. Burning with a quick-witted intellect and something a little mean.

He was beautiful. The sort of face that would be depicted in Baroque paintings, and the patches sewn onto his jacket were just as dramatic and vivid as that art might be.

"Hopefully we don't scare you off like her," he said, undoubtedly referring to Leslie who'd taken to observing you from behind the bar almost as though she was disappointed in you, but it's not like you'd ever cared about what she thought. It was like he had wanted to sound apologetic, but the amused sneer pushing up the rosy shape of his mouth had shown otherwise.

"Don't worry," you had answered. "It takes a lot to scare me away."

Maybe that's what had damned you. A challenge that you hadn't known you'd raised. You should have known by the way that he smiled at you that he was dangerous.

Nearly every night after that he would show back up at the diner, as persistent as a stray wandering up to a familiar doorstep. Always seating himself in your section to watch you work, making quips at whenever you walked past him. And in turn you'd give him remarks of your own, accusing him of harassing you at your job with a lighthearted smile on your face.

Leslie had always hated to see him sitting in the dining room whenever she was scheduled, and she never made any attempts to hide the distain on her face whenever he'd look her way. The unaffected, cheeky smiles that he would give her in return never failed to drive her up a wall, and they were almost always a surefire way to prompt another unwanted rant from her. Always crowding you back in the kitchen to try and warn you away from him, scolding you with a disgusted kind of passion in her eyes. All judgement and petulance.

You hate that she'd been right.

In almost no time at all, he had gone from a fun regular to staying behind with you till closing - much to the chagrin of your coworkers and boss. Watching you as you flitted about the small dining room, performing mundane tasks like refilling the sugar dispensers and the salt and pepper shakers, or sweeping the floors. Always trying to get you to abandon your shift early in favor of joining him out in the night - that at least, you had the sense to reject.

At the time you had just told yourself that he was only there for the dead pastries that you'd give to him every once in a while. He even had a favorite, apple pie, smothered with whipped cream and the vanilla ice cream that you'd smuggle from the kitchen.

But then on his fifth time skulking up to your job to watch you work, he had extended an offer. Inviting you out on one of your nights off to join him out on the town. Though directly unsaid, it sounded suspiciously like a date. And that was enough to have a rush of butterflies spiraling and fluttering around in your stomach. It almost felt unbelievable to have someone as magnetic as him flirting with you. Taking time out of his life to see you almost nearly every night, a part of your shift that you had come to expect. And the disappointment you used to feel when he wouldn't show was pitiful. It made you eager, flushed with warmth and a ditzy kind of hope, and with an almost embarrassing quickness, you had excepted his proposition.

You just never could have foreseen what would happen next. The damning terms that you have so naively accepted. He'd been so easy to lean on then. You hadn't wanted to twist your way out of his touch, you had wanted to fall into it. When he had slung his arm around your shoulder, it had felt natural. Like it belonged there. The pressure of his weight against your back had been pleasant, lighting heat under your skin, but that sense of comfort has long since become corrupted.

Even now, as he continues to guide you down the boardwalk, it feels like a cruel mockery of that night. Even worse than all of that, is despite all of your hatred, some pathetic little part of you still delights under his touch. He's been horrific and selfish, tearing you from your life and the choice or mortality. But like a sickness those old feelings persists, lurking just beneath the surface of your anger like an unwanted house guest.

And it's here now, nudging at the corners of your mind. Almost begging you to settle further against him while he nudges you through the frenzied masses with a new sense of purpose. There's a sense of solace there. One you try to blame on the agony that draws at your bones and digs a cavern inside of your stomach. You tell yourself that you're just trying to find a sense of peace wherever you can, even if that means turning to him, but really you know better.

Your time together has been short, and yet, in the brief span he's managed to flip your sense completely on its axis. It has shame turning in your gut, prickling and acidic. It's a betrayal to yourself how you allow press into him, allowing him to be the protection from the pain that he's caused. But he makes it horrendously easy. His scent drawing around you like a cocoon, inviting and familiar.

It has time and agony smearing down into a haze; the only thing to keep you fully grounded is the press of his hand molding over your hip, his thumb slipping under the hem of your jacket and shirt to sweep mindless caresses over your skin.

You hardly notice the blaring of a guitar, the heavy thump of drums and instruments reverberating over the atmosphere behind the pitch of live vocals. Someone's sweat-dampened shoulder brushes along yours, jostling you out of your pain induced stupor, but it's really the sound of Marko's voice snapping out over the noise that truly draws your attention: "Got you hangover cure. Get ready to pick your poison."

You tilt your head enough just to peek out from the cradle of his throat, casting a nervous glance over the shifting bodies. Everywhere you look its waving limbs, bare flesh glinting with glitter and sweat; hands clutching glowsticks, waving blurs of neon colors. The mass all sways and dances as best as they all can within the tight confines the crowd spread out down on the beach. It's like looking at an ocean, the tides lifting in an animated, roaring current. There has to be at least a few hundred people all here to watch the band playing, captivated and completely lost within the excitement and music rushing through their systems.

You're just outside the fringes of the throng, overlooking them from the height of the steps descending from the boardwalk, but it's still overwhelming. A relentless stream of sound bombarding your ears. You can practically taste all of them on your tongue, the blood pumping in their veins, fierce and hot, laced with the buzz of adrenaline. The energy in the air almost seems to brush over you, seeping down through your muscles and marrow, somehow making your hunger worse.

In Marko's perspective, he's probably looking at a living buffet. Throats bared for the taking. You hate how you can hear the frantic pulse from what's probably close to three hundred hearts, all of them gathered around in front of you to admire the performance on the stage far ahead on the beach.

It sinks your reality in deeper, sinking in to tear a shudder down your spine. You turn to look at him then, gripping onto the edge of his coat like it might keep you from bolting. "What - how am I supposed to kil-" you draw in a deep breath to calm yourself. "How am I supposed to do anything here? This place is packed. There's like a million people here."

He smiles at you and it's so hard to tell if it's genuine or not. There's always something a little mean glinting in his eyes. Something almost spiteful. But the expression on his face gentle. Like he finds your naivety as endearing as it is amusing.

He leans in close so you can hear him, his nose brushing slightly over yours as he speaks. "Nobody here is gonna notice a thing. They're so caught up that you could kill ten of them right now and they wouldn't find the bodies till morning."

It's terrifying how he talks about it. It's worse with the realization that his ease comes from experience. You're sure that he's stood in this exact spot more times than you could count, scoping out some poor soul to lure away. Drank them dry in the shadows, dead center in the middle of the crowd while people danced and sang as the victim's heartbeat died out in their chest and the light faded from their eyes.

You know he's right, too. No one here would notice you singling someone out and drawing their blood out from their veins. It's horrific.

You used to hear it all the time flipping around on the news stations while you'd get ready in the mornings; declared from the radio as you skimmed through the channels while driving to work, the voices from news anchors and radio personalities while they informed Santa Carla of another body found under suspicious circumstances. Torn limbs washed onto shore, people gone missing without a single trace, bodies found miles outside of town with brutal bitemarks ravaging their bodies. People die all the time here, locals and tourists alike, and still everyone seems to wander around with an air of obliviousness. Fueled by some overblown confidence that they couldn't possibly be next.

The most humiliating thing though, is that you were once one of those people. Navigating through life as though you were untouchable. And look where that got you. The universe sent you a wakeup call that you couldn't ignore, packaged in a pretty face.

You've seen all of the missing posters stapled and taped to the buildings around town. They're impossible to ignore, hundreds of them depicting the people and children who would never be found again. Torn away from their lives without any warning, leaving their loved ones to mourn and latch onto the false hope that they'd return. You can't be the cause of that.

Marko shifts himself, settling his chest right against your back, and lifts his hands up to hold your shoulders. To comfort you or keep you still, you aren't entirely sure. He tucks his head next yours, peeking around you as though he's trying to see the world through your eyes. For a moment, his cologne breaks through the sweat, and blood, and stimulation. It's warm, masculine, but subtly sweet beneath the spice of it like the buttery flavor of vanilla, and you almost settle back into him.

"Pick any of them. It doesn't matter." You feel him shrug, and the earring dangling from his lobe presses at the skin of your jaw. It makes you hauntingly aware of how close he is. Body flush with yours. A distraction all on its own, slipping a glaze over your mind but the hunger comes back with a vengeance, eating away in your veins, as thick as honey. "They won't even know what hit them until it's too late."

You scan the crowd, vision darting over the strange faces peeking through the pandemonium. You try to swallow down the saliva pooling in your mouth. You can feel your gums aching, pressure pulsing behind your teeth with that strange urge to bite. The same one that almost had you latching your mouth onto your own arm last night, lapping your tongue on your skin, tasting the blood lurking beneath. It had been Marko then who had pulled you back before you could try and drink from yourself, and since then he had seemed determined to get you to hunt.

But while a large part of you is driven down, coasting under some twisted high induced by the pain and the sound of Marko's voice in your ear, a small piece can't help but to struggle with the acceptance that he chose this place to be your first time. It's overwhelming, the number of people scattered about, the music is so deafening that you can hardly think.

Already the thread around your control is fraying, turning thin within the shaky grip of your resolve. The guilt that's kept you steadfast has grown weaker with each passing day, fracturing like old bones. You've done your best to hide yourself away in the cave this past week, ever since you found out what you are, what your hunger truly means. But your time is up now, and despite your protesting, once the sun had slipped past the horizon, Marko had all but dragged you out of the remnants of the hotel. Ignoring the panicked rambling that had spilt from you as he guided you towards his bike with a firm grip around your arm.

The message had been clear: You're going to feed tonight, no matter what.

He's intentionally throwing you into the thick of it. He's not giving you an out. He wants your instincts to overwhelm you, for the hunger to cloud your judgement and tip you over the edge if that's what it takes for you to become one of them, but this seems dangerous.

You know his game, but you don't think you have the strength to fight anymore. You're becoming detached from yourself. It's always terrifying how the hunger sinks in around your mind, nestling deep until you feel like a second passenger in your own body. The only thing that might be keeping you tethered to yourself is Marko's weight on your back. The realization of it makes your skin crawl. You want to slip away from him, but there's a paranoia hanging over you. A dread that if you detach yourself from him that your control might break entirely. He reaches around and lightly cups your jaw, using it to turn your head and you allow him to despite the confusing blur of discomfort and contentment that trembles down your spine at the touch. Ever since that night that you met, it's like a piece of himself had torn off and wormed its way beneath your skin, digging down like a leech to join itself to your soul. It's an influence that you can't shake. He's wedged himself too deep. Fixed himself to you probably the single moment that his eyes had first locked with yours.

You let Marko move your head, and you attention tracks where he guides your vision, stopping only when he fixes your head still with his hand. Your breath snags when you notice a man tucked away in the shadows. Standing somewhat awkwardly below next to a burn barrel like the flames lashing out from the rusted metal might ward off the people screaming and chanting along with the band. He looks lonely. Huddled away in his own world while people hop around on their feet and cheer and shout with pitching voices.

"That's an easy one," Marko supplies. A hint - a nudge to get you in the right direction.

All of a sudden, a precipice is yawning out in front of you. The moment that you've been dreading, that's kept you away from sleep for days on end, is raising up and hurtling towards you. It almost feels like the floor beneath your feet is falling loose and vanishing, leaving you dangling and trapped within the blur of passing seconds.

It's terrible - otherworldly almost - the hollow lashing of pain that coils through your gut and burns hotly, begging for you to stumble forward and reach for the prey that's been settled on. You're outside yourself from the starvation that threatens to cripple you. Hunger crammed in where your soul should be. You can feel your muscles drawing up tight, preparing to lurch yourself forward in a desperate scramble, but this time it's Marko who holds you back. You can feel the shape of his smile brushing over your cheek, smug and satisfied as you struggle pitifully to regain control of your own body.

"Careful," he warns. "Don't wanna spook him too early." His lips glide over your skin, just bordering on a could be kiss, leaving sparks where they drag before he pulls away. "Now go get him. I'll be watching."

He pushes you forward. Hardly more than a nudge, but in your hyper focused state it's practically a shove. You almost slam directly into some of the people sprinkled along the stairs. Stumbling forward a little, nearly tripping over the edge of one of the steps as you descend; your mind screaming for you to stop and turn around. It's like you're trapped within your own bone and sinew, agony and hunger wrapping around your throat like a vice, demanding that you keep moving.

Your vision narrows down, vignetting around the edges your attention fastens onto the timid looking man in the dark. You can already hear his heart thumping above the rest, sounding like the persistent strikes of thunder cresting over the blaring instruments and the ruckus of the crowd. He doesn't even notice as you approach. Too caught within himself, standing with his hands tucked inside the pockets of his khaki's, entirely out of place amidst the rockers and punks making up the masses.

A tourist probably, your mind latches onto the possible detail with weak fingers, almost slipping from your focus entirely because of the daze threatening to cloud you over.

There's almost a sadness weighing down at his expression, highlighted by the fires flickering around in the burn barrels scattered along the grounds. Maybe it's the reason for how oblivious he is, fully unaware of how close you've drawn as he continues to stare ahead with a plain moroseness set into the dejected hunch of his shoulders. You can hear his breath draw through his lung when he sighs softly. You can see the muscles in his neck bulge lightly under his skin, shadowed dramatically from the fires when he breathes.

Your mouth floods with saliva, teeth itching to bite like an animal staring down something wounded. It's primal, so unrecognizable from yourself that you nearly stop in place, but a pang tears through your stomach, almost as though your body is rejecting the very notion of your denial. Your own flesh turning against you from the simple pitter patter of his pulse coursing across the air in a steady spike, only growing louder and more tempting as you approach. A siren's song that ripples through your soul.

"Not a fan of the music?" Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears, slipping out over the balmy air before you even registered that your lips were moving.

His eyes dart over to you, wide and surprised as he takes you in. Glittering in the dark like a deer caught in headlights. It makes that new, hideous thing in you tremble in delight, perverse and horrible. You don't know if you can resist it anymore. But the laughter of the people around you - the final threads of your humanity, keep you from lunging forward.

"Ah, no, it's fine." He seems so out of his element. So confused by your presence that it makes the distant pieces of yourself a little self-conscious, but that new half of you still disturbingly pleased with the uncertainty weighing down at his posture. As though the possibility of his fear is something to be craved. He's taller than you by several inches, looking down his nose and through the wire frame of his glasses to watch you; all long limbed and towering. But you can still make out muscles flexing under his skin, peeking out from the sleeves of his shirt.

He looks awkward in his own body, but you know regardless that there's a clear difference in your strength. He could probably lift you up and wrangle your neck if you were still normal, and yet that concern doesn't truly reach you. Not while he's so close, the scent of his blood perfuming the air in salt and iron. A combination of smells that should have your nose curling in disgust, but it only has a starved growl threatening to rumble from your stomach.

"I mean, it's not my usual kind of sound, I guess. But it's fine - nothing wrong with it." It's almost an embarrassed ramble, how he stumbles over his words. He nods, head rocking about in an exaggerated, bobble headed fashion. Like the gesture might get you to agree with him.

You try not wince at another hunger cramp that claws its way through you, smiling instead and hoping that it looks natural instead of strained. Your skin is damp with perspiration, flushed hot with a warmth that covers you like a fever, and you're sure that your pupils have blown wide. Turned into dark abysses that eat the color from your eyes. You have to look crazed, but if he notices anything off about your expression, he doesn't mention it.

He is out of place here, wearing a snug Polo shirt and a fancy watch around his wrist. Sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the all the tattooed skin and the girls in scant bikini tops. You could be genuinely curious about him if it weren't for the circumstances. If the reasoning behind you seeking him out wasn't so gruesome, driven by starvation and ruthless impulse. You can feel it creeping in closer around you, like teeth digging into meat, parting flesh under serrated enamel.

You catch his throat flexing again. The subtle rhythmic rise and fall of his pulse throbbing under smooth skin. It nearly makes you sob. A broken, whinny sound that you have to choke down behind a clenched jaw to keep him from hearing.

"You look like more of a Toto kind of guy," you answer finally. Forcing it out behind a strained sigh.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, still oblivious to the danger he's in. Perking up just a little bit as though he's adjusting to you.

"No," you respond. Perhaps a little too quickly to sound normal.

Your mind drags, scrambling in a wild blur to figure out how to correct the small mistake, but it draws a blank. Instead of words, you're only silent, staring at him with a severity that must be uncomfortable. You know you must look like just about every pervert that's ever harassed you at work, all leering and oddly tense in their persistence. Logic demands that you pull back. That you cut your losses and take the blunder for what it is - a blessing in disguise. The universe giving you an out. An escape while you have it before the hunger completely turns off what little control you still have and sends you spiraling.

But like a body belonging to someone else you remain firm in place, standing in front of him with spit pooling in your mouth and the urge to bite pressing at your teeth. You should try to invite him off somewhere more private - no! God, what are you thinking? You can't be anywhere alone with him. You can't take the risk to be by yourself with only him. Or with anyone else for that matter. As determined as you are to keep your humanity intact; to cling onto your own morality, it's becoming less and less of a possibility.

If you draw blood, that will be it for you. There's no stepping off that path once you're on it. You'll never see the sun again. You won't be human. You'll be a monster. A thing that preys on others for the sake of its own continuation. The possibility of the universe spans out in front of you like something daunting and terrible, promising forever. Exchanging your death in the payment of others' lives. Replacing your blood with theirs in a cycle that will continue until the earth finally destroys itself and dies.

You don't know how old the boys all are. They're all tight lipped and secretive about themselves, as though you haven't truly earned their trust just yet. It's only Paul that you've managed to wrangle a sliver of information out of. But it was mostly just delirious rambling, spoken through heavy slurring when he came back to the cave intoxicated from the blood of drunkards.

And he was definitely out of it, staring straight up at the grooves in the cave ceiling, looking up at the shadows casted there as though they were as fascinating as stars. "Don't you know you're not supposed to ask a lady her age?" He'd giggled softly, and it was obvious that it was mostly to himself rather than you. He had to be a little high too; he had been down on the beach hunting that night. Preying on the skinny dippers and riffraff. There's no telling what kind of people he'd gotten his hands on, the substances that could have intoxicated their blood. His pupils were a little blown. Wide black pits glinting in the warm glow of the candles dotted about the space, reflecting fire in his eyes, all wild and drunk. "We're pretty old. . . He used to have a horse."

You aren't sure who he is. The comment was cryptic. The nonsense of someone who was miles away from their own mind and soaring on a heavy buzz, but as absurd as it sounded it did have some merit to it. You hear them all make off handed comments that give you clues into their age. Like when Marko had grumbled about how he kind of missed the disco rink - an old building that now sits abandoned and boarded up Piedmont Street. It was shut down in '73 due to repeated fire code violations.

But it had been Dwayne who had unintentionally dropped a bomb on you one night. All of the boys were scattered around the center of the cave, a Billy Idol song streaming from the stereo system in the corner while they all lazed about, made a little sluggish once their recent feeding had settled in and turned their limbs heavy.

You had hidden yourself away on a mattress that Marko had stolen for you (just where he had gotten it from, you try not to think about). You couldn't really see them from behind the beaded curtains and sheer sheets that you had strung up around it, taking inspiration from Star to block off your small corner of the cave to give yourself a shred of privacy. Not that you had really succeeded.

Their voices were still loud, echoing softly along the stone walls, keeping you from being able to slip into a defeated sleep. You wanted them to shut up. To give you a break and vanish off to their own part of the sunken hotel, but they'd been in their spots for nearly an hour, and they'd showed no signs of leaving.

And then Dwayne said it: "Remember when they tried to band this stuff?" You could just barely make out his silhouette through the rosy fabric separating you from them, but you could see him rattle his hand, shaking the bottle of whisky while he stared at it with a somewhat fond, distant look.

"Ugh, don't remind me, man." Paul had answered from somewhere, petulant and huffy.

"Right. Like it had stopped you at all." Marko joked, his voice projecting from somewhere close to your bed. Much closer than the others. He always sticks nearby, lurking around the fringes like a guard dog posted in front of its house.

It didn't take long for you to connect the dots, to dig through the information you have stored on basic history. The Prohibition. The 1920's. That's how old they are - if not older. And they've always been here. Prowling around Santa Carla, possibly walking around the boardwalk long before it even had a rollercoaster. Maybe that's why they parade around like the town belongs to them. In a way it does.

That's what lies ahead for you. Forever measured in the number of lives you take. Souls traded in so you can stay here, trapped inside the lights and excitement, all while guilt and horror eats away at what's left of your spirit. In a blink or a slow crawl, it would all be different, and you aren't sure which one is worse. You would wake one day and all that's left of your former life would be reduced to nothing, turned faded by time. It terrifies you that you might get to a point where you wouldn't be able to recognize yourself. That you could turn indifferent to the slaughter. That eventually you'll just see prey instead of people.

Suddenly the weight of the stranger's stare on you is prickling over your clammy skin. Uncomfortable and almost itching like a rash. It makes you obnoxiously self-aware. Hyper vigilant of your own body, the feeling in your fingertips and toes, the hunger echoing through your stomach in an angry shudder. The pulse of his heartbeat seems like it's become your own, thrumming through your limbs and urging you to finally satiate the emptiness that's been haunting you for days. Rattling through your body and forcing you to writhe and gasp through the ache. You almost double over as another wave of it crashes over you, breathing harshly to try and survive it.

You have to go. Now.

He must notice something is wrong with you because his face pinches, eyebrows furrowing close as he steps forward, hands raised like you're some injured animal that he's afraid to pick up. "Hey, are you alright?"

You jerk away from him, stumbling back like you've been electrocuted. Turning a little on your heels to keep yourself from rushing at him and finally giving yourself what you need.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine." You try and give your most convincing smile, but he's still staring at you like you're something that he doesn't know how to approach. Like you're dangerous.

"Are you sur-"

"Yes." It comes out like a hiss. Strained out from the pain. He goes to move towards you and on reflex you shift back, desperate to keep some kind of space between you and him. Your eyes shift around, searching through the sea of bodies for some kind of exit. You look past the heads bobbing and nodding along the music, trying to focus past the perfume of unshed of blood and pulses thrumming through the air with a fear that's almost paralyzing.

It's like a jackal peering through the dark, familiar eyes reflecting the golden glint the fires as he watches you from past the shapes of shifting bodies. Marko is doing just as he had promised - observing you from above on the staircase with an expression that you can't read through the haze, but you feel swallowed by it. A cherubic face observing out of judgment or sympathy, you can't tell. It's almost more debilitating than the agony slicing its way through you, and all at once you're suffocating again. It's too much. Too loud, they're all too close, you can hear them all breathing, you can hear their blood rushing, you can feel their hearts beating as though it's all your own.

You want to scream, you want to rip out of your own skin, you just want the torture - the hunger to finally stop.

You don't think when you run, leaving the clueless stranger and his concerned questioning behind. Abandoning Marko above in the crowd as you shove yourself past people in a blind struggle to get away from it all. You're an animal in a trap. Dodging reaching arms and lunging bodies, full of life and blood. Your feet seem to slip in the sand, struggling in the loose, dry earth, pulled down by the weight of your own bones - the debilitating fire in your gut.

It hurts so much that you might actually sob when you gasp, but you're too disconnected from yourself to tell. The air slipping from your lungs is strangled. Tight as though there's a hand compressing your throat. You bump through the crowd without truly seeing, blinking through the blur in your vision. Trying in vain to cast off the burning glint that the pyres on the beach brand across your eyes.

It's dangerous to breathe. The scent of life in the air crippling, nestling deep in your lungs and locking in your mouth, spilling saliva across your tongue. You feel like a starved animal. Practically crawling across the beach with fear and dread trembling up your back, ravenousness snapping at your heels. Threatening to sink in. It yawns open in your stomach, carving you open brutally to split a chasm in the center of you. It demands to be fed. Those terrible, new instincts shrieking from somewhere in your marrow to finally be satiated, and your jaw aches with the urge to bite.

You hear the people around you. The rhythmic thump and flutters of their pulses crashing in your ears. Louder than the tempo of the drums, the scream of the guitar and the rush of the waves along the surf. But above it all some vile voice shrieks insistently for you to finally lunge out and take one of the swaying bodies in your hands, to find the relief in the breaking of their flesh beneath your teeth, to gorge yourself on the hot, rapturous flow of blood.

You could cry or scream, but that wouldn't be enough.

Your wrist is suddenly pressed to your lips, your mouth parted to lick over the skin, seeking out the thrum and heat of the blood pouring beneath. It's a daze when your teeth tense to sink in, your jaw locking around the width of your arm to dig deep and taste. The animalist impulse in your cries out in relief, anticipating the sweet flavor, the salvation that your blood will offer-

The relief doesn't come.

The world smears around you, hands grip your shoulders, the weight of a body pressing to your back and then you're being herded in a different direction. Guided almost frantically into shadows until you're being pinned against the wall the separates the raised platform of the boardwalk from the beach and anarchic crowd. All of the oxygen in your chest is knocked from you in a sharp rattle, air hissing around the wrist still clutched between your teeth. You have to blink to try and reorient yourself, feet slipping a little in the sand. If it wasn't for the grip on your shoulders, you probably would have collapsed on weak knees.

Your arm is all but ripped out from your mouth, torn away before you could finally alleviate the pain eating you alive and you nearly cry despite the way your face twists up in anger. A snarl curling at your lips as you twist beneath the person pinning you down.

"You know - " a familiar voice starts out, tense and patronizing in its frustration. The hand around your wrist tightens just a fraction, a snake coiling around its prey, smooth leather molding over your skin from its grip " - if you'd just eat, you wouldn't be trying to do this."

Your eyes flutter open then, widening to take in his face. Marko is leaned in close, holding himself over you to keep you tucked in against the wall. You can feel the subtle thumps of people walking around on the boardwalk above you; the masses gathered around the far-off stage is still thick, just as vibrant and spirited as before, and yet you've never felt more trapped. Not a single soul will notice you here, hidden away in the dark, so far back that the splash of amber light casted by a nearby burn barrel flickers over you both in pathetic scraps. You won't be seen here. And if you are, people are too drunk or adrenaline high to notice.

It almost paralyzes you - the hunger, the weight of him on you, the heady scent of sweat and blood. But still, your anger persists, spiking through the agony and fogginess like a beacon. He's disappointed. It's clear to see. Written visibly on his face. Highlighted in the flickers of gold that spills over his face from the fires, the dramatic shadows seem to pronounce the furrow set between his eyebrows.

He doesn't deserve to be upset about this. He isn't allowed to be. Most importantly, you shouldn't be hurt by his disappointment. You shouldn't care if he's mad or not, but for some ungodly reason you are. And that makes your blood boil more than anything.

"I wouldn't have to do this at all if it wasn't for you." It doesn't come out strong despite the raw anger you feel. There's a vulnerability that even you can hear, and it makes you slip back tighter against the wall, desperate to extend some kind of space between your bodies; room to be able to just breathe. "You did this."

You've tried so hard these past few days to try not to think of the night that your entire life had been stolen. Uprooted brutally and corrupted. The night that he had made you feel important. Special. A date spent settled down under the stars, overlooking the steady rise and fall of the waves as they had rolled along the surf in a sweep of foam and salt. It was beyond anything you had expected from him, as wild and brazen as he usually was. But instead of a whirlwind night out on the town, you had gotten something soft and private.

A small dinner settled on the picnic linen that had been laid out on the pale sand, comprised of takeout burgers and shakes from Big Boy's Drive-In - a detail that he held onto. An offhand, random remark about how you were craving one of their milkshakes once during a past closing shift. He had remembered. It was such a small, dumb thing maybe, but it had made you feel happy. Butterflies in your stomach while the two of you talked about anything and everything in between bites of your food.

You had kissed him for the first time then. The temptation had been there since the moment he had picked you up from your apartment on his bike, sizzling and magnetic between you. But it wasn't until then, with the ocean rumbling gently in your ears and his eyes mapping out your features as though he wanted to keep you ingrained in his memory, just as you were, that it had boiled over.

There was a relief when his lips had finally met yours, and you're sure that your mind had drawn a blank. It was unrushed, almost lazy. You had felt like you'd been lit on fire, but he had been determined to take his time. Indulging in the feel of you, the taste of you on his mouth as though it would be the first and last time. Cradling your face with a caress that revealed the raw want underneath, fingers almost trembling and grasping at your hair as though he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.

When he broke away from you, it was to invite you somewhere special. Somewhere important to him. You couldn't have refused.

He'd done it in the cave. He didn't trick you with that ornate bottle they keep stashed and hidden away in plain sight amongst the old vials and liquor glasses. He didn't con you exactly like David did to Star, manipulating her into drinking out of a bottle that would alter her body and life forever. He had done it the "old fashioned way," as Paul had put it. Sank his teeth deep into your neck and drank until your veins had nearly gone dry, until your vision turned dark around the edges, and the panicked grip you had on his shoulders grew weak.

And then something tepid and warm was being fed into your mouth, iron and earthy and rich. It was like honey had been smeared across your tongue. You had felt outside yourself when your body made the first swallow, your teeth latching around the skin and tendons of a wrist to draw more of it out.

You haven't been the same since.

But you still don't know why. Why he chose you. Why that night. Why he had ripped you away from everything so cruelly. It made it all painful. Every memory you have of him is now blighted. Ruined by the realization that none of it had been genuine. All of it, when he would visit you at work, the flirting, the long conversations spent talking about your aspirations and hopes, were all just means to lull you into a false sense of security. And it had worked. Hook, line, and sinker, you had fallen for his facade.

"Why, Marko?" Your voice trembles a little. With heartbreak or anger, you can't tell anymore. It's all blending together. Distorting into a chaotic merge. "Why did you do it?"

It kills you that he doesn't look ashamed. But something real shows through his expression, an almost solemn kind of sincerity that the shadows cutting along his face accentuate. There's an emotion showing in his eyes that you've rarely ever witnessed, patient and intense. The hands on your shoulders slip up, drifting over you like he's cradling art, settling only to slip his fingers behind your skull, his thumbs brushing along the shape of your jaw. You want to flinch back from him, but you can't. Immobilized by the weight of his palms, suspended between the opposite desires to lean into him and pull away.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he says. Spoken out like a revelation. A promise. It stings. "I just wanted to share it with you. It could be so much better if you just-"

"Just what? Ate someone?"

"Yeah." It's matter of fact. Blunt. A little worn around the edges too as he's bored or tired. It keeps you constantly unbalanced, how casually he flip-flops between a gentle admiration and a sarcastic kind of exasperation. Now he's just mocking you. "It would be a lot easier if you just ate someone. "

Your anger is scorching. Burning in your chest. Twisting with the painful tremors running through your body like a symptom of hell. You don't think much when you shove him back from you, holding on enough scraps of will to keep from doing yourself a favor and attacking him. You move to slip away but you don't get far. He's on you in a split second before you could shift so much as an inch from the wall, tugging you back into place.

"Let me go, Marko," you snarl. Baring your teeth that are a far cry from the fangs hidden in his mouth.

Your shout goes unheard. The grip he has on you is like iron. Steel traps that have you caught. You're pinned down just as easily as you were before, held between the chill of the cement at your back and the weight of his body.

"You're only torturing yourself, you know." His eyes seem to blaze from the fires. Burning and fervent while he takes ahold of your face to make you look at him. "One of these days, you're gonna snap, and there's no telling how many people you're going to take out once you do."

You try to move your attention somewhere else, anything to muffle him out, but the hold he has on you, literally and figuratively is impossible to escape. But you need him to shut up. Get him to stop talking. You can't stand listening to him right now; the sound of his voice licking heat up your spine, settling over your skin like an obnoxious itch.

"You're going to drive yourself crazy-"

It's another thoughtless thing when you do it. Impulse dictated by rage and that ravenous animal instinct. It just happens. One minute you're glaring at him, hoping that he can see all of the hurt and disgust on your face and the next your mouth is on his throat, teeth parting skin in a violent bite. He draws tight against you, muscles coiling like he's preparing to wrangle you from him, but his fingers flex and grip instead.

When his blood flows into your mouth the world vanishes. Sound mutes, falling into an unnecessary background hum. All at once every fiber of your being comes alive, nerves lighting up, electricity sparking across your fingertips and toes. The hunger splitting you open dulls for one blissful moment and your body chases after the feeling, gulping down fresh rivulets of blood as your fangs drive deeper into his jugular.

It's a relief so great that you can't find a comparison. Peace flooding through you with every greedy mouthful you pull from his veins; so good that you nearly sob into the wound you've bitten into his flesh. You latch yourself around him tighter, winding your arms around his body in a blind effort to keep him constricted in your grasp, clutching tight like an animal wrapping itself around wounded prey.

The pain ebbs away the more that you drink. The ache dissipating the fuller you become, and the alleviation of it is almost crippling in its own right. Even while strength pours through your system, your knees almost buckle. You might have collapsed it wasn't the hold of Marko's arms securing you in place, cradling you close as though you were drawn in an embrace and not pulling the life from him.

You can't get yourself to stop. The taste of his blood is a repose that you haven't felt in what might be forever, pouring down your throat and settling through your veins as though it's your own. It goes straight to your head in a rush. Ecstasy clouding your mind, settling over your muscles like a soothing heat. You want to stay here forever. Curled into the press of his skin, breathing in the scent of him while his blood pools inside of your mouth, gliding over your tongue, rich and intoxicating.

You aren't sure how much longer he lets you remain that way, suspended in a rapture where time has blurred. You don't want to pull from him. You don't want to part from his blood. Like a glutton your hands wander, seeking to draw him closer somehow. Slipping your palms down over the bare skin of his stomach, delighting in the way it gets him to nudge closer to you, baring his throat like he wants to rip him open and consume him whole.

You think you could, but then he's gripping the back of your head firmly, using it as leverage to coax your teeth from his flesh. You don't go easily, stubbornly hanging onto to his neck, lapping at the blood that's smeared from the wound, desperately licking up what you can before he tugs you from him. It's disturbing, how you almost whine when he draws you from the crook of his neck, but you're too fuzzy to truly grasp it. Everything in you is like a livewire - alive and humming. A vigor that you've never felt seeming to pulse through your limbs.

When your attention is settled back on him, you nearly go breathless. He looks almost manic. His eyes are wide, glittering softly in the dim glow casted over the beach. Fervent and drunk as though he's the one who's just finished feeding. The fires burn behind him, scattering traces of gold across his curls like a halo, the wild beauty of it is a juxtaposition to the raw red that smudges his pale skin. Two errant drops have trickles past the ridge of his collar bone and reached his shirt, blossoming over the white material like blood staining snow.

His leans towards you, propping his forehead on yours and draws in a deep breath, panting like he actually needs the oxygen - probably a reflex that hasn't fully left after all this time. He's watching you like he wants to eat you alive. There's an intensity to his expression that makes you feel caught. A rabbit trapped between teeth even while fresh blood coats your lips.

He's got you cornered. Frozen in place by the stubborn, hypnotic pull that persists between the both of you. There's a divide in you that seems to be pulling closer by the second, straining until the lines seem blurred. Logic and reason tell you to deny everything and make a run for it all while want coats over your body as smoothly as a second skin, tight and natural, begging you to give in - those opposing thoughts are merging. Becoming contorted and blending.

You try to distract yourself, glancing anywhere but his eyes. Watching the crowd, the ocean, the night sky out of your peripheral vision like it might save you, and then finally - unfortunately - your focus drifts back down to him. Landing almost regretfully on his neck, and the gnarled wound you've left there. You feel guilt even though you probably shouldn't.

"I'm sorry," you apologize shakily. Mostly to fill the void, to distract yourself from the heat rushing through your bones. You run your tongue over your teeth, checking for the sharp cut of those abnormal fangs, but you feel nothing but blunt enamel now.

He doesn't respond. But you don't miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips, tracing over their shape when you speak. He looks ravenous. Breathing heavily while he doesn't really need to; panting and drunk. You hate how beautiful he looks right now, bloody and tinged with warm light that brushes over him in shades of gold and amber. It makes him twistedly angelic. Covered in red gore - his own blood - like a disgraced cherubim.

It isn't fair, how he watches you. Staring with the intensity and admiration that is only befitting of lovers. It could easily trick you into feeling wanted, in being cherished, but you try to sink your claws in and reject the notion of it. He doesn't love you. You know that. You're pretty sure that he isn't even capable of caring for anyone else other than himself - with the exception of his brothers, of course.

You're just a plaything to him. Some kind of experiment brought on by the boredom that comes with eternity. It's tempting to believe it though, and your chest aches with the hope that you wished it was true.

But then he's shaking his head softly, a blink and you'll miss it kind of gesture as he shifts closer. Sweeping his eyes down your body as he nears, lifting his vision from your lips only to return his stare to yours. The world seems to fall away again. Losing its vibrancy and sound, muting down to pale watercolors as your attention zeros down onto him. The subtle warmth of his scent falls over you again, fusing with the sweet metallic edge of the blood marking his neck; glittering richly in the low lights dotted around the crowd, and it nearly makes you lightheaded.

He dares to angle his head, the point of his nose gliding over yours all while keeping your eyes locked in an unwavering hold as though he's gauging your reaction, silently asking for permission. You can't get yourself to speak, almost as though you're too scared to. A dread that sound of your voice might shatter whatever delicate, starved thing has fallen over the both of you keeps it quiet in your throat.

It's subconscious when you hold your breath, trapping air into your lungs as he lifts a hand up towards your face. Fire scatters across your nerves when he curls his fingers beneath the edge of your chin, keeping you in place when the bare pad of his thumb swipes over your lips. It's as though he's transfixed, watching his finger smooth over the shape of them in a slow drag. His skin is always a little cool. Chilled by the death that he harbors in his bones, and yet your body is burning beneath his touch, smoke and honey simmering inside you from such a simple gesture.

He raises his hand from you, but you don't have time to mourn the loss because he's raising his bare thumb to his lips, stained dark and maroon with his own blood, to take it into his mouth. You swear you nearly moan at the sight of it. A small, airy sound that snags in your lungs as he tastes himself, lapping his tongue softly around his thumb to suck off the red smearing the bit of pale skin peeking from the dark leather of his fingerless glove.

It has to only be a split second that you find yourself caught at another crossroad, the righteous anger in you demanding that you stick close to your resolve and deny yourself of the want ravaging your body like a sickness, all while pure hedonism rides on the back of that pathetic crush that hasn't entirely died out and demands that you finally give in to what you really want.

It'd be so simple too. You can see his own desire burning in his eyes. A fervid need that his body drawn up tight, like he's making a physical effort to resist the screaming of his own impulses.

It all culminates, iron snapping under skin, and like a slave to yourself you rush at him. Your hands reach for what they can, latching onto the material of his coat, fingers lacing through the colorful tassels hanging from the shoulder like an epaulette while your opposite grips the back of his neck, threading through the soft curls pouring down his back. You can feel his surprise take ahold of him for only a split second. His body goes taut like he isn't sure what to do with himself, and then he's meeting you with just as much enthusiasm.

You become a tangle of limbs, your bodies melding into each other as he crowds you in tight to the wall behind you, pinning you with the weight of his body. You can taste blood in both of your mouths, coating your tongues in an intoxicating glaze. There's an undeniable relief that melts through you at the feel of his teeth nipping at your lips, the press of his hands roving around your body in a greedy search, as though he doesn't know where to put them. Like he's overwhelmed with the options or too gluttonous to settle.

Despite all of the hunger and desperation goading you two on, you can't deny that there's a much more intimate element beneath it all. It's like coming home after keeping yourself away for too long. Like feeling warmth for the first time in forever after surviving the cold out on your own. It's soothing and exhilarating all at once, coasting in along the rush of the blood in your system and making you almost high. It has you moaning into his mouth, clawing at him to try and draw him closer even though he's already flush against your body. But it doesn't feel like enough.

You lift one of your legs up, the loose fabric of your skirt rucking up over your thigh as you curl it around the width of his waist, pushing him between your hips. And he doesn't hesitate at all, grinding himself against you, dragging the rough texture of his jeans directly over where you need him most, the press of his zipper catching on the material of your skirt and underwear. He's already growing hard, nudging firmly on your clit in a way that has you panting, toes curling a little in your shoes as you roll your hips to meet him.

Maybe you should be a little embarrassed, disgusted even, that you've crumbled so easily. That you've been reduced and desperate in some darkened corner on the beach, dry humping the guy who you thought you hated more than anything like some kind of pathetic teenager. But you can't be bothered to be angry or disappointed in yourself, not while it feels like you can breathe for the first time in a week. Maybe you can blame it on the rush of the blood in your system, the flavor of him in your mouth turning your mind into mush, but you don't want to stop.

The way he kisses you is almost feral, smearing the blood - his blood - on your mouth onto his. Painting both of your lips in red like he's trying to drink it from you. It's sloppy and hungry, spit smearing as he parts your jaw open and sucks at your tongue. Lapping up the flavor of himself and swallowing it down. It's animalistic, almost gross in its desperation but you need more of it.

Your fingers slip, navigating down and slipping between the tight squeeze of your bodies to drag your nails down the exposed sliver of his stomach, smoothing your palms down the skin to soothe the sting, but something tells you that he doesn't mind it based off of the groan it pulls from deep within his chest. You'd by lying if you didn't admit that you've always wanted to do that. Seeing him walk around all of the time in those crop tops, showing off a tantalizing portion of his toned stomach always makes you feel like some Victorian man catching the sliver of an ankle. Now that you have him under your hands you have to indulge a little, tracing over the smooth planes of lithe muscle rippling beneath his skin.

Not one to be outdone, he takes you by complete shock when one of his hands is suddenly working itself between your hips, gliding under the rumbled fabric of your skirt to press between your thighs. The moan that leaves you is airy and pitching in its surprise when he drags a knuckle over your clit, nudging the material of your underwear - now damp and sticking to your skin - over you in cruel, tight circles.

It's so unexpected that your head almost drops, nearly breaking the kiss but he's quick to nudge his nose with yours, quickly guiding your lips back onto his to lick his tongue back into your mouth. There's still a franticness to it, but the way he guides you is a little more languid now. Syrupy and slow like he wants to separate you into little malleable pieces and build you back up again. The steady stroke of his fingers makes your ribcage shudder, electricity skimming across your nerves as he works you up with a shocking kind of dexterity. Coasting you right on the precipice of something great and consuming, dangling you there without letting it grow into something more.

"Marko - need more." It's practically a whimper. Light and broken on his lips as he kisses you through your pleading. "C'mon, it's not enough. You know it isn't."

The way he smiles is confirmation enough of that, the shape of it pressed to you as he licks the taste of himself from your mouth. He's still unrushed though. Your begging falling on blissfully deaf ears while he sweeps you back under, chasing your lips with his until you fall pliant again. It's only when you're pulled under, caught in another daze that he pulls away from you, cruelly denying you all over again.

"Say please." It's spoken lowly, all smoky and tinged with a throaty rumble, but the mockery in it is clear. The smirk on his face is almost rude; a perverted, impish glint reflect in his eyes making him almost look sadistic. He grinds another circle around your clit, gliding almost too softly before he switches into firm figure eights that have your jaw dropping in a silent gasp. "Use your words."

A moan rips itself from your lungs, pitchy and a little ragged. If it wasn't for the ruckus of the live music and the melodic chanting of the crowd screaming over the beach you would have tried to contain it, but thankfully the whimper easily gets lost in the rest of the chaos. You know that he hears it though. Your proximity and his heightened senses giving you away.

A part of you wants to resist. To try and cling onto the scraps of pride that he's quickly destroying with the simple brush of his knuckles, but you can't manage to choke up any kind of insult or refusal. He looks far too pleased, as though he can tell that you're battling yourself. And like the bastard he is, he shifts his fingers from you just long enough to slip them past the band of your underwear, stroking them now bare and unencumbered against your clit. It makes you whisper his name, drawn out and breathless when he slips them down to the entrance of your cunt, gathering the slick of your cum on his fingers, teasing like he might finally plunge them into you. But of course he doesn't.

That's all it takes for you to break: "Please, touch me. I need you inside me. Your fingers, your tongue, your cock - I don't care. Just do something."

His grin is arrogant and wicked. Puckish in a way that makes you want to be angry at him, but it almost seems impossible with how he's scrambling the thoughts in your head.

"Need me that bad, huh?" For one awful moment you think that he might keep teasing you, circling his fingertips up and down your cunt, spreading you open to slip them over in repetitive sweeps that have your muscles going lax, and you almost sob. "Don't worry, I got you." And then he's slipping a single finger inside, parting you easily on the dull stretch of it. Your hips jerk, rolling up to guide him in deeper and a relieved groan leaves you when it slides inside of you until the back of his knuckles presses against your damp skin.

Your head thumps back on the cement wall but you hardly notice the sting that blossoms on your skull, too caught up in the pleasure blurring behind your eyelids. And then he's adding a second right in along the first, working you open, forcing you to cry out as small waves of bliss ripple over you.

Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, scratching down his body to leave marks behind, intent on branding your presence on his skin, even though you'll now that they'll have healed long before the night is over. You're almost frantic in your goal when you grip the smooth leather of his chaps, tugging harshly to rip the snap buttons open from their clasps with an audible pop, and you make do with the zipper of his jeans just as quickly.

He catches onto your objective, parting his hips from yours to give you more space to work with without daring to remove his fingers as they thrust inside of your cunt, rocking the heel of his palm directly on your clit in a way that nearly makes your eyes roll. It has you floundering in your movements for little more than a split second, but his free hand is suddenly gripping your wrist, impatiently urging your hand down past his pants and the hem of his boxers.

Your palm glides down his skin, soft and tepid, the light hair of the happy trail leading down from his bellybutton tickles against your palm, growing thicker as you reach the base of his cock. When you take him into your hand it surprises you completely from how thick he feels, the tips of your fingers just barely meeting. It has your head tilting, shock and instinct seeming to move you all on its own as you look down to peer at his cock from between the press of your bodies.

It strains your neck a little to try and see him from how tightly you're still standing together, but when you see it, your jaw drops for an entirely different reason now. It makes you remember all of those cliche jokes about how it's the skinny guys that have the big dicks, a claim that you hadn't personally run into all that much, but now that you're looking at him, it seems like it might have some merit to it. You wouldn't go as far as to call Marko gangly or scrawny. Yeah, his muscles aren't as defined as Dwayne's for instance, but you can still notice them rippling beneath his skin, lean and (no doubt intentionally) showcased by the crop tops he's partial to.

But it's not like it's a secret that he's the smallest amongst the group, the other three standing above him by a few inches, so it takes you off guard a little to see him fully hard and thick in your hand. He isn't big in that dramatic porn star kind of way, but you know that you're definitely going to be feeling him for a few days after this.

It makes you clench around the width of his fingers, your own shifting to squeeze around his cock making him swear under his breath, and he leans in again to catch your lips in another starved kiss. You didn't miss the arrogant glint in his eyes when he dipped closer to you. The way you were gawking at him probably blowing his ego up more than it already is. You'd be bothered by it in any other circumstance, but you can't manage any kind of frustration while he's steadily fucking his fingers into you.

You stroke your hand up his length, twisting your wrist up as best as you can in your current position, sweeping your thumb over the head of it when you do. It makes his hips twitch, seeking out more while you pump him in your palm in a firm rhythm. You smear the precum leaking from cock down his length, aiding the glide of your skin on his, but it isn't good enough to properly help your grip.

You almost regret pulling your hand from away him, even if it's only for a moment. You have to break your kiss, and you don't miss the way he tries to chase after you to draw you back in, but his focus shifts when he notices the hand you have raised between both of your chests. His eyes meet your own in a fervent stare, something that looks like recognition and hunger burning in them when you part your lips to spit out onto your own palm. An intensity burning there like he wants to eat you alive.

And then he takes ahold of your wrist again, the smooth glide of the leather glove around your arm in a firm grasp narrows your attention down onto him as he draws your hand closer towards his face. You're sure that your confusion shows plainly, and he definitely finds it amusing, the amber glow of the flames casting dimly over you both makes his smirk visible. Your mouth goes dry, body flushing with an almost debilitating heat when he pouts his lips, his gaze locking directly onto yours while he spits onto your palm.

It's something so simple. You don't know why it does something for you, but it does. Your hips rock, chasing after the drag and stroke of his fingers, smoke and heat eating its way up your spine. Now you're the one swearing lowly. "Fuck, Marko."

You don't waste any time getting your hand back on him once he lets your wrist free, wrapping your fingers around his length and starting right where you left off. It's much easier to smooth your grip down on him with the aid of both of your spit, jerking it down his cock with steady, firm strokes that have him groaning. His free arm lifts as he shifts forward, his elbow dropping on the wall beside your head as he drapes himself over you so he can look down between your bodies, watching while you both fuck each other on your hands. It makes it a little harder to work your fist over him, the tight angle straining the tendons in your wrist, but you can't find in yourself to ask him to move back.

You like having him close again, with his scent in your lungs and his blood on your teeth. As much as you might not like to admit it, it's nice being like this, having him against you, hearing the soft grunts slipping from him in a low, drunken stream. Completely uninhibited to finally indulge and stop fighting the desires that have been simmering in you since day one.

He strokes his fingers deep, curling them in a come-hither motion and it almost makes you cry out when they brush against that spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

"That's it right there?" he asks, all smug from how he already has you writhing on just his fingers.

"Uh-huh," you answer dumbly. Already too dazed over to properly answer. It's difficult to when your mind seems miles away from your body. Your thoughts abandoning to leave you overcome by the bliss scorching up your nerves. It's close already. You can feel the beginnings of your orgasm coiling up tight in your stomach, licking fire up your spine. "I need it. Need you to make me cum."

"Yeah? You need it?" But it's completely rhetorical. He's got that patronizing look in his eyes again that almost annoys you a little, and you fully expect him to tease you again. It seems like such a normal part of his nature for him to tip you close only to taunt you into begging more - and you would have if that's what he asked - but he doesn't. He keeps curling his fingers in that same motion, thrusting them deep and gliding his fingertips over that spot that has your voice falling flat and your breath rushing out in heavy pants.

You try to keep up and focus on the weight of his cock in your palm, stroking him through the building of your own pleasure but it makes it difficult to keep the pace you've set going. All of a sudden he's nudging his face with yours, drawing your attention onto him as he grinds the heel of his palm down on your clit, thrusting his fingers down, ripping a tight gasp from your lungs. And the mocking look on his face shifts into something a little softer, if not determined. "It's okay, you can have it. Go ahead and cum."

That combined with a few more practiced strokes of his fingers has you falling apart around him. The high twists through you, pulling everything in you tight as you squirm on his hand, your body desperate to ride out every ounce of pleasure that it can. A long moan of his name keens out into the loud night air, scattering and fading out amongst the music.

He guides you through the end of it, stopping only once the instinctual roll of your hips fall still. He presses another kiss to your lips as you come down, much slower and indulgent than the last, like he's trying to breathe you in with lungs that don't work anymore. It's another small thing, but it's enough to have that familiar ache already settling back between your thighs.

You whine when he removes his fingers from you, your own grip flexing around his cock, stroking it back into the firm grip in your fist. You can't help but to place a gentle, if not hesitant kiss to the corner of his mouth in an apology for having stopped, the rush of your orgasm having you distracted you. But then he's stopping you, placing a hand around your arm to halt your movements. You don't really have time to be confused because he's reaching for your underwear and twisting. The fabric pinches your skin when it gives with a sharp rip, tearing from your body as easily as paper.

A complaint burns right on the tip of your tongue. You're in short supply of undergarments these days. Being forced to live in a cave without a job makes funds pretty limited, and you haven't built up the courage to try and shoplift, and you've outright refused to take the dirty money that Marko's stolen off his victims. But the grumble you had fizzles out when he tosses the scrap of fabric past his shoulder like it's somehow offended him.

Just as quickly he's pulling on your skirt, bunching the light fabric up high around your hips, and that's all it takes for your sluggish brain to have your arms moving to help. Your own hands are reaching down alongside his, assisting him in moving your skirt up and out of the way, rucking the leg you have slung around his waist a little higher.

He's scattering more kisses on your lips, nipping softly like he's trying to distract you and when you feel the head of his cock nudge over the entrance of your cunt it reminds you of why. You know that the stretch is going to sting even with the help of your previous orgasm, but right now you're too worked up to care if it's going to ache afterwards.

Your fingers move up to latch onto his shoulders, nails snagging like they might tear into his jacket as they reach past the stiff collar to grip at his neck. They slip on the blood smearing from the healing wound, once an open gash made by violent teeth now the beginnings of a tender scar. He hisses from the sting of it, and that hurt, angry part of you delights at the way his body shivers lightly from the subtle pain. But it catches you off guard when his hips jerk in response and it has the head of his cock pushing into you, forcing you open with hardly any warning. It punches the air out of your lungs when he pops in. It only has to be about an inch and already you feel the sting pulsing through you, making you clench and flutter around him tightly.

"Try and relax." He orders softly, but his hands grip tightly around your hips, squeezing the bare flesh enough to bruise. As though he's making an effort to restrain himself, holding himself back from the urge to just fuck himself into you in a single stroke. It's like you have to concentrate to pull in a breath, sucking in a soothing lungful and make an effort to ease your muscles.

It's only then that he begins to push, working inch after inch inside. There's a dull ache that pulses through your hips as he guides himself forward until he's flush against you, the front of his pelvis pressing firm against your clit. You feel so full. Carved open and stuffed. There's a shaky sigh quivering in the pit of your lungs, bubbling from your chest in a strangled whimper.

He doesn't seem like he's doing any better. His nails dig into the tender skin of your thighs, burrowing so harshly that they might leave scratches behind. You hate how a piece of you almost wants it. To have ten red slashes running up the sides of your legs, branding him on your skin. Even if they'll only last until the sunrise, you want to feel the sting until they heal.

"God - shit Marko, I can feel you in my fucking throat," you groan raggedly. It's a regret as soon as it slips out of your mouth. You can practically feel how smug he is, his smile pressing against you when he noses along the edge of your jaw; teeth scrapping along your flesh like he might take a bite out of you this time. The thought should disgust you, have your body tensing up in repulsion but it only has you clenching around him tighter. All of these new, animalistic instincts turning your urges into something violent, and you have to claw uselessly to grip at the nape of his neck, almost blindly searching for something to ground yourself.

"It's alright, baby, I got it. Just let me fuck you." The circles he sweeps over your waist is soothing. Tender brushes that seem too delicate for someone as brutal and selfish as he can be. It seems so sweet that you go a little pliant, tucking your face into the wild curls that pour down his back. Some of the golden strands have slipped over his shoulder, letting you breathe in the scent of the generic shampoo and stolen styling products that perfumes his hair.

He pulls out until only his tip inside of you and then he's pushing himself in, filling you up in one thrust. The pace he sets is almost desperate. Repeatedly burying his cock in you in heavy, deep strokes that has your spine bowing in an almost painful arch, bending back off of the wall as your hips pick up in an almost mindless roll. Instinctually seeking out the pleasure that's lashing up your body and scattering over your nerves.

He lifts up your other leg, securing it effortlessly around his waist, holding you up like you're made of air. It makes it easier for him to keep you pinned, moving you how he likes, repeatedly lifting and dropping you back down onto his cock. Your eyes almost roll when the head brushes over that spot on the front of your walls that has it feeling like molten honey is pouring through your veins, making your toes curl and your lips part open.

It's almost violent, how he fucks himself into you. Carving you open with the stretch of his cock, tearing frayed gasps from your lungs with every grind and thrust. There's another daze clouding over you, or maybe it never left. It's saturating your bones, stuffing your skull full, all packed in like cotton soaked in alcohol, twisting with the intoxicating thrum of his blood pulsing through your body.

You don't even have a real concept of how loud you might be anymore, but you can feel your voice puffing out from your throat. It seems to take all of your concentration to sweep a cursory glance around your surroundings, skipping over the scattered throng of bodies that lurk nearby. Thankfully, no one seems to be looking in your general direction, still too caught up in the festivities on stage to notice the both of you in the dark.

Not that you would have been able to give a shit if someone was watching you. It seems dramatic and entirely unlike yourself, but you think you'd rather die than stop now.

You hate him. You know that you still do. Even now, you can feel it lurking beneath all of the lust, smoldering and hidden under all of the intensity and want. But it's also nice to just pretend for a moment. To finally give into to all of that repressed desire that's been haunting you and following you around like a phantom these past days. To indulge and allow yourself to exist as you are now, no matter if it's only for tonight.

And you'd be a liar if you couldn't admit that there's something so satisfying about having him this close to you. It's something that you shouldn't want, but you do. It's peaceful and electrifying all at once. Scorching through you as unforgiving as a wildfire; the salvation of a dying man stumbling across an oasis in the desert, the frenzied contentment of breathing after suffocating. For now, you can pretend. For now you can enjoy the temporary peace of having him in your arms.

He's already hurtling you towards the end, loving you with a passion that's almost debilitating, as though he's been just as repressed as you are. And you guess he is. He's tried in his own, ignorant way of apologizing and making amends. All of the boys are out of touch with reality, having been undead for longer than you've been alive, and their humanity has been stretched thin and exhausted by the years. You don't think that they remember how to be human anymore, and you're sure that their pasts have become distorted reflections of what they really were.

But Marko has tried his best to rectify his wrongs. Small things that almost felt like another charade in the beginning. Much to David's chagrin you had outright refused to do anything with the group, curling yourself up on your mattress and hiding yourself away. You'd lie there for hours, contemplating your escape while they'd leave to hunt. Star had become your glorified babysitter, and it was only her that kept you from fleeing in the night, always reminding you that you'd never get far. You'd have to leave Santa Carla if you meant to elude them forever, and if they didn't get you then the hunger eventually would.

You loathe all of them for it, and to try and find figments of solitude you'd keep yourself away in your own corner of the cave for hours until the boys would inevitably have to leave for their nightly hunts. Mark always comes back with a gift of some kind. It surprised you the first time you'd woken up from your nap and found a necklace carefully placed out on the floor beside your mattress, respectfully laid out behind the barrier of curtains draped around your bed.

And it hasn't stopped there. You have an entire collection hidden away beside your mattress. One that you try to ignore, but the size of it is quickly growing out of hand, composed of anything and everything, from clothes, cassette tapes, jewelry and random trinkets. All of which had been left on the side of your bed like a cat leaving carcasses on its owner's doorstep.

The most personally compelling though is the art he's left behind. Twelve pages. That's how many sheets of paper he's given you, all of them smudged and shaded with the fine gray lines from lead pencils and streaks of coal and the vibrancy of watercolors. All of them are of you. And all of them are as breathtaking as the last. There's an undeniable skill about them, and yet the way that the shape of your face and the light in your eyes is captured is done with a sense of care that you can practically see. Done with a fluid but considerate hand that captures you with an intimate familiarity. As though he's stared at you for a lifetime and could draw your features with blind eyes; the bridge of your nose, the shape of your lips, the color of your eyes branded across his mind.

The one you find yourself admiring the most though is the first one he's given you. It's based off of the night you met. The date written in the bottom corner in a loopy, cursive scrawl dates it on that exact night. He must have drawn it when they all came back home. You're looking off in the sketch, the center of your focus nonexistent and trained somewhere else, but the soul that he's managed to bring through your eyes always leaves you in awe. He caught the cold highlights that the fluorescents at work always reflected in your hair perfectly, the shadows and hues he brought to your skin revealing the practiced care that he had brought into bringing your likeness alive.

It's almost shameful how you've looked over it religiously, always noticing the brushes he had made with the strokes of a pencil as though they're scripture on a page. You hate that you haven't thrown them all away. You hate how they make you feel despite the sting of betrayal. Cherished and admired regardless of how selfishly he's taken you from everything you know.

Even now, as he fucks you almost brutally, he holds you close as though you're something sacred. He drives himself into you like an animal, but the grip of his hands on your waist is soft somehow, even while his fingers flex and ache on your skin. You're so close that you can practically taste it, scattered and sweet on your tongue, coiling and white hot under your flesh. It's already winding its way through you, zipping up your spine, promising to take you over and leave bones behind.

"I'm gonna cum," you moan, tearing your nails down his back.

"Do it," he answers. It's like a taunt, a command, and a plead all rolled into one. You find it hard to resist - you don't want to - but it's like something is missing. A critical piece that's keeping you from hurtling over the edge. It digs at you, tearing at some part of your soul in an itch. It makes you war with yourself, ignoring the impulse that latches onto your bones like sinew, curling in your lungs like air, but like many things tonight, you can't fight it.

"Marko. I need you to bite me," you gasp, forcing it out between breaths.

He jerks his face from where he has it tucked into you, removing a hand from its grip on your thigh to hold your chin, using it to guide you to look at him. He searches your eyes, the soft blue of his own glimmering with curiosity and bewilderment, but the feral kind of need showing in them is unmistakable. It only makes you want him to do it even more.

All it takes is for you to give him a shaky nod, and then he's tilting your head to the side to sink his teeth into your neck just as a soft yes spills past your lips. The reaction is almost immediate. The sensation of the sharp, painful snap of enamel cutting down through your skin seems to light every single nerve in your body on fire, giving you the push that you needed. The pleasure strangles its way through you, vicious and euphoric all at once. It has your limbs drawing up tight around him, desperate to keep him locked against you as he continues to thrust himself inside of your cunt, pulling you through a rapture that doesn't seem to end.

You can tell he's getting close. His own rhythm is growing sloppy, hips jerking as he grinds himself into you, rolling his pelvis against your clit until you're twitching. The hold that his teeth have on your throat clenches, the muscles throughout his body seizing tight just as his own end crests and floods over him. You both groan, your voices scattered over the dark satin air while your bodies work on their own, rocking against each other to drain out your shared pleasure completely.

You both go limp, the only thing really keeping you up is the unwavering support of the wall behind you and the weakened strength of Marko's legs. He almost seems hesitant when he removes his fangs from your neck; unable to pull his face from you as he laps at your wounded flesh. Greedily drinking up at the blood that's probably begun to pour from the gash made by his teeth, peppering gentle kisses in between licks to soothe the raw sting he made there.

He keeps you both like that for a while. Held safely in your own private bubble while the world screams and celebrates around you. For one serene moment it's just peace. You and he suspended in the calm and bliss from the aftermath of the violence and animalistic want that had clouded you over. It's almost like waking up from an erotic dream, but reality isn't as harsh as you expected it to be when it starts to slip in through the cracks of your daze.

"I'm gonna put you down now," he says.

He helps you unwind your legs from his waist, slipping out of you with a low hiss when you shift off of him and drop your feet onto the sand. The muscles in your thighs burn, protesting in a dull sting after having been locked in the same position for so long. It has your knees shaking, and if it weren't for him and the wall, you're pretty sure that you might have collapsed onto the ground.

He helps smooth down your skirt after tucking himself back into his pants. Once you're both done fixing yourselves, correcting your clothes and pulling some strength back into your limbs it leaves an uncertain silence hanging heavy over you. It makes you almost thankful for the commotion of the concert, giving you something else to focus on other than the weight of his stare.

There's the smear of blood on corner of his lips, and it reminds you of the metallic flavor coating the inside of your own mouth. Once delicious and a little intoxicating, it now has a flicker of fear scattering in your chest like a chill.

"Am I like you now?" you ask. You almost don't want to say it, dreading the answer, the possibility of a yes.

The relief you feel when he shakes his head could knock you off of your feet. "No," he says. His voice is muffled as he licks at his thumb and smears it at your lips, lifting his sleeve up to drag it over the same spot. The blood. He's trying to clean you. It makes your heart flutter, all warm and stupidly affectionate. "It has to be fresh - alive," he corrects himself.

It settles some of your nerves, but you can't ignore that there's still some uncertainty clinging to you. It's unignorable that things have been completely altered between you two. Flipped on its head. You aren't going to be the same after this. Not know that you know what he feels like, the way that he sounds when he's inside of you, the taste of his lips and flesh.

He somehow looks even more stunning than usual. A gruesome, wild piece of art. His hair is a mess, the creamy shade of his skin flushed in a lively hue, his cheeks gone a little rosy from the blood that he's swallowed from your veins - his own blood that he had given to feed you. The earring he wears glimmers in the light, the same amber hue spilling over his hair making him look like an angel on fire. You think you could stare at him forever.

"You know that you have to feed eventually."

Of course he'd ruin it.

It's hardly a question, and the severity reflected in his eyes doesn't allow you to shield yourself from the truth.

"Yeah," you answer. A little defeated, and yet you can't deny that for whatever reason, the thought of it doesn't make you want to cringe away in horror like it usually does. "I know."

He seems like he might want to say more, but thankfully he doesn't. The expression on his face shifts into something a little more tender, and he reaches to fiddle with the jacket hanging around your shoulders, fixing the collar higher around your shoulders to try and cover the mark he's left on your neck. He steps away only once he's satisfied with the result, giving you room to move forward as he watches you expectantly.

"I think that's enough for one night," he holds a hand out to you. "Let's go home."

It's a casual but intimate gesture that he's done a hundred times, and it's one that you've always refused without second thought. Still, he never stopped. If you excepted, it always felt like the confirmation of something you weren't ready to accept, a future that you wanted to deny. And maybe a part of you still does, but now it's never seemed so tempting.

But instead of shying away or ignoring him, you find yourself stepping forward, and when your hand slips into his it feels natural. It feels right. And when he leads you out through the crowd, holding you close to keep you from becoming lost, there's this dark, inviting voice curling around in your mind and you think that you might have to agree with it:

Eternity might not seem so bad after all.

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