#currently buzzing with flies

[muffinlance]

INCREDIBLE addition from @gillfox

#toph: *causally joins him* #sokka: okay so have no idea what's going on with evil sunbathing stalker #but i know it's not going on with you #toph: can't a girl just want to know what flies taste like? #sokka: huh #---later--- #katara: sokka get off the ground #fire lily au #photosynthetic zuko #atla #zuko #sokka

Edit: wait were those my original tags

Help I don't know how to check prev consistently anymore

Okay yes I think those were mine but I FORGOT so thank you for the reblog where I... got to laugh... at myself. On multiple levels, apparently. And enjoy some new tags!

Thought on the Fire Lily AU: Wouldn't Zuko still need to eat anyway? Plants get energy from photosynthesis, but they absorb nutrients from the soil. Zuko is a growing boy, he needs nutrients too. Photosynthesis will keep him going in the short term, and help him limp along in the medium term, but in the long term he would still end up with malnutrition. And eventually die.

Okay so, real fact: if you get super deprived of certain things in your diet, you can start getting really weird cravings. My mom was once super low on iron, and reported that eating dirt was starting to sound like a good idea.

So.

Fire Lily Zuko: *sprawled lethargically on ground by the Gaang's campfire*

Toph: *digs a pebble out from between her toes and flicks it*

Katara: Toph! Not by the food! We've talked...

Zuko: *stares at pebble*

Katara: ...about...

Zuko: *squirms closer to pebble*

Katara: ...this...

Zuko: *eats pebble*

Katara:

Toph: *cackles*

[soulofapatrick]

Wheels up in thirty - Aaron Hotchner x Female reader

Summary: You and Hotch finally get physical and its so much better than you had ever thought it could be

Words: 1.9K

Warnings: smut; p in v; somewhat rough; dom/sub; kinda porn with no plot; plot if you squint

Notes: I need to be stopped, Hotch needs more fiction

Y/N's POV

I’m not sure how I ended up here again, straddling Hotch’s waist in just my panties and him in just his boxers. His hands are gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises as he guides me along the length of his clothes crotch. The tip has escaped his waistband, red and angry and dripping precum that I want to lick up but I can’t move. 

“H-Hotch.” I choke out in frustration when his phone starts ringing, mine buzzing across the room in my to go bag that was thrown haphazardly across the room somewhere. 

He surprises me by ignoring it, instead choosing to make me rise to my knees to he can shimmy out of those black boxers, dick springing up and I think I almost come right then and there at the sheer size and girth of him. His left hand goes back to my hips, slotting in the dip as if my body was made just for him. His right pushes my panties aside so grip the base of his girth, lining myself up before slowly beginning to sink down. The stretch burns but it’s oh so beautiful, this being the first time we’ve gotten this far. 

I still remember Hotch admitting his feelings for me one night after a particularly stressful case, both of us sat in his office on the sofa. Everyone else had gone home but I had nothing to go home to so I sat there with Hotch, the heat of his skin searing as he turned and kissed me. 

“Hotchner.” My head flies down to see Hotch has finally answered his phone, his hand on my hip not haltering its gentle push and pull. It has my jaw falling open at the pure scandal of what Hotch is currently doing when he says, “JJ, we’ll be there as soon as.” He swallows hard when he realises he said ‘we’ “Yes. Alright see you soon.”

His head falls back into the pillow when I rock my hips gently, hanging up and throwing his phone in the top drawer of his bedside table, cognac eyes fluttering open to meet mine, darkening so much they’re almost black. He sounds so wrecked already, a light sheen of sweat over his skin, his dark hair pressed against his forehead and the sight of him alone has me rocking my hips even more slowly, grinding into him. 

A surprised sound leaves my throat when one of his hands tangles in my hair ad tugs as he’s suddenly flipping us over. My nails are digging into his biceps until he moves one hand between us to rub circles into my clit to distract me from the new angle that has him buried to the hilt. I swear I can feel every bump and ridge of him against my fluttering walls as I find his now damp messy hair and tugging almost harshly but he just moans, loud and dirty, “C-Can I?” He sounds like he’s choking, trying to keep his hips as still as he can as to give me time to adjust to the new angle. 

I don’t reply, just wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back and he gets the hint. He pulls out until just the tip is in before slamming back to the hilt, dragging such loud moans from both of us, his lips move down my chest until they’re enclosing around one of my nipples, one hand finding my hand and intertwining our fingers while the other hand digs into my hips to stop me shifting up the bed as he sets an almost brutal pace. It adds to the almost overwhelming pleasure and I don’t think I’m going to last long with how I’m already clamping around him and my thighs are shaking and Hotch can tell as there’s a smile etches into my skin as he moves his lips back to the soft spot just below my jaw. 

“Come for me princess.” His thumb rubs along my bottom lip and I’m sucking it into my mouth, tasting the saltiness on it and without warning my back is arching, yanking him into a bruising kiss as my body writhes and tries to move away from him as he continues to pound me into the bed, my eyes rolling into the back of my head, “That’s it darling, I’ve got you.” Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes as I come down from my high almost too quickly, body trying to wriggle away from him but his hands are flying to hold me in place as he continues to whisper lovingly into my skin, “One more princess, just one more.” 

“Aaron,” I choke out, “P-phone-“ His phone is buzzing frantically in the bed side table but he ignores it so I do too, wanting everything Hotch has to offer me. My nails are raking down his back as another builds so quickly, my legs trembling and he’s picking up the pace, hips slamming into mine hard enough to bruise but it just adds to my heightened overstimulation. His every touch is like fire against my skin and his kisses are messy with lips crushing and teeth clashing but it’s perfect. I get lost in the heat of his body flush against mine, the smell of arousal and sweat heavy in the air and the salty taste as I reciprocate the hickeys all over his neck to try and stave off my second orgasm knowing I’m not going to last, knowing I’ll have to worry about the hickeys covering both of us later. 

Apparently it’s too much for Hotch as his hand that was holding my hand moves to lightly grip my throat, his breath hot against my shoulder as his thrusts get sloppy. He’s hitting that spongy spot every time and suddenly, without warning his hips are slamming into mine once more and I can feel him shoot thick rope after thick rope against my walls, filling me up. The feeling mixed with the pressure on my neck has my vision whiting out and I think I can hear myself almost screaming Hotch’s name as wave after wave of pleasure rolls over me and I think I pass out fro a moment or two. 

My eyes are fluttering open to Hotch stroking my hair, “There you are sweet girl,” he’s cooing, lips pressing sweet and gentle kisses to my skin, “I’ve got you, come back to me princess.” He’s gentle with every movement as he slowly pulls out, both of us wincing a little and I try to raise myself to my elbows but they give way almost immediately and he feels it as he’s chuckling, “Stay right there, let me grab our clothes. You can rest in the car.” 

Oh god, the case. I must look just as much of a mess as Aaron looks as he climbs off the bed. I can feel his seed leaking down my thighs and staining the sheets but I’m too spend and sated to care, groaning weakly when Hotch's hands are back on me, the fabric of a damp cloth wiping away as much of the mess as he can before his hands are guiding my legs into my panties and jeans. He’s then pulling me to my feet. Bad move as my legs are shaking so much they give way and he’s catching me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he buttons my jeans up with one hand. A sweet kiss is pressed to my neck as he sits me back onto the bed, in the spot that isn’t soiled before he’s fumbling around the room again then my bra is being put in place and clasped with ease. 

“I’m so proud of you princess.” Hotch praises, a soft sound leaving him when my thighs clench together involuntarily at the praise despite my body not being able to take another orgasm, wanting to snuggle into his strong and safe arms and sleep. But his famous Hotch jumper is being pulled over my head and I’m weakly pulling my arms through the sleeves as he cleans himself up and gets into a fresh pair of boxers and suit trousers.

My jaw drops when take a proper look at Hotch as he reaches into his bedside table to answer his phone that is buzzing again. He’s standing there, phone to ear, listening to who I’m guessing is Emily telling him off for not answering their frantic calls. I currently don’t care, unable to take my eyes off the hickeys of varying sizes and colours all over his neck and chest and the raised and raw scratch marks going down his back, some of them speckled with blood. It’s a mixture of embarrassment and pride that fills me, knowing that we’ve left physical marks on each other. 

“Yes Emily, I have Y/N. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ll meet you at the jet.” With that Hotch hangs up, cognac eyes landing on me again and darkening slightly as he takes me in, my legs still shaking a little before he has to shake his head and find a suit shirt and jacket. 

We make it to the runway with three minutes to spare and the hickeys and marks still very visible as it was cover them and miss the jet or make it and ignore everyone’s comments. 

As we step into the cabin, the atmosphere shifts. Eyes dart towards me and Hotch, lingering on the conspicuous mark adorning both our necks and the fact I’m wearing Hotch’s jumper. Whispers flutter through the air like wayward butterflies, tinged with curiosity and amusement, as the team members look at the scene before them. 

Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he exchanges knowing glances at Emily who sighs and hands him some money as JJ attempts to stifle a giggle behind her hand across from them. Garcia, ever the theatrical, widens her eyes in exaggerated shock, her hand flying to her mouth in an ever so theatrical gesture of astonishment. 

Rossi, ever the observant one, arches one eyebrow in amusement, his lips quirking into a sly smile as he takes in the sight of us. His gaze holding a mixture of amusement and approval, silently acknowledging the feelings finally accepted between me and Hotch even if it was done in a very unprofessional way. 

The comments come in a flurry, a blend of teasing remarks and playful backer, laced with the underlying affection shared among the members of the team. Despite the teasing, there is an unmistakable sense of camaraderie, a bond forged through countless missions and shared experiences, that holds everyone together even in the most unconventional of moments.

Hotch presses a gentle kiss to the side of my head, moving his hand from the small of my back as I smack Morgan’s arm lightly, passing them all to fall into the seat next to my best friend - Spencer - who hasn’t said a word. I rest my head on his shoulder and smack his leg as I feel his shoulders moving with silent laughter, everyone going back to teasing me and Hotch as the case can wait until we get there. 

Criminal Minds Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@guacam011y @rosaliedepp @kajjaka

[vienssunshine]

Don’t know how to feel

pairing: Choso x fem-coded!reader nsfw: sub!Choso, oral sex choso receiving word count: 3k description: while attempting to escape the chaos in Shibuya station, you run into a man dressed in a strange Halloween costume

Your friends said Shibuya was the place to be for Halloween, that they would just die if you didn’t join them for the party tonight. You surrendered to their begging, it’s not like you had other plans, and put on a more-slutty-than-tasteful vampire costume to accompany them for the festivities in the square. It should be a good time, you thought, the perfect opportunity to get buzzed and maybe laid. But as the screams got louder and you realized that no, someone hadn’t slipped something into your drink and that yes, the stampede coming towards you was real, your only concern became staying alive.

You’re torn away from your friends, elbows jabbing your sides, hands pushing you to keep moving or be trampled under frenzied feet. When you look to the sky, fighting to stay upright, you see that some kind of boundary has fallen over the surrounding area, keeping you all trapped. Despite this, the crowd still searches for escape, lurching in directionless surges and crushing you with pounds of body weight every time the current turns. So when you get to the edge of the mob, you take the chance to break free and run to the first shelter you can see: Shibuya station. You hurry inside, trying to not let the blood coating the stairs leading underground deter you. If you can’t escape whatever’s going on, you’ll have to hide until it blows over.

The bottom of the stairs is covered in rubble, the gaping hole in the ceiling above it the clear perpetrator. You clamber over the loose rock and steel to land on the tile of the train station. Behind you, strange noises from the world above begin to bellow through the staircase. You don't know what could be causing such unnatural sounds, but it's clear it would be best to put distance between you and their origin.

Your feet hit the ground hard, and you’re panting as you whip your head around, looking for anything to use as cover. You spot a small divot in the wall—maybe there’s a tunnel out of here—but when you approach it, you find it filled with the crouched form of a man. He’s in a Halloween costume too—though you’re not sure what he’s dressed up as—and leaning on the cracked wall, eyes wide in a thousand yard stare. It’s clear he’s not taking the situation at hand well, but if he wants to have any chance of surviving, he can’t stay out in the open like this.

A loud roar and a flurry of screams from the ground above echos through the station.

“Hey,” you whisper-shout, “Come with me.”

Unaffected, he mumbles something.

You try again, the urgency in your voice unhidden, but are interrupted by footsteps rumbling down the steps of the train station—though it doesn't sound like a crowd of humans, rather a parade of zoo animals. You’ve got to go, now. Still, you reach down and grab his forearm, offering the poor man one more chance to come with you and save himself. He must've had a moment of clarity because because he allows you to get him to his feet and drag him behind you.

The stampede is reaching the bottom of the stairs when you turn the corner and pull the man through the first door you see, slamming it behind you. An emergency light overhead casts a dim, yellow haze over what you recognize as a closet, allowing you to spy a tall shelf of cleaning supplies—a janitor's closet.

“Help me move this in front of the door,” you command.

You get behind the shelf and begin pushing, digging your feet into the cement ground and pressing your weight against it. Fuck, it’s too heavy. The weird sounds are getting closer. You push even harder.

The shelf flies forward, causing you to stumble and steady yourself with the wall to your side. Though you wish it had been, it wasn't your strength that moved it.

You turn around to see that the man is right behind you, having joined in the effort to barricade the door, and from his extended arm, had only used one hand to do so.

He drops his arm down by his side and looks down at you. For the first time since you’ve met, he makes eye contact. There’s a horizontal line drawn across his face, just under his eyes, with what you assume is make-up, but you’re only able to study it up close for a second before his expression crumples. He backs up, pressing his back flat against the furthest wall—which doesn’t get him very far in such a cramped closet—while his eyes frantically dart over your tattered costume. Then he looks down, staring at the dirty floor beneath his feet. It doesn’t appear that his mental state has improved since you found him.

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask softly, speaking as if you were trying to not spook a stray animal. His hands are gripping the sides of his pants. He must’ve seen something terrible in the commotion above ground.

You try something else. “What’s your name?” you whisper. Hopefully this question is easier to answer and you can work on calming the poor man down.

He doesn’t meet your gaze as he mutters once again.

“What was that?” you say, taking a minuscule step forward.

Thankfully, the movement doesn't startle him, but he stays curled into himself when he answers. “Choso Kamo,” he says.

You introduce yourself, and though he gives you a few quick looks, he can’t keep his eyes on you as you speak. He must be really freaked out. “I know this is a traumatic situation, Choso,” you say, “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to make you feel better.”

Choso shifts his weight, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “You’re making me feel weird,” he replies.

You furrow your brow. Out of the two of you, you’re definitely the one acting the most normal. “I’m sorry,” you say, folding your arms over your black corset—it's a miracle it stayed up after all that running. “We’ll only have to be here until everything dies down. Then you won’t have to see me again.”

“It’s not like that,” he says, fidgeting with the sleeve of his costume. He glances at you. His pale face is flushed pink. “The feeling feels…good.”

Now you’re puzzled. “…okay?”

“Can I…can I try something?” he asks.

Well, at least he’s talking now. And he seems to have calmed down, making him less likely to do something stupid and get both of you killed. It's a good idea to keep him this way, make sure he stays relaxed and reassured.

So you agree. “Um…sure,” you respond.

The yellow light flickers.

Choso takes a step forward, a step that crosses the entirety of the small closet, and lays a big hand on your shoulder. You lost the cape of your ‘sexy vampire costume’ in the commotion, so your shoulder is bare; it can directly feel the roughness and warmth of his hands.

“It feels good to…touch you,” he breathes. He turns his attention from your shoulder to your eyes, “and look at you, too.”

You shudder; his gaze is heavy. This…isn’t what you expected.

“I thought I was scaring you,” you say, looking down. There's a few bottles of cleaning supplies scattered on the floor.

“A little bit,” he says, working it out as he speaks, “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s so intense.”

That’s when you notice how strong his grip on your shoulder is, not tight enough to bruise, but enough to communicate a possessiveness. A desire for more. You flick your eyes back up to him, evaluating. He is good-looking, and the expression he has on his face as he waits for your response—cheeks flushed and mouth slightly ajar in gentle pants—is stirring up something warm in your stomach.

You place your hand on his chest. Oh, how his heart is pounding. “You really don’t know what’s going on?” you ask.

He looks down at your hand, then back to you. “I-I don’t, just that…your hand feels so warm and nice.”

You smile a little, tilting your head. “It seems that you’re attracted to me.”

“I didn’t know that was possible–for me to be attracted to someone,” Choso responds. You laugh to yourself, is this guy an alien or something? Maybe that’s what his costume is. Alien or not, he’s still cute.

“Congrats on the revelation,” you say, dropping your hand.

Choso takes a moment to ponder, and you watch with amusement. This interaction doesn’t seem real. Well, this whole situation doesn’t seem real. You hope everything will blow over soon. You’re trying not to catastrophize, to think worse case scenario. And this—

“Are you…attracted to me?” Choso asks.

—is a good distraction.

“You’re handsome,” you say. “I don’t know you that well yet, but I think we are getting off to a good start.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless. He’s trying not to, but his gaze is roaming what he can make out of your body in the dim light. There’s probably a lot to see due to how much your vampire costume already reveals and that parts of it were lost in the scramble for safety.

“Do you want me to keep touching you?” you ask, coy. His breath hitches at the idea.

“If…if it feels good for you too,” Choso responds.

“It does,” you say, taking the final step to have your chest pressing against his. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hovering your lips just a millimeter away from a kiss. “It feels really good to me.”

He leans forward, not able to bear another second without, but just before he can get that release, you lean back.

He voices his frustration wordlessly and you giggle. “So desperate, aren’t you?”

“You’re teasing me,” he says, a whine in his voice.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say, bringing your lips to the side of his neck. Choso gasps, a sweet sound, and when you open your mouth, licking a stripe on his skin, his fingers squeeze your waist.

“Fuck,” he says, breath shaky. Enjoying his reactions, you begin to suck on his skin, earning another swear and no doubt leaving a mark. You push yourself into him, and his back hits the wall, his chin raised, exposing more of his neck to be kissed.

With your body flat against his, it’s easy to feel the hardness beneath his waist. He's so eager; you only kissed him a few times. You slide your hand past his collarbone, down his chest, slender but strong, down to just above his aching erection.

Choso is caught off guard. “What are you”—you palm it—“ngh…shit, that feels so…”

“You like it?” you ask, proud because you already know the answer. His eyes are pressed shut as he nods.

“Use your words,” you say, squeezing his erection—he winces—“and I’ll make you feel even better.”

You continue to rub your hand over the erection pushing through his robe in slow, circular strokes as he forces himself to speak. “Yes, I—ah—like it—a lot.”

“So good,” you tell him. The simple praise makes his dick twitch against your palm.

Your eyes flick down to his white pants, billowing in fabric. You tug at it, but it doesn’t move.

“It’s–uh–all one thing.” He blushes, the color prominent on his pale cheeks. “Do you want me to take it off?”

You nod, and he clumsily pulls off his purple and white robe. You still haven’t been able to place what he’s dressed up as, but you don’t offer that thought another second when Choso stands in front of you, naked and impatiently waiting for whatever it is you'll do to him next.

You don’t deprive him long, stepping forward and running your fingers over his bare chest. Yes, you were able to feel how strong he was when you had your body pressed against his, but being able to see the defined ridges of his torso makes his strength unquestionable. He shivers under your fingers, needing more, needing you to touch him lower than you are.

“Can you…?” He’s squirming against the wall, looking down at you with needy eyes. “Sorry, it just feels so,” he exhales, the breath uneven, “so good.”

“Yeah?” you say, wrapping your hand around his length. It’s hot and throbbing. “You want me to touch you here?”

“Yes,” he whimpers, “There. Please.”

You begin to move your hand up and down his erection in a loose fist, spreading the precum dripping from his tip down his length, and adding some of your spit to coat it completely. Choso’s head falls back against the wall and he meets your hand with shallow thrusts of his hips.

“You’re so sensitive,” you notice. He’s reacting so sweetly to your every movement, every soft swipe of your thumb over his tip, every kiss you press to his neck as you stroke him. “I like it.”

You like it enough to get on your knees on the cold, hard closet floor, and position his length in front of your mouth, just so you can get even more of a reaction from him.

“What?” Choso gasps, “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you coo, pumping him a few more times—which quickly stops the questions and starts the moans—and then take him into your mouth.

He spasms, hand tangling in your hair, unsure of whether he should pull you away or push you further down on him.

“You’re so warm…and wet,” Choso gets out.

You hum your response, something that only makes him tighten the strong fingers knotted into your hair, and keep going, working your mouth around his dick. You wrap your hands around the backs of his thighs, bracing yourself as you take him in deeper with every bob of your head. He fills your throat significantly, so you take a few breaks, kissing and sucking on his tip as you catch your breath.

Choso doesn’t seem to mind that it’s hard to take his full length, he’s too busy writhing from the sensation of your mouth on him. He's new to all this, not able to process or understand what you're doing and why it feels so fucking good. But explanations don't matter, not when the pretty girl in the outfit that made him hot just from looking at it is on her knees for him, dedicated to blessing him with a pleasure that doesn't belong to this universe.

“Fuck, please–ah–keep going, feels so good.”

Choso's moans are filling the closet and he’s holding onto you for dear life. His thighs are shaking enough to make you worry his legs will give out. “Feel like I’m gonna die,” he murmurs, lost in pleasure.

You’d smile in victory if you weren’t so focused on getting him there, and with the way he’s tensing up, he’s close. It’s funny, how he’s gonna cum already; he must’ve been worked up from the beginning.

You dig your fingers into the thick muscle of his thighs, holding on as he takes over, placing his hands on the side of your head to keep you still, and sloppily slipping his length in and out of your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it’s obvious that you’re taking him well because he’s choking on his own moans, incoherent as he slurs his words.

“I can’t–fuck–oh–please–please–”

A final thrust into your mouth and his hot cum is pouring down your throat. It’s salty, but you’re able to swallow it, coughing a little as he pulls himself out of you. Then his strong arms come down under your armpits and lift you to your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pulls you into his body, gasping and shuddering as he recovers from the orgasm. Poor thing.

You press gentle kisses on his collarbone, soothing him. “You’re okay, Choso. You did so good.”

“Really?” Choso responds, his face nuzzled in your shoulder. He presses a small kiss there.

“Mhmm,” you affirm, smoothing his tied-up hair.

A rumble shakes the ground beneath you.

You swear, taking a step back to see the makeshift barricade you set up come crashing to the ground. Someone enters the closet.

You hold Choso’s arm tight. Surely you're dead now. Who the fuck is this dude? He’s in a weird costume too, possibly a movie villain because he has stitches all along his skin, even all over his face.

“Ah, Choso! There you are!” The patch-faced man is indifferent to Choso’s lack of clothing. He regards you, his grin unsettling. “And you have a friend.”

Choso’s face darkens, “She’s mine.”

“So territorial!” The intruder leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t gonna do anything…not to a friend of yours.” His words are lined with a playful deceit. “I’ll find someone else to have fun with.”

He turns on his heel, but before he leaves he says, “One more thing! Does this mean you’re out of our little game? Occupied with”—his slimy gaze oozes over you—“something else?”

“You’re not to lay a hand on Yuji Itadori,” Choso states, narrowing his eyes.

“No way! Guess you'll have to stop me then!” the man jeers, grinning like a bratty child as he disappears from the doorframe.

Choso turns to you. “I need to go help my brother…but not before I get you somewhere safe,” he says. Choso dresses quickly as you watch in a dumbfounded silence. What the fuck is going on?

He wraps a heavy arm around you and leads you out of the closet into the destroyed Shibuya station.

“Trust me, I’ll take care of you.”

Unable to make sense of anything that’s going on, you have no choice but to believe him.

[lexsssu]

Again (Uchiha Sasuke)

TAGS: Sasuke/F!reader, yandere, obsession, dirty thoughts, breeding kink, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

“Kaa-chan told me to remind you to eat and to give you this! She said it’s your favorite.”

Gingerly taking the bento being offered to him, something flickered within Sasuke’s lone visible eye which disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. Even without opening it, he was already sure of its contents. 

You were the one who made it after all.

“Please give her my thanks when you get home. I’ll drop this off myself once I’ve cleaned it,” the Uchiha makes sure to use his left hand as he receives the lunch box, a small shiver running down his spine as a brief image of you happily preparing this meal for him appears in his mind’s eye.

“Will do, Oji-san! And thank you again for today’s training session. Please come visit us at home whenever you can. Kaa-san always looks forward to your visits. She always says you don’t visit enough,” Shinachiku’s soft laughter reminds Sasuke of how much he takes after you than Naruto.

From the shade of green in his eyes, to the way his smiles aren’t as blinding as Naruto’s and yet exudes the same strength and softness yours does. Shinachiku Uzumaki is his father’s son, but no one can ever deny that he is also his mother’s child.

He could’ve been your child.

All of them could have been yours.

If only you hadn’t been so weak.

If you simply had the power…then perhaps she’d have been yours.

Not Naruto’s…YOURS!!!

When both he and the young genin separate for the night, him to his lively home filled with the happiness and laughter of family, Sasuke on the other hand retreats to the lonely Uchiha compound. He is all too used to the dreary atmosphere of the place he once called home, his steps never faltering as he entered the main house’s kitchen and sat himself at the dining table.

Inside the 3-layer bento were several onigiri with various fillings, namely umeboshi, salmon, and bonito flakes. A tomato salad that definitely was one of your own homegrown ones (because he has never seen, smelled, and tasted any tomatoes more delicious than yours). The tomato soup was still warm and felt even warmer as he ate it as slowly as he could, savoring the myriad of flavors contained in such a seemingly simple dish. 

Though he wasn’t fond of sweets, the avenger couldn’t ignore the slice of strawberry shortcake you packed for him. The first bite of cake reminded him of the sweetness of the youth he spent with you despite his hyperfixation on killing his own brother at the time.

If he’d known the truth that early on then perhaps he wouldn’t have wasted all his time chasing after Itachi.

Naruto wouldn’t have had the chance to take you for himself if Sasuke understood that you were worth much more than his misguided revenge. 

Even though Naruto left for training with Jiraiya, the blonde was more than happy to regale him with tales of how the two of you would do your best to send each other letters despite how they constantly went from place to place. Somehow, you always found yourself to him, and he to you.

It made Sasuke sick.

Don’t even get him started on all the flies that buzzed around you while he and Naruto were gone.

Despite most of the original rookies having settled down, the Uchiha was very much aware of how these same men gravitate towards you before Naruto went and made his formal claim. 

That know-it-all Nara, the arrogant Hyuga, even Gaara of the Sand were almost always seen around you.

Hell, even that damned swordsman from Kiri who’s now currently its Mizukage was too close to you. Don’t even get him started on Haku who’d more or less become your guard dog ever since you saved both him and Zabuza all those years ago during that mission in Wave. 

As much as he despised their attentions on you, he knew deep inside of him that all of them saw the very same thing in you that drew them all in like moths to a flame. 

And he HATED it.

Hated that they all coveted you when none of them deserved to have you.

Sasuke’s last thought as he closed his eyes was that of you.

Always YOU.

The Sakura blooms you gifted him smelled so nice…It was a good thing he placed them on his bedside table, because he could close his eyes and pretend that it is the scent of your hair. 

He could pretend that it is his hands that run across the soft pink strands as you sleep.

He could pretend that he is the one who feasts upon your delicious cunt each night. His cock forcing your soft and pliant walls open again and again as your nails drag across his back, leaving angry red lines that serve as proof of how much he pleasured you. That it is his potent seed that fills your womb to the brim, globs of semen dripping from your pussy as he makes sure to pour loads and loads of his love within you.

Wouldn’t that be perfect?

Not only will he revive the Uchiha clan, but knowing that you carried his seed and nurtured them within you…he could burst from happiness just from the mere thought of it.

Sasuke falls into a deep sleep, soothed by the images of a reality that could have been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Even though Sensei told us not to have breakfast, I still think the last thing we should do is train on an empty stomach. So I made us all some breakfast and even lunch!” 

Sasuke is once again presented with a bento filled with onigiri, but this time the hands holding onto the container were more slender as slim digits softly yet firmly gripped the lunch box. 

“I’m not sure which filling you prefer, but I have different fillings with me so you can choose which one you like best,” ever the thoughtful person you were, you selflessly offered the last Uchiha the food despite how antisocial he’d been towards you despite the time you’d spend together as classmates at the academy.

In his first life, Sasuke simply scoffed at your attempts of kindness towards him. Batting you off at every opportunity as he believed himself above such camaraderie when his only goal in life was to enact his revenge.

Not anymore.

Without saying anything, the raven-haired preteen grabbed the Okaka rice ball just before Naruto could take it.

“Hey, what’s the big idea, teme?! I was gonna get that one!”

“...Tch. Then you should’ve been quicker, dobe.”

“Why you little…!”

The sound of your tinkling laughter and Naruto’s disgruntled mumbling was music to his Sasuke’s ears.

He may have managed to get you the first time around, but not this time.

Uchiha Sasuke didn’t know who or what had flung him back into the past, but Indra knows he won’t ever make the same mistakes he did before.

[eldritch-spouse]

Kalymir and tactition reader? Sort of a brains and brawn situation?

[I enjoy this. "Big dumb villain and their smart assistant that's not paid enough"-core.]

He starts pacing around the table, always does, when something you say isn't to his liking.

" DON'T FUCK ME! "

Fortunately, you were hired to be the brains to his muscle, not to glaze his metaphorical balls.

" M'lord I'm fairly certain I couldn't even if I tired. " You eye him up and down, silently asking if he's done with his bitchfit. " Nonetheless, I believe this is no time to be aggressive. You'd do well to send scouts- "

" SCOUTS?! " He snarls at the top of his rather annoyingly large lungs. Some kind of battle axe flies over your head, decapitating baby hairs. You barely blink as it embeds itself into the wall behind you. " THIS IS BARELY A PROPER SETTLEMENT! I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO EVEN THINK ABOUT THIS PIECE OF SHIT RESISTANCE POCKET- "

The King stomps forward on mighty talons, nearly swiping your pondering orb away as he gestures toward it with a fury of such might that it makes the muscles in his arms swell.

" LOOK AT THESE INSECTS! "

" Precisely. "

The demonlord looks as if his honest desire is to cut your back open and slurp the spinal cord out. Yet, in the midst of the anger constantly frying his nerve endings, is a tungsten carbide core of minimal intelligence that reminds him eviscerating you is a most terrible idea.

" EXPLAIN THEN, YOU MOUTHY CUNT. "

" I've been trying to do so this entire time. "

" THE FUCKING NERVE Y- "

" This resistance pocket- " You start, snapping your fingers repeatedly as if trying to garner a large dog's attention. " Is mixed and dangerous, m'lord. "

Although Kalymir is visibly fuming, he does listen.

You scroll through the field of view offered by the hidden summoned aid currently hiding in tall trees. It provides a top-down map feed of the location Kalymir's latest headache has been operating from. Currently, at least. People buzz from one side to another, not many in numbers but extremely well-organized and efficient, almost as if controlled by something.

" Notice there are more than just wrathful demons in the midst, this group employs humans and monsters, especially the less social of the bunch. The kind of monster you'd find hiding in darkened places, isolated but by no means uneducated. To gain the alliance of these monsters, one would need a surprising sense of- "

" I'M FUCKING SNOOZING HERE... "

Sometimes, you're the one that wants to maul him.

There's a tired sigh.

" Harmonious diversity equals no-no. "

Pause.

" I'M NOT A BABY, YOU SURFACE WHORE. "

" Putting that aside, I'm sure you've noticed by now, that they brandish weapons of ancient times. The very things that allowed the initial group to leave the Rings unscathed despite being hunted, not just in Wrath but in the territory of all the Lords you've made agreements with. "

" CELESTIAL WEAPONRY. " The warlord sneers, thoughtful.

" Yes. "

Kalymir shakes his head.

" YOU CAN'T TELL ME THEY'RE ALLIED TO ANGELS! MOST ARE DEMONS, YOU CAN'T BRIBE ANGELS INTO HANDING THEIR TOOLS OVER- " He slams both fists onto the worn and dented table, making your chair jump. " THEY'RE HARDLY EVEN SEEN. AND LIKE FUCKING HELL THESE PARASITES CAN KILL ONE! "

A smug smile tugs your lips. " But, my King, they don't need to be allied to angels to have those. "

Kalymir makes a rare effort to calm down, sharpened claws tapping at the same table. You can hear a heavy-tipped tail swing, the woosh mildly distracting.

" SPEAK! "

" The archives. "

You can hear the gears melting in his cranium.

" THE ARCHIVES... " He stands, mighty body straight as he beings putting two and two together. " THE ARCHIVES! "

You nod, arms crossing.

Not just any archives, the Royal Archives of Wrath, containing a litany of detailed instructions in old Infernal about how to dispatch different types of celestials. The same archives that guarded weapons of Eden stolen from perished angels, weapons that destroyed the limbs of the brave demons who managed to retrieve them, whose core names and sigils have been carved into the cases holding these artifacts. Those are the only celestial weapons left behind, as far as anyone knows. The type of material prize a lord of Wrath would die protecting.

" NO! " He barks once he realizes the first possibility that statement implies.

" Yes, my King. "

" NO ONE COULD HAVE BROKEN IN, YOU SNOT-BRAINED ANKLE BITER! "

Hm, that one's new.

He's right, no one could have broken in, he knows you know this, and the fact that you always seem one little step ahead of him is both infuriating to the King but also exciting.

" Correct. "

" THEN- "

" Who has access to the Royal Archives of Wrath? "

" I DO! I'M THE KING- "

" And who had access? "

As soon as you ask that, he falls eerily silent, pacing again, this time to the opposite display of weapons, subconsciously studying them as he thinks.

" IMPOSSIBLE. "

You recline on the chair, eyes closing. " Is it? "

" I BUTCHERED HIM! I HUMILIATED HIM. HIS VERY SKULL SITS ABOVE MY THRONE OF VICTORIES! "

" His offspring, my King. His descendants. " As far as you know, they were only juveniles when Kalymir murdered their father.

" ONE DIED IN THE CRUCIBLE... "

" The other...? "

Kalymir doesn't answer, he doesn't know. And neither did you, not until very recently.

You don't need to spell the implications out this time, he gets there on his own two synapses.

" YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS. " The demonlord bristles, not because he finds the suggestion ridiculous, but likely because it's going to make things a lot more interesting.

" But I am. He can't show his face, it'd be too risky, but some dissenting demons still recognize and have followed him to the surface. He then seeks the help of monsters living in the margins of societies or straight up outside of them, safer options to utilize holy weapons. And not just that, these monsters muddle our understanding of the resistance's origins and goals, adding humans to the mix just makes it all more confusing. Many of the non-demonic members are likely under contractual obligation to do this too, I'd reckon. "

The King is silent.

" Think about it. You lost track of them a long time ago. This prince-to-be witnessed the death of his father, his brother, his mother has likely died of old age. He has nothing. Nothing but a sweltering desire to dethrone you. This is his doing. "

A cruel glint settles in your eyes, belying that there is room for your frigid coldness in the boiling Ring.

" Unfortunately, he must have been too young to properly absorb his father's teachings, because this is amateurish at best. A little bit of care and thought is all you need to nip his budding plans, m'lord. "

The King smiles, drags a hand down his face, chest heaving faster as a very thunderous bark of raucous laughter shakes the entire fortress. The clapping of meaty red hands accentuates how wolfishly delighted he is.

" YOU GLORIOUS, ROTTEN WENCH! HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THIS?! "

Yes, really, how did he not see this a mile away? He should have figured it out before you, you actually had to do research concerning the past ruler of Wrath.

Kalymir damn near sprints towards you, reaching over the table to grab you up by the collar of your outfit.

" LEAD ME TO HIM, STRATEGIST. TELL ME HOW TO GET MY HANDS ON THE WORTHLES TWERP. I WILL WEAR HIS BROTHER'S SKIN. "

" Of course, my King. I will lead you to victory as always. "

" GOOD. GOOD LITTLE HUMAN. "

You're dropped back down unceremoniously, feeling a creak in your hip but remaining composed. Kalymir is clearly getting overly excited over the whole deal, you can tell he'll be obsessing over it from now on.

" WE WILL MAKE A NEW CHANDELIER OF HIS BONES. "

Satisfied, there's a pep to the demonlord's step as he makes to leave, opening the great doors to his hall.

" AND ONCE THIS IS OVER, YOU- "

" YOU WILL SIT BESIDE ME AS QUEEN. "

[infernally-fond]

Orb of Infernal Envisioning - Unused Lines

I hadn't seen this mentioned prior - but there are some (to my knowledge) unused lines for the Orb of Infernal Envisioning in Helsik's shop for any interested.

Disclaimers, disclaimers -- if something doesn't make it into the final text of the published work, it's perfectly reasonable to ignore it for the sake of implications/theories that result from what is explicitly in the text/game itself.

This is just for fun. As is, you know, *all* of this. So.

If Raph's alive:

Narrator: *Your reflection looks back at you, smiling. As the skin burns and peels from its skull, the smile grows wider and wider and wider...*

Narrator: *The ball shows you a vision of yourself so lewd and blasphemous that your soul feels stained.*

Narrator: *Within the crystal, you see the devil Raphael sipping from a goblet of blood-red wine. He smiles as he catches your eye - can he see you?* [[the line we normally encounter]]

Narrator: *The image within the ball drifts through the corridors of an elegant house. Corpses hang from the walls.*

Narrator: *With the clarity of truth, you see an image of yourself laid out on a table like a suckling pig, ready for the carving.*

If you've been a Bad Client (TM):

Narrator: *You see the corridors of the House of Hope. Bloated flies buzz lazily around the corpses of imps and debtors.*

Narrator: *The ball replays the final moments of Raphael's life over and over and over and over...*

Narrator: *Within the ball you see Raphael, broken and bloody, dangling above the maw of the archdevil Mephistopheles who is preparing to devour him.* [[the line we normally encounter]]

Screenshot of the above:

I'm by no means a lore repository - no amount of hyperfixation can make digesting it en masse particularly easy for me. But! I'll tie my thoughts to this nonetheless.

First, we have our canon line: "...He smiles as he catches your eye - can he see you? *denotes: final phrase as incredulous and a little scared"

So we have the writers prompting us to at least entertain the idea that Raphael is placidly aware that you (or someone) is looking in on him - and he smiles! No big deal, favored client! Cheers to you, etc, etc. You're meant to be ill at ease here. I doubt any of us do - but, you're meant to. The average person would.

We'll block these out temporally because it was my first instinct to do so. :)

Past Events -

We have the play-by-play of Raphael's last moments. (GLaDOS voice: "You know, after you murdered me?")

To any player who would have seen this, this is real. Verifiable. The orb is showing you a true thing that happened, and you know because you were there. Doesn't get better than that.

Even if he doesn't ultimately die and there's some grand plot hitherto unseen, the beatdown replayed on the big screen is correct. You'd know if it wasn't.

Premise 1: The orb can show you accurately represented events.

Current 'Events' -

Example: Your reflection has a lab accident moment.

The use of reflection is critical to establish the point in time. You move to the left, it moves to the left. It's right now. And, right now, your skin seems to be melting off your face.

Unless there was an intended accompanied face-melted ending that would have accompanied this dropped line, this was written to be scary and provably false. Tav, touch your face. Exactly.

So:

Premise 2: The orb can show you grotesque illusions not bounded by fact.

Future Events

Ex 1: "*With the clarity of truth, you see an image of yourself laid out on a table like a suckling pig, ready for the carving."

'With the clarity of truth' is an obvious bid to double check any accusations of falsehood, and we're diligent enough to play along.

The only condition to checked to trigger this text is for Raphael to be alive -- regardless if you take his deal, go to his home, etc.

For all roads to lead to Player-Character-buffet seems unreasonable. Impossible, even. Unlawful. I'm calling a lawyer, hang on-

And so we hit a debate on how to interpret the sense of 'truth' you feel from the orb. I think this line reads best from the equivalence of failing some Wisdom check -- you are very sure it's true, but it's an Orb of Infernal Envisioning. Click again. You just saw your reflection melt.

So I think this is a lie.

So we expand Premise 2 a little.

Premise 2, v2: The orb can show you grotesque illusions not bounded by fact. This includes false visions of the future.

Ex. 2: The Blasphemy.

*The ball shows you a vision of yourself so lewd and blasphemous that your soul feels stained.*

Right.

So this has to be the future, because unless you are electing to do some very wild shit while looking into the orb, this is not the current situation.

There is a lot of vagueness here - but, I think that because it is so vague and any variety of Tav/Durge/Origin character can see it and have this response. This is a run-of-the-mill, customized vision of torment meant to get the desired reaction.

It's not about truth, it's not about warning. It's just the infernal variation of a jump scare.

If the content of the vision can be customizable in this fashion, it reveals something else - it's not a specific lie, a specific truth, or any quality of the content itself that 'matters' to the orb. No, what matters is the reaction. Your soul feels stained, doesn't matter how.

Varying Perspectives

Across these, we see the vision in the orb take the perspective of someone following/viewing Raphael (Wine-Snob-Hour, Looped-Death, Saturn-Moment), following/viewing you (Lab-Accident, Dead-Dove-Do-Not-Ohhh Yikes), some unanchored POV that isn't dead-phael ("You see the corridors of the House of Hope. Bloated flies buzz lazily around the corpses of imps and debtors.")

The visions mostly occur in the House of Hope; Cambion dinner is in Mephistar, your reflection is presumably in the Devil's Fee on the Material Plane.

We're not fixed to see any specific time, in any specific realm, to see any specific person. And we're not even guaranteed to see any specific degree of lie.

So what's the point of this fucking thing?

Provable fact is used one time across this set - the first thing we covered. You killed Raphael.

The only time the orb tells you the verifiable truth, it does so "over and over and over and over..."

Because it hurts you. Or, well, it's intended to.

That's it, that's the whole thing. The only time it evokes the (known) truth is when said truth torments you. Otherwise, it's scary what-ifs, cheap jump scares, and the corpses of imps and debtors you had a hand in creating.

All of this can be context to slightly reframe the vision of the moment before filicide with Mephistopheles. All of these visions are brief and so what one selects to provide details of is very revealing.

In this vision you're granted two adjectives:

You see Raphael, broken and bloody, about to die again.

If we stick to the expanded interpretation that the orb shows only what will get the desired reaction, this isn't narrative to resolve a loose thread. It's not closure. It's shown because the orb manifests what is expected to make you suffer - or at least take pause and sort of steep in the disquiet of the consequences for a moment.

Reaching waaaay across the narrative and very out of my lane for this post, so much of the tone in the HoH arc is campy humor, but I don't think this was meant to be.

The specific call out to watching him die 'over and over and over and over', to his 'broken and bloody' form is not flippant language. It's certainly not campy.

I think the tonal shift for this conclusion (while pretty jarring, I gotta admit) is meant to be pretty somber for Raph.

But many players have just bounced down the sequence of "lol he's a bottom" to "Haarlep said that's twice as long as-" to "omg he sings his own song" to victory and, then -- "wtf someone's eating him?"

It's an odd pivot. People have to be primed for sympathy, and I certainly didn't read the writing for the orb as intending to pull at something uncomfortable in the player post-HoH when put in context with the high-score-streak of chamberpot-humor. I can only back into that interpretation when looking at the full set of narration the orb was set to provide at some point.

Kinda wild.

[thetravelingtyper]

On the same page...(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader Bookshop! AU) pt 1

After a disastrous breakup, you, an American author, escape to a little London bookstore with your best friend. However, when one patron takes a certain interest in you, you wonder if your story has been finished after all...

Part 2, Masterlist

“You used to get it in your fishnets

Now you only get it in your nightdress

Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness

Landed in a very common crisis

Everything's in order in a black hole

Nothing seems as pretty as the past though

That Bloody Mary's lacking in Tabasco

Remember when you used to be a rascal?”

Smooth lyrics picked with a bass line and beats in on the radio, your ears perked up and catching the beginning of fluorescent adolescent you sighed. The song wasn't helping your down mood and you pick up your phone, ignoring the 10+ missed calls from your ex, and changed the song. After shuffling for a moment another piercing ring lit up your phone.

God leave me alone!

You sigh to yourself and toss your phone back on the counter of the bookstore as the door rings, announcing a customer. Your eyes flick to the door as a tall man enters. Lightly buzzed hair looks soft in the light and you catch yourself staring a little and he grins at you. You welcome him in and he nods then heads towards the history section. You watch how he carries himself. Strong and steady with a soldier's confidence. You think a little about it, the strength those arms carry before your phone rings again...

Your hand flies to your phone and you finally silence the poor thing, the buzzing remaining like a dying animal, a fit allusion to your past relationship. You remember the glittering smirks of the ladies and your fiance's grin, eyes shadowed with greed as you stood in a winning dress. The bastard ruined your image and your future with one moment, pulling the girl to him for a steaming kiss. Flashes of lights as the crowding press pushed past you and left you in the dark.

Glittering lights turned to stars as you left the gala alone, pushing the cheating bastard and your ‘friends’, truthfully venomous colleagues, to the back of your mind. You had gotten back home to your flat, packed everything you could, and kicked it to stay with a friend. You could imagine the headlines. “Downbeat author loses job and life!” You groan wipe a hand down your face and force yourself into the present.

You stand and shift your weight from foot to foot. It was a practice Sam had taught you when you both first moved out. His extended family was in the publishing business and owned a bookstore in London proper with an attached apartment on top. It was easy for him to steal his best friend away and across the pond for a new life chasing words through the drizzly streets of London.

Put yourself in the current moment, and learn to reset yourself if needed!

His warm voice rings in your ears and you smile, stretching and taking stock of the current moment. It was currently 5:36 on a Thursday, it was the middle of February so it was cold outside, currently not raining but cloudy. If you look you can see covered strangers pass back and forth outside the windows of the bookshop.

It had been a few months since you settled in but they were full of meeting Sam’s family and getting your writing career back on your feet. After the shame of the breakup, you had taken an extended break from writing. However restful for you, your manager was insistent on getting a book finished by the middle of the year, or year's end at worst. So you dutifully spent your time manning the bookshop and writing when you could bear to. But every time you opened that blank white screen you grimaced, seeing...

A large thunk on the counter makes you jump. Your eyes and mind darting back to the present.

“Aye sorry lass.” A thick Scottish voice apologizes and you catch first his smile, he's teasing.

You shake yourself out of it and reach over the counter to grab at his book, A History of Military Maneuvers.

“You certainly chose some dense reading material,” You quip at him as an easy smile lights up your face as well. You take the book and bag it, mentioning the price as he passes you a card.

“It's not too bad when you live it.” He explains simply. That would explain the physique.

“Did you serve?”

“I did once, not anymore. Took one too many and it put me on the sidelines. I found quieter work around the city.” He says it calmly but you catch his hand and rub his shoulder. It seems a sore spot for him. You think of your career back in the States and frown.

“I don’t blame you,” a hurt passes over your eyes. Your writer's brain latches onto his character. He seemed to enjoy part of his career, but you can see the injury in your mind's eye now, one moment normal then the next some career-ending injury.

“What do you do? I've seen you in the store before.” He brushes a hand through his hair a little ashamed.

You raise a brow,

“Been watching have you? I am an author back in the States for your information, Mr…?”

He grins at you and offers his hand across the counter,

“John, John MacTavish but my friends just call me Soap.”

You return his handshake. His hands are rough and completely engulf yours, a fact that makes your heart skip a beat at the realization.

His phone then rings and he pulls away from you to check it. 

“I got to get this love, but it was nice finally putting a name to the face. I'll be seeing ye around.”

With that Soap takes the bag and makes his exit into the cold evening. With his departure, you feel your spirits lift. Maybe, you think flexing your hand, there is a story to be written after all.

[boredzillenial]

Biting

You make good on your word to Steven with some, unforeseen hiccups.

Themes: f!reader awkwardness, mention of masterbation, oral (reader receiving), biting, piv, creampie

Word count: 3.1k (don't look at me like that I got carried away)

A.N.: This part 3 of the College AU, if you haven’t already go read Part 1 and Part 2!

How you're going to survive the next few hours, you aren’t quite sure. With that eager look in Steven’s eyes you take a step back. “Tonight, let me get my roomie out for the night and I’ll text you, okay?”

“How long.” His quiet desperation sends your heart pounding faster.

“Just a bit.” You glance at your phone. “We’ve still got like 3 hours of work left.” You make your way around him with your half empty cart, blood rushing in your ears. “Just, try to finish that and it’ll be over before you know it.”

He nods, “Yeah, I can try.” his voice a bit shaky as he heads in the opposite direction.

The time passes like molasses, with every step you can feel the absolute mess sitting in your panties. The sensation making it nearly impossible to focus. You have to deal with this soon.

Finally you empty your cart and head to the elevator, glancing around with no sign of Steven. One last glance and you head down, puzzled when you make it to the storage room and still don’t see him. You shrug it off and head to the staff toilet.

With the door shut and the light leaking from the crack at the bottom you roll your eyes and wait. A few too many minutes pass when curiosity gets the better of you. As you lean in you can here something but you aren’t quite sure, then a choked whimper echoes behind the door, “Shit… ah fuckkk.” The panting behind the door worsening your current status of your underwear. “Bollocks - my sweater.”

Rustling behind the door sends you panicking. You take a few steps back, hiding behind a shelf and peeking through the books as you wait for Steven to come out.

Finally he exits, furiously rubbing a wet paper towel on his sweater. The flush of pink from his release still bright across his face. He looks around cautiously, tosses the paper towel in the trash and hastily grabs the next cart full of books.

Once he's out of sight you slip into the bathroom and quickly lock the door behind you. All at once the smell of soap and cum smacks into your senses. You try as fast as you can to clean yourself up, stuffing toilet paper in your underwear before heading back out. By the time you exit your senses are swimming while you grab the next cart and check the time. Just a little while longer…

That little while flies by when Donna’s hard stare bores into you, “There’s still all that left what's a matter with you?!” She scolds.

“Sorry sorry,” you duck and make your way up to the second floor. Depositing the books in their proper place as quickly as you can. A sudden buzz in your pocket makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

Payment Received from Jake

You roll your eyes then get a text, from Steven.

was gonna wait for you but Donna keeps giving me a stink eye. Txt me when I can come over yeah?

You quickly send your reply to Steven and fill the shelves faster than you thought possible. Grabbing your jacket you hastily shoot another text, this time to your roomie to find someplace else to hang out for a couple hours. You bolt across campus and just as your running into the lobby of the dormitory you see her laying across the couch, head in the lap of a girl. Probably the one from last night, “Hell yeah go get it!” You hear her cheer you on as you bolt to the elevator.

One you make your way into your room you hastily clean, opting to kick the remaining loose clothing under your bed. You turn to clean off your cluttered desk till you spot a rumpled t-shirt on your chair, Steven’s shirt. A cheeky thought enters your mind as you change into it, the hem barely long enough to cover your bare pussy and most of your ass.

You walk over to the full length mirror hanging next to the door to admire yourself, adjusting the shirt and staring at your bare legs. “You’ve got this, he’s the virgin, you know what you’re doing.” You try to talk yourself up, it comes out more like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Just as you’re about to continue you hear an urgent knock at the door. “What the fuck-“ you whisper, peeking through the peep hole, “Marc, what are you doing?”

He jumps slightly, “Jake told me what happened, I just wanted to say sorry - for that.”

“I’ve already been paid off but thanks for the apology, you can go now!” Trying to keep the annoyance from your voice proves difficult as you turn to continue your hasty clean up.

“Can we talk? I’d like to apologize face to face, I feel like an idiot for how I reacted when we saw you in Steven’s bed.” He pushes the doorknob and the door opens a crack.

“Hey! Privacy!” You shriek as you lean against the door, glaring at the glimpse of him in the mirror. His eyes go wide, in this position bracing against the door the shirt did absolutely nothing to cover your rear.

“Fuck sorry!” He squeezes his eyes shut and stumbles back, the door slams sending you nearly sprawling on the floor.

You hear his panicked footsteps fade down the hall. Jesus Christ these brothers are gonna be the end of you. You try to shake off that in the span of a day - you’ve caught Jake fucking in the library, Marc just saw your entire naked ass, and you were about to take Steven’s virginity.

Anxiety began to claw its way up your throat. “It’s too much, this is too much I - Fuck he’s gonna hate me I, I just can’t do this tonight.” You go to text Steven when a softer knock sounds at the door. You peek and lo-and-behold it’s him. You crack the door open a tad “Hey I was just about to text you-“ your excuse is cut short as he pushes his way inside, grasping your face in his hands and kissing you in that same hungry way from earlier. Okay maybe you could do this.

“Hang on.” You say breathlessly as you shut and lock the door.

Steven uses the moment to rake his eyes over you, “Is that my shirt again?” He smiles softly “I think you’ll really like Avatar Kyoshi.”

“Who?” You look down at the front of the shirt, taking in the woman on the front with her painted face and battle pose.

“Nevermind, I’ll show you later.” He grins as he eagerly pulls his sweater up and over his head. Muscle and smooth skin with a whisper of a soft tummy sends your heart pounding.

“Steven I-“ he undoes his belt, the sound of his pants and boxers hitting the linoleum are the only sound in the room as you bite your lip. Fucksake why is it the quiet ones that are always packing. His cock looks hard as stone as he stands infront of you, a drop of precum already at the tip.

“Sorry I don’t know how any of this really works. You can just, tell me what to do yeah?” He looks like he’s nearly shivering with anticipation, or maybe from holding himself back.

You can feel slickness gathering as you take a long look at him. His gaze glued to your exposed legs as you take him by the hand and lead him to sit on the edge of your bed.

“I’m gonna start with kissing and touching you, then when you’re ready we can move on to more.” You say softly, his hands glide across your thighs, then toy with the hem of the shirt. “I’m on birth control, and I’ve been tested recently. So to make it special we can go without a condom if you’re comfortable.”

His eyes light up as he looks up at you. “You sure?” You bite your lip a moment and nod, eliciting a groan from him. His hands glide, touching your soft mound. His breath catches as he slides his hand further still to the slickness gathering there.

He gulps, “I, I need to know. Is anything off limits? Like any parts of your body or, or anything specific?” His voice his nearly shaking.

“Huh? Uh I guess not - OH!” He lunges forward, your sentence ends with a gasp as he buries his face between your legs. Kneeling on the tile he laps and sucks at your folds. You dig your fingers into his curls, “Fuck Steven that’s - ah fuck that’s good.”

His tongue is hungry and searching, not getting much further than your clit as he presses his face into you. “Get on the bed.” He breathes against your center as he adjusts, managing to send you stumbling onto the bed with a giggle.

Once on your back, ass at the edge of the bed he spreads your legs wide. His breath catching as he looks you over, you can feel heat rising up your throat and face as he gazes. Then, slowly you feel the light press of his fingers through your folds.

You bite back a groan as he continues to explore, gliding and barely pressing into you. You look down to see him eagerly staring up at you. “I wanna make you feel good. Tell me how love.”

“Steven tonight is supposed to be about you.” You chuckle “Do what you wan- shit.” yet again he interrupts you with his tongue as he dives into your channel. He drags his tongue out, swirling up to your clit then back down into you. It’s like he can’t decide which he’d rather do.

He shifts, putting your legs over his shoulders as he presses his tongue deeper into you. Your legs are already quivering as he continues to tongue-fuck you. “S-Steven you don’t have to -” You pant.

He pulls away a moment. “I want to. Gods I want it all.” He adjusts his focus to lapping at your clit. Your senses are swimming as you feel his hands knead at your thighs and ass. You weren’t sure whether this was the wettest you’d ever been because of your own juices or if he was drooling. Whatever the combination, it was dripping down your ass onto the floor.

His tongue swirls and works over your core till you’re writhing. At one point you’re nearly jumping from the pressure on your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into his curls, grabbing a handful and slowing his pace till your thighs clamp around his head. His whimpers and groans humming against your core send you crashing over the edge.

Your body goes slack and his hands shift, spreading you wide. He pulls away to look at you again, his lips and chin glistening. “What about,” his thumb presses against your tight rim, managing to slip in to his first knuckle from the slickness gathered there.

Your eyes shoot open as you jolt away. “Woah!” You gasp. “One thing at a time.” You laugh breathlessly.

He pulls back, looking momentarily defeated. “Some other time?”

“Yeah,” you nod, shifting to kneel on the bed. “Lay down.” You pat the pillow and pull his hand forward. He climbs on and lays down. “Well since you’ve tossed my plan out the window,” you chuckle “Do you want to feel my mouth or me.” You slide your hand down to your mound and swirl your fingers around your clit.

“Can I feel you? Please I- I don’t think I can wait much longer.” His beg comes out wrecked. "I want this off," he breathes as he pull his shirt off you in one swift tug.

You grin, straddling across his lap and settling. You begin to roll your hips, gliding the slickness across his shaft and gods the heat of him against you was driving you mad. You reach down and point him upward, slowly sinking onto the tip. You shiver at sensation and continue, he stretches your soaking channel deliciously.

A choked whimper echos in the dorm room as his hips buck up. “Feels so good,” he grabs your hips, pushing himself to the hilt. You try to lift off, the stretch all at once overwhelming your senses. “Stay oh gods please stay.” He pleads loudly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight against him.

“Steven,” you pant “Steven it’s too much,” the slight burn fades to pleasure as he pulls out, only to thrust deeply again.

“ ‘s not enough. I’m sorry it’s, it's not enough.” His broken pleas shoot lighting to your core as he sets a frantic, uneven pace. “Oh gods thank you, I’m sorry, thank you.”

You hear banging on the wall beside you, “Shhh. Fuckkk - we’ve gotta b-be quieter.”

His unrelenting broken pleas continue, thank you, I’m sorry, thank you. You hear more banging on the wall and in a moment of panic you lean back, pulling him up with you to bury his face between your breasts and stifle his resounding pleas.

The moment his nose bumps against your chest he turns, biting the side of your breast and whimpering against your skin. You hiss against the sting and look down. His mess of curls have fallen across his forehead and his brows furrow as the blush of pleasure spreads across his cheeks.

You tug on his curls to get him to release, his eyes half lidded as they look up at you. They then lower to look at the mark he made and you could feel him pulse inside you. “S-sorry.” He stammers.

“Don’t be,” you lean forward, kissing him deeply and sliding your tongue across his lips. He pulses again and groans into your mouth. His hips struggling to roll with the way you're straddling him.

Before you realize what’s happening your back hits the mattress. He leans forward kissing and nipping at your neck. He trails across your skin until he reaches your shoulder and bites down. You cry out, body arching, the sound seems to only encourage him as he shifts to bite down on your other breast.

Steven’s hips continue their frantic pace as he bites and sucks across your neck and chest. And just when that familiar tightness winds in your core he shifts again, this time lifting your legs and pinning them higher with his arms, his thighs caging you in and pressing deeper into you.

“Fuck, feel so good. Mating press feels to good.” He groans, in this new position with your legs wide you were at the mercy of his frenzied pace.

“The, what?” You ask breathlessly.

“N-nothing nevermind.” He pants. He slows down a moment, grinding against you, you whimper at the pressure against your clit.

“S-Steven I, I’m gonna come.” Your legs shake with the oncoming sensation.

“Fuck - me too.” In the same breath your channel flutters around him. The squeeze around his length is blinding as he pumps rope after rope into you.

Steven slowly adjusts, releasing your legs for them to drape them his hips as he presses his forehead against yours. “Y-you alright?” He asks shakily, his unsteady breaths fanning across your face as his mahogany gaze searches your eyes.

A lazy smile spreads across your lips as you nod. “Better than alright.”

His eyes shift down to the marks he’s left across your skin. Then, oh so slowly, he places a soft kiss on every one of them. “Sorry, got a little carried away.” He whispers.

You reciprocate his kisses with one of your own on his cheek. “It’s alright. Really.” He peers at your face, looking for something but your not quite sure what. “Come on, let’s clean up.” You tap his side, he moves a little too quickly and winces as his oversensitive softening cock slips free.

You bite back a smile and while you wanted to help him down from his high, you were worried about him getting clingy. For the next hour or so help put him back together and give a quick cuddle before sending him back to his room. He leaves with half-lidded eyes a contented smile as he shuffles off to his room.

You toss on a large hoodie and sweats, texting your roomie the all clear. She comes bounding in with a smirk, “You gotta fill me in! I need details”

“It’s nothing I was,” you search for how to explain what just happened. “Doing a friend a favor.” You chuckle and awkwardly rub the back of your neck.

Your roomies eyes go wide as the lock onto your neck, “Help a friend?! Bitch you did not!” She squeals and pulls your collar back, revealing the bites and hickeys across your shoulder. “Wait, that guy in the hall… Did you… All this from little Stevie?!”

“It’s Steven actually,” you tug the collar from her grasp and pull your hood up. “Turns out, not little…” you can't quite bite back the grin playing at the edge of your lips.

“Oh, my, god you gotta tell me everything!” She laughs and jumps onto her bed.

“Absolutely not, I think all these say enough.” You tease.

“All what?” You jolt at the voice behind you, you whip around to see Jake standing in the open doorway.

Quickly you tug on the drawstring of your hoodie. “All nothing, and way to invite yourself into the conversation.”

Jake shrugs “You weren’t responding to my texts, and I brought a peace offering.” He smirks and pulls a bottle of tequila from his jacket.

You see your roommate’s eyes go wide. “Hell yeah come in! Close the door I don’t wanna share with the rest of the floor.” She says excitedly. “Come on girl just show him, it’s no biggie right?”

“Show me what?” He smirks.

“None of your - hey!” You protest as Jake yanks down your hood and pulls the collar wide.

A light blush tinges the tips of his ears as he takes in the marks across your skin. “Oh really, finally getting some for yourself huh?” He smirks, but there’s a hit of something else in his eyes.

“From Steven of all people!” Your roomie calls over her shoulder as she pours shots into assorted coffee mugs and hands them to you both. You do your best to kill her with a look.

Jake’s brow raises, his dark gaze boring into you as you clink your mug against his and tip back the burning liquor. “Alright spill, now.”

—————

Moon Knight Masterlist

Moon Knight Bingo

Taglist: @moonknight-events @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @lunar-ghoulie @flowercrownonapegion @howellatme @mooksmouse @ahookedheroespureheart @beezusvreeland @auntiegigi @moonkxit @faretheeoscar @softestqueeen @spidey-3 @steven-grants-world

[ghost-proofbaby]

Hi!! I’m your friendly neighborhood Swiftie BEGGING you for Eddie - Sparks Fly

sparks fly (eddie's version)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff. mutual pining. the works. <3

wc: 2.1k+

a/n: this one got mad cheesy. maybe a little too cheesy. idc. i had fun with it.

“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna have to talk to Ed,” the older bartender, Phil, muses as he wipes down the counter behind you. 

You hardly hear him over the current symphony of electric guitars, riveting bass, and crashing drums filling the Hideout. You had one focus tonight, just as you did every Tuesday and Friday night, and that was the band on the stage currently commanding an even larger audience than last week. 

You’d seen it coming. Building crowds, more buzzing conversations around town in hushed tones about the band that owned the stage of the hole in the wall. You’d stumbled upon them by accident, coming in and telling yourself you were just grabbing one drink after a particularly rough shift. But one drink immediately turned into four that night when the band had taken the stage, playing song after song, keeping you glued to that bar stool and completely enamored with one particular boy on stage.

Eddie Munson. 

Every time you watch him command that stage, wild hair and vibrant eyes, it’s like the first time all over again. You can’t get over his wicked grin, the way he puts his entire self into each performance, the rasp of his voice – you’re down bad for a man you’ve never even properly spoken to.

By some miracle, you tear your eyes from the stage, swiveling to face Phil, “Excuse me?” 

“Ed. You know, Eddie,” he repeats himself, leaning both palms on the bar, “He notices you, you know? Always asks me where you ran off to after their set’s done.” 

Your heart is suddenly in your throat, embarrassment red hot in the pit of your stomach, “H-He notices me? Why would he notice me?” 

“You’re at every show. Even before they started getting a proper crowd. The damn boy hasn’t shut up about you since that first night,” Phil pauses to hand off a beer to another patron wordlessly, “You’re lucky you pay with cash and not card, or I’m sure he would’ve tracked you down outside of here by now. Calls you his Cinderella.” 

Like a clock chiming midnight, the final tinny note of the set rings through the bar, and you can hear that rasp of Eddie’s voice booming through the speakers.

“We have been Corroded Coffin! Thank you very fucking much!” 

And just like clockwork, you’re rushing to dig into your purse, yanking a twenty from your wallet and smacking it onto the bar before grabbing your drink to down the last of it. 

“I’m not Cinderella,” you choke out over the residual burn of the alcohol, face still scrunched up as you glance over your shoulder to see the boys have already left the stage, “I just like the music.” 

“The music,” he hums, “Right. Well, your money’s no good here tonight, little miss Cindy,” he reaches out, and with a singular fingertip, pushes the cash back towards you over the sticky wood. When your mouth opens and closes in confusion, Phil’s eyes flicker up towards the side door beside the stage where a commotion has begun, signaling that the band is coming out, “It seems the music likes you, too. So much so that he demanded I add your drinks to his tab tonight.” 

The coals of embarrassment burn even brighter, igniting you from the inside out. Your hand flies out, grabbing back the twenty and shoving it aimlessly in your purse. You keep looking back at the crowd, catching glimpses of dark curls over the small sea of people singing their praises, watching your seconds run out in real time. It’s not that you didn’t want to speak to the man who has had you captivated for several months now; you were just mortified that he’d noticed you in that crowd, noticed the way you attended each show. 

One of these days you’d talk to him. But tonight, you had no bravery left for such boldness. 

“You’re gonna have to leave behind a glass slipper for the boy eventually,” Phil only chuckles, watching you fumble to clasp your purse before you shoot up from the stool, “Hey, hold on-”

“Another night, Phil!” you call out, not even looking back as you make a beeline for the bar’s exit. 

If you had, you would have seen your favorite ring that Phil was holding up, the one that you had taken off your finger to fiddle with endlessly before sitting it down at some point without thought, now left behind like some kind of glass slipper. 

—

You were late. It was Friday night, the day had been a nightmare, and you were fucking late to Corroded Coffin’s show. 

Your attendance had never faltered like this before. You were always right on time, sometimes five minutes early once the crowds doubled in size in order to secure one of your regular seats. 

The deviation from your routine has you reeling, amongst other things. Your Friday had simply been shit.  A nonstop rampant attack on your sanity, one thing after another testing what was left of your patience. You’d slept through your first two alarms this morning, you hadn’t realized you were out of coffee creamer until you’d grabbed the scarily light container of it this morning, you had to take a dreadfully cold shower rather than waste precious minutes letting the water warm, you’d worked through your lunch to clean up a mess made by your coworker – the list goes on and on. 

You burst through the entrance of the Hideout, probably looking a bit crazed, stopping dead in your tracks when you realize two things.

One, It’s fairly empty. And two, Corroded Coffin is not on the stage. 

“Look who decided to show!” Phil calls from his place behind the bar, waving dramatically to you, “Cinderella!”

“Phil, for the last time, I’m not-”

“Your favorite band canceled tonight, I’m afraid,” he bulldozes right over your retort as you approach one of your usual stools.

Your brows furrow, “Canceled? Is everything okay?” 

Phil’s mouth opens. But it’s not his voice that answers you. 

“Gareth’s sick.”

A voice you’d only heard on the stage, through crackling speakers and enthusiastic addresses to a crowd. A voice you had never heard one-on-one, and for good reason. 

Your breath escapes you as you turn slowly, facing the man you’d managed to elude for months now. 

“Pardon?” you squeak out, voice hardly audible. 

Eddie still grins shyly, hearing you loud and clear due to how uncharacteristically quiet the bar is tonight, “Our drummer, Gareth – he’s, uh, sick. Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s just as captivating up close as he is on the stage. There’s still something wild in him, something electrifying that he seems completely unaware of. 

“Don’t apologize,” you’re still whispering, internally cursing yourself for it. You probably look ridiculous right now; you can only picture your starry eyes and parted lips, looking at him with palpable shock, hardly able to utter a word, “I- I’m not disappointed. There’ll be other shows!” you stammer your way through your words, and when Eddie only continues to look at you with gentle amusement, the softest ripple of possible nerves from the way his hands shoved into his pockets, you continue to over explain yourself, rambling on, “I just- I, uh, hope he feels better.”

“Yeah, me too,” he nods in agreement before he buries his hands even deeper. Suddenly, as if he’s found something in those pockets, his face lights up in delight, “Oh! Hey, I-” his left hand pulls out of his pocket at lightning speed, still curled into a fist as he thrusts it into your direction, “I think this might be yours.” 

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers, and in the center of his palm rests your ring. You had assumed it was lost to the fire, that it might have fallen off at work or outside your apartment, never to be found again. Just another thing to add to your checklist of things gone wrong. 

And yet there it was, like a perfect glass slipper, right in the palm of Eddie’s hand. 

Your nerves are all but forgotten as you get giddy, reaching out without thinking to take the ring from him. A gentle brush of your fingertips against this palm, and you swear you feel sparks flying from the minimal contact, “Oh! Oh my gosh! Thank you, I-” you slip it on easily, smiling widely before you look up at him gleefully, “I thought I’d lost it for good. Thank you.” 

Eddie turns bashful, tilting down his chin and letting stray curls fall in his face that half hide his own contained grin. If the lighting in the bar had been better, you would have caught the pink spreading across his cheeks. 

“And so the prince finally meets his Cinderella,” Phil mutters from behind the two of you before he suddenly smacks his palms on the countertop, “Alright! Well, if you two will excuse me, I have to…. Do some stock count in the back,” a blatant lie, “Don’t burn the place down, yeah?” 

Eddie snaps out of his daze to look up to the older man, mock saluting him in a way that has an involuntary giggle leaving your lips. In an instant, he’s looking back down to you, almost surprised at the sound. 

Cheap bar lighting can no longer hide his blush. Or your own adoration.

“The bar is yours! Make good decisions!” Phil continues to shout as he moves to the backroom, voice fading with each step.

Finally, you and Eddie are alone. 

“And then there were two,” he murmurs, taking a step closer to you, finding something brave in him at the way you’re looking up at him in reverie. 

The rockstar that had been enchanting you for months from a distance. The man who had been occupying all your thoughts far too much for having been a stranger. 

This is your chance. No more hiding at the back of the bar, only admiring him with the safety of a crowd between you two. No more wondering, no more imagining, no more pining. Time stands still, not a single clock daring to strike midnight as the electric currents between you two come to a rise. 

“Say,” you say right when he looks to be preparing himself to speak first. It’s time to be bold, take a risk, no matter the costs. “Do you… Do you want to grab a drink?” 

His wicked grin is even better right in front of you, directed at you, “Well, he did say the bar is ours. What’s your poison?” 

“Jack and coke?”

He shrugs, still a vibrant fool, like a schoolgirl with a crush, “I’ve been known to have a heavy hand with the jack, but… I think I can manage that.” 

Electrifying, pulsing, the beginning of something new. You can see it now – the way you’re going to cling to his arm when he makes you laugh so hard you nearly fall off your chair, the way he’ll be able to charm you better over a jack and coke than he ever had been able to from behind a guitar, the way those eyes scream trouble. And yet at the end of the night, you know he’ll still walk you to your car through the empty parking lot. He’ll probably use the excuse of the bad weather looming overhead. When the sky finally breaks open and the first drops of rain fall, neither of you will be brave enough to admit what you both already know. Tonight’s not the night for kisses in the rain or talk of what-ifs. 

That’s fine. For tonight, the sparks of something new are enough. 

Eddie moves to walk behind the bar, but you throw out a reckless hand to catch him. Your first curls around his forearm for the first time tonight, and even with the layer of leather that separates skin, you can feel it. “Hey, did you really call me your Cinderella?” 

Flashes and arrays of what’s to come flood both of you. It’s only the first drink. It’s only the first night.

It won’t be the last. 

“I mean,” he nods subtly down to the hand holding him, where your ring glitters on your middle finger, snug on your knuckle, “If the ring fits, right?” 

He’s right. The ring fits. 

And a different ring fits years later, after all those kisses in the rain and many more jack and cokes that Eddie never quite perfects. And you’re still right where you belong, front row at every Corroded Coffin show, Eddie’s own personal Cinderella. When the clock strikes midnight, he’s no longer afraid – he knows you’ll be coming home to him now. 

Phil only laughs when he receives the invite, chuckling to himself at the chosen theme for the two idiots that once haunted his bar who now had moved onto bigger and better things.

A gothic fairytale wedding, on a Tuesday night. How fitting.

"you touch me once and it's really something. you find i'm even better than you imagined i would be."

[dadsbongos]

the ogre problem

moots that aren’t oxy… LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY pleas please please

1.3 k words / warnings - anal (least scary), non-con, monster fucking, body horror?, mind break, choking x-treme, size difference, uncomfortable amounts of drool, zombie fucking?, muscle kink? muscle emphasis?, bros in yo guts!!

summary - You’re just a little guy in the dungeons of Fear & Hunger, hopefully you don’t run into any big scary prison guards…

~~~

The cobblestone has been laid with little care; jagged, raised lips with wide grouts begging to be tripped in. Buzzing thin, restless flies’ wings ring around each corner with gossamer webs shining iridescent once caught in torch light just right. Layers of dust cling along each stone wall and crate and barrel. And aside from those tiny wings, and the distant, thudding footsteps of nightmarish creatures far larger than you -- it is silent. So silent, you can hear the blood thrumming through your ears, and the tingling bubbles of your saliva being swallowed down, and the soft breeze of your breathing.

So silent, the cork popping from your bottle of ale echoes down the dungeon’s sprawling, vacant passage.

Raising the bottle to your dry, cracked lips, you note how the ale itself is bitter and borderline undrinkable; and the bottle’s chilled glass gnaws at your palms. As you drink, you think -- despite drinking to avoid the unnerving process of planning and scheming for survival. The longer you loom within the dungeon’s shadows, the more impossible it is to stop thinking. Currently, you wonder if the bottle, once emptied, will make a sufficient diversion.

Or, if you’re truly desperate, a weapon of its own.

Fire rages down the narrow canal of your throat, a more soothing warmth spreading through your chest and swirling into your gut. Mixing there with thin, spindly mushrooms and dried meat strips to settle the shakiness of your hands (if only for the following hour or so).

Prickles of goose flesh serrate your skin as your body nestles against the frostbitten, lumpy, carelessly laid stone that compiles this miserable dungeon. One large, thumping mass of mangled flesh and dried, blackened blood with a single mind. Death clings, the scent of rot perpetually clogging the back of your throat.

Terrible.

Rags do little to protect you from the wafting freeze. Or from the destructive, overpowering blows of grayish creatures with bulging, tumor-esque, crowded lumps for muscle.

You clutch the bottle, cursing each God -- old and new -- as the once faraway footsteps creep towards your secluded hall. Scrambling off the floor, the soft dizzying sway of alcohol is scrubbed sober as you search for any protruding column or statue to crawl behind. With not even a large crate to duck inside, you are left to cram yourself flat against the deadend hall.

The song of droning wings and swallowed spit is replaced with your heartbeat jumping up into your jaw, throbbing behind your eyes, and the harsh suck of air between clenched teeth. You swirl the bottle to judge how much ale remains and pat yourself down for a match. A single match.

Echoing, heavy footfalls pause, and your knees wobble. Lavish jelly replacing bone and tendons. The measly mix of minimum nutrients and ale now punching back up from your stomach -- scorching you alive from the inside.

An hour cut down into mere seconds. The bottle of ale rattles in your trembling hold.

Your sweat-slicked fingers curl around a single match, deep, deep in your ragged pocket amongst loose herbs and bread crumbs.

The ogre stands at the opening of the hall. Piercing, white eyes shrouded by a thickened brow bone pin you to the wall. A sickly golden shine peeks over the edges of its shoulders from surrounding torches, but your hall is dark.

Your hall is cramped.

Your hall is terrible.

The ogre’s rusty, chipped meat cleaver glints against firelight. Browned blood staining the cloth wrapped around its ankles in splotches. Flecks decorate the ruffled, short material of its loincloth. You don’t dare look beneath the flint-hued cloth, between those daunting legs.

Faint, varying shades of reds and pinks persist in the joints and curves of the ogre’s large body -- blood, most definitely. Whose, you aren’t sure (you only pray to the Gods you previously swore off that yours doesn’t join the mix). Blue wires vastly unfurled, barely visible, beneath the ogre’s stiff skin. There must be crimson there. There must be life.

But shadowed, searing pale eyes tell you otherwise.

It resembles every cadaver you’ve passed in these corridors. Devoid of color, devoid of spark and light and blood that drums in ears.

Your grip on the ale slips from moist fingers, but you fasten your grip before it free falls and shatters across the floor. The ogre steps forward, then again, and again, and again, until it's walking in a full, swift cycle. Its speed shocks you further back into the bumpy wall -- shocks you into momentarily forgetting your shoddy, desperate plan for escape.

Fear jumpstarts your heart -- you fling out the remaining half of ale over the guard and hurriedly swipe your single match to strike against the wall.

The match spits a lone spark.

Your wrist is enchained by the guard’s thick hand.

You cannot hear yourself breathe. You cannot hear the flies. You cannot hear your spit. As blazing sunfire eyes absorb your frame in a single, unblinking stare -- you cannot even hear your heart.

You forget you have one. You look between its legs.

The stinger twitches against the widely gapped cobblestone floor.

Ale rolls down the beast’s face. It drops the meat cleaver with a tingy clang and lifts you, already turning down the long, dank hall towards the cells.

Terrible.

…

Overbearing heft skewers you to the nipping cold floor, heavy hands pressing your spine into a low bow. The flesh of your rear plush around the obnoxious imprint of the ogre’s stinger. Swollen sagging firm meat squishes between your thighs, nudging impossibly into your legs through the thin material of your trousers before they’re ripped off completely. Threads snapping and shredding apart sings through the stuffy cell, you spot the torn pieces of dark fabric in the corner of your vision.

Maybe your brain is melting itself down into mush to preserve what scraps of sanity remain, but your initial thought is how the cloth could make for a good tourniquet. Or perhaps ample wrapping for a torch.

Cold hands stretch open the cheeks of your ass. One hand leaves.

Your eyes take in the stone wall directly in front of you.

A surly bulb pushes against your tight rim. The hand returns, fingers curl around the curve of your hip and the rippling rotund masses of the ogre’s chest muscles sink into your distended back.

You are punctured by the ogre’s stinger.

“Ggh- !” sputum webs out over your lips, streaking the floor, as you choke on air. You fling an arm back, beating at the sturdy arms holding you down.

The ogre only displays vague irritation, easily shoving an arm under your chin and around your pulsing neck, yanking you against its dense body. Oxygen flows thinly, you rasp for it in a panic when the ogre’s arm tightens. Your pulse vibrates through your entire body, even down to your groin.

Terrible.

Worst of all, however, is the fullness. Fullness that makes you squeal between strangled gasps, thighs twitching and hot. Your instinct is to hide the gushy evidence between your legs, but you realize quickly when the ogre pays this defiant arousal no mind.

Those glassy eyes and icy skin. You realize now, the ogre cares not for anything past the warm hole it fucks.

As the ogre’s stinger repeatedly spears your smaller body slobber gums down your lip and chin, muscles lax and pliant under the barbarie. Your thighs clench, knees scraping against the cellar floor, the pressure’s relief is fleeting. A garbled, boorish whine stutters through your cinched throat and fastened jaw -- you’re embarrassed. Mortified, even.

The ogre smashes its ballooning, obtrusive hips to yours. A strange warmth unfamiliar from the swathe of ale glows from the back of your thighs - mingling with the ogre’s. Warmth blazes across each charged jam of flesh over flesh.

Drool strings down over the ogre’s arm, rivaling the weepy valley of your thighs. All of which the beast ignores to tighten bruisingly around your throat, securing you between the floor and its back.

The ogre cares for nothing, except the warm hole it devastates.

Terrible.

~~~

:3

[sunnynwanda]

The Game: Part 2

Part 1

Warning: manipulation, cat-and-mouse vibe, electricity used for restraining (I have no idea how to phrase this). Let me know if I've missed anything.

It's been 72 hours since Villain's capture, and Hero was on the verge of insanity. The sudden loud fits of laughter at any time of day and night and, as a result, the lack of sleep were getting the best of them. Besides, their mind was buzzing - they were curious about why Villain had made no attempts to escape yet.

Villain looked ecstatic in the most twisted way possible. Hero could not, for the life of them, figure out why. They were locked up in a cell with thick bars that they could never bend. Even if they were strong enough to do that, the electric current would leave them paralysed for a significant amount of time and would alert Hero. They had no reason to be this smug and satisfied.

"For the love of god, shut the fuck up!" They slam their fist against the wall right outside the cell, exasperation colouring their voice delightfully. "For once in your life, stay quiet!"

Villain's grin is so broad Hero expects their goddamn face to crack open. It's the fourth visit that Hero has paid them this afternoon, after a long sleepless night and even longer morning. "Aw, you love my laugh, baby!"

"I fucking hate you," Hero retorts, eyes blazing. They can test the bitterness of the lie on their tongue. "And your cackling laugh."

No, they don't. They don't hate Villain. Not in the slightest. They do hate how insufferable they can get, though.

Villain snorts, shaking their head. They take a step forward, and Hero's expression twitches for a moment. Villain's tone is cocky, almost mocking. "You love this."

You love the game.

"Stop. You better stop." Hero's warning flies right over Villain's head as they step up close to the bars, wrapping one hand around one and allowing electricity to course through their body. The hair on their arms stands, their fingertips buzzing with excitement when their hand reaches through the bars, ghosting down Hero's chest.

"Y-you're absolutely deranged," Hero's voice is quieter now, their concern evident in their furrowed brow as they glance at the hand travelling down the front of their body. "But, you're not a mad scientist."

"Oh?" Villain tilts their head to the side, smirking as they await Hero's explanation. Their long fingers reach Hero's belt, hooking into it to drag Hero closer with a sickening smile. They lick their lips, the action seeming to capture Hero's attention.

Hero's throat is drier than the dessert. They inhale deeply through the nose, their lips remaining sealed shut.

"What am I then? Mmm?" Villain moans out, eyes rolling into the back of their head as they slide their hand around Hero's waist, fingers digging into their flesh before gripping their belt again.

"You're just mad," Hero snarls, entirely done with their bullshit. Whatever this act is, it's still an act, and they will be damned if they fall for it. They push Villain's hand off them, feeling its shameful absence almost instantly as they back away. "Without the science part."

"Wanna bet?" Villain muses, their voice dripping with honey. It's unsettling and eerie - it sends a shiver down Hero's spine despite the bars separating them from their nemesis. They step back, winking at Hero before trailing towards their bed.

Hero shakes their head with a sigh as they retreat into the office, trying to ignore the lingering memory of Villain's hand on them.

Villain chuckles, twirling the tiny key between their fingers as they lay on their ascetic bed. They cannot wait for the night to arrive.

It's pitch black in the corridor, with no light penetrating the tiny window under the ceiling. Villain takes a deep breath to contain their excitement as they sneak along, their back pressed to the wall. They can't make out anything in the total darkness, instead counting their steps. Once they get to the general area, they use their sensitive palms to detect the change from stone to glass. Villain feels for the keyhole and, upon locating it, pulls out the key they stole from Hero's belt. They glide in and start searching for a switch when the lights flash on, illuminating the entire laboratory and Hero, sitting on one of the tables with their hands crossed over their chest.

"Holy s-" Villain jumps, clutching their chest with an exaggerated gasp, earning a chuckle from Hero.

"Hello," they smirk, satisfied with the effect. Villain's alarmed look brings more pleasure than they expected. "Did you think I'm that stupid?"

Villain quirks an eyebrow at them, tempted to say yes solely for the noble purpose of annoying Hero into oblivion. They shake their head with a wide grin. "No, you're worse."

Hero huffs, sliding off the table and taking a - hopefully - intimidating step towards Villain. "You think I didn't figure you wanted to get me worn out? So I would lose focus and miss you stealing the key?"

"Well, why did you let me take it then?" Villain counters, their expression becoming unreadable. They can't deny Hero is smart enough to understand they would not remain in the cell for that long had they not had a secret agenda. And an agenda they have. They need that goddamn device.

"Wanted to see what it was that you so desperately wanted," Hero explains, maintaining a calm demeanour.

"Apart from you?" Villain fails to keep the words from rolling off their lips. Hero appears unamused, so they sigh, raising their hands to indicate surrender. "Okay, fine. I want that little thing over there. So, let me take it, and I'll be out of your hair."

Hero follows the direction they are pointing in, and their jaw all but drops. "OD-8? As in, the deadly nerve gas with unknown effects? Are you insane?"

"I thought we had established that..." Villain trails off in an attempt to seem nonchalant. "But I really want it! An-and I can promise not to use it on you?" They plead, going so far as to muster up a puppy-eyed look.

"Do you think I'm a complete idiot?" Hero snorts, unimpressed by both the promise and begging. "No way in hell."

"But-" Villain looks nothing short of a kid deprived of their favourite candy. Hero would laugh if they didn't know better.

"No buts. And no way you're getting it." They cut, their voice devoid of emotion. Villain's face falls, causing Hero to sigh. They rub their eyebrow for a moment, thinking. "Fine. You can take one can of paralytic. That's the only thing I can offer you."

Villain's eyes light up immediately. Hero chuckles, handing Villain the promised can and ushering them out of the lab. They take the key back and make sure to lock the door before turning to face their nemesis.

"Now, get out of here before I change my mind," Villain darts up the stairs with a jump in their steps, and Hero starts to doubt their decision. They knew succumbing was not the best bet, but their dimwitted genius needed something to play with, and they felt safer choosing what to give them.

A part of them suspects that was what Villain had initially wanted and that they are going to end up paralysed and kidnapped in the upcoming days in retaliation for the arrest. But, as long as they get a good night's rest and Villain's stupid cute laugh, they don't mind it all that much.

And the game goes on.

Part 1

A/N: I seem to have a problem with the tags for some reason... If I fail to tag you in this, I'm sorry 🙏 If you happen to read this, let me know what you think. Thank you!

Love you 💛

xo Sunny ☀️

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy @alltimelowing @lateuplight @surplus-of-sarcasm @betwist @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon @burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose  @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney @thiefofthecrowns @crow-with-a-typewriter @qualityrabbitsoup @stargeode @villain-life @villainsblood @whumpific @glassthedumbass @silviathebard @misskowe @ayeshaturnedtoashes4444

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ꜱᴛʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴀʀᴇ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again - great for feeding. But not for fucking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, all except for Severen. Of course. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It immediately sets you on edge. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nah not those. " 

"Then what looks exactly?" 

"Like you wanna fuck me." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" You snap heatedly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is just you and him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You did not-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch7

chapter seven: survival

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 7, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-6, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: nightmares, drowning; canon-typical blood, violence, gore, & death. y'all know the drill by now, i think.

If your dreams were vivid before, you’re not even sure how to describe them now. The moment you close your eyes, you’re transported somewhere else. Suddenly, you’re walking with bare feet on muddy soil when wrists shoot out of the damp earth, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking you back through dirt until you fall down next to a decaying corpse… 

Then you’re swimming through a sea of broken glass, every movement burying shards further into your skin. Your blood slips through the fragments, a crimson bubbling sea rising around you until you’re being pulled under by the ferocious current… 

…You’re restrained on an autopsy table, a surgeon making an incision down your chest. Your chest aches, but you suspect the feeling isn’t just from the scalpel. Sure enough, you feel something clawing at your chest cavity and you lurch forward against the iron manacles forcing your wrists down. Claws prickle against your skin and, suddenly, a bright bird bursts from your chest and flies about the room… 

Then you’re standing across from Hannibal, as he stares at you from his confines. He presses his fingertips to the glass boundary and it crumbles to dust in the stale air. For a moment, when you blink, you see bloodstained antlers branching out from Hannibal’s head. When you blink again, he is standing impossibly closer. You’re screaming at yourself to move, run, but you’re entirely frozen. Just as he reaches out, there’s an impossibly loud blaring sound… 

You open your eyes to find yourself tangled in your bedsheets, your alarm making incessant noise. You reach out to grab your phone and turn off the alarm, before rubbing a hand over your face as you try to ground yourself to reality. These dreams of yours aren’t helping your sleep at all, and you sometimes find yourself staying up later in the foolish hopes of outrunning the horrors you know you’ll be met with when you close your eyes. 

There’s a buzzing sound ringing in your ears—an aftereffect of the dream. You clamp your hands over your ears, surprised that the effort actually dampens the sound. Then you glance at your nightstand and realize that your phone is ringing. You stare at it for a few moments in confusion, before groaning and picking it up. There’s an incoming call from Jack—you immediately accept and push yourself up to a sitting position, before bringing the phone to your ear. 

Jack neglects a greeting. “There was a murder,” he says. Immediately, all of the thoughts you’d been trying to push away—namely, the Tooth Fairy killings and your conversation with Hannibal—come flooding back. You take a short breath in. “A prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital died yesterday; he choked on his own tongue.”

Foreboding clings to your skin like a vice. Jack doesn’t need to provide any more detail, because you can already picture—with almost complete certainty—who the victim was. All you need to do is close your eyes and remember the disgusting feeling of saliva on your cheek, followed by the ice-cold shiver that ran down your spine as you saw the fury gleaming in the Ripper’s eyes. Just as you expect, Jack confirms that the victim was Miggs—the same inmate who you had that rather unpleasant interaction with but a few days ago. 

You’re lost for words. Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer from you. “Chilton wants you here,” he continues, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Now.” You’re still sitting in bed at this point—and Frederick Chilton isn’t exactly a person you’d rush out of bed to assist. 

“Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” you answer after a moment’s contemplation. You have plans to visit Abigail today—which you refuse to reschedule. Plus, you need to review the case files and autopsy reports before returning to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “And if that’s not soon enough… then too bad.” Chilton isn’t your boss—Jack Crawford is. And you know Jack has far more pressing issues than a house call from a hospital administrator. 

Your suspicions are correct, because Jack doesn’t argue. “Got it.” The call ends and you groan, rubbing a hand over your face roughly in an attempt to fight off your exhaustion. It’s a bit earlier than you intended to be awake, but you know you won’t be able to fall asleep again. Conceding defeat, you brush your teeth and get dressed before heading out to the kitchen for a light breakfast. 

Not long after, you find yourself taking notes on what you know of the Tooth Fairy so far as you sit on your back porch, wind whipping at your skin. The cigarette dangling between your fingers is a small comfort, and it doesn’t provide nearly enough warmth as you desire. Even as you try to focus on the imminent threat—the Tooth Fairy—all you can think about is your interaction with Hannibal. You should have known that he would aim to harm Miggs. Indeed, that vicious snarl on Hannibal’s face was indicative of what was to come. You should’ve fucking known. Then, maybe another person wouldn’t be dead. Then, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on your porch with this selfish guilt crawling around in your chest. You have no right to be guilty—you practically allowed that murder to happen.

…Right? 

You’ve caught yourself getting stuck in that mindset rather often recently. Your psyche loves to assign you the guilt and award you the responsibility. Sometimes, you know it’s deserved. But, in cases like this—in situations like the murder of Miggs, where you were just a bystander—you feel like you’re giving yourself too much credit. 

There’s only so much time you can spend mulling over the details of the Tooth Fairy killings and refreshing your memory before you find yourself growing agitated. You’re buzzing with restless energy, your foot tapping against the deck impatiently. Your thought process has grinded to a halt; the just barely visible trail has now gone cold. It’s frustrating to have so little information on this killer, especially when you know exactly when he will kill next. You feel as if you’re just fighting against the inevitable, at this point. But murder should never be inevitable. The BAU needs to find a way to get this guy behind bars. 

You shake your head and push yourself to your feet, collecting your materials into a relatively coherent pile and moving back inside. The sky is looking a bit overcast, and you’d rather not have raindrops scattered across the files. Besides, it’s nearly time for your visit with Abigail, you realize as you look down at your watch. 

You’ve been visiting her off and on since the encounter with her father in their home—since he sliced his daughter’s throat and stared right through you, those eerie, dusty green eyes pinning you in place with ease-

Safe to say, your memories of Garret Jacob Hobbs still aren’t buried, even after so many years. He’s the first of the many voices sounding in the cacophony of your mind. 

You push thoughts of the murderer aside and walk up the path towards the building. You sign in with the receptionist and walk over to the waiting area, taking a seat on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Abigail makes an appearance, and the two of you exchange greetings before you walk outside, settling on one of the benches under a willow tree. The wind rustles through the leaves and there’s a slight chill to the air, but it’s far from unpleasant. You place your hands on your knees and try to pretend as if you aren’t feeling tense. You’re here to speak with Abigail—you can abandon thoughts of bloodstains and corpses until you leave. 

For a few minutes, Abigail and you sit on the bench in companionable silence. You get the feeling that Abigail is trying to figure out her next words, and your instinct is proven correct when she breaks the silence moments later. “I’ve been placed into a foster home,” she reveals. 

You raise your eyebrows and try to study her reaction. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled. Actually, on second thought, Abigail looks as if she wants to be happy—but she’s preventing herself from being hopeful. You suppose that’s a normal reaction, for someone who’s been through what she’s been through. “That’s wonderful news, Abigail,” you say with a smile. The smile on her face flickers and you frown. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. She is being uncharacteristically evasive. You decide to be patient and wait for her to gather her composure. Eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I… I’m scared.” The admission seems to take a lot out of her. She’s avoiding your gaze now, staring ahead at the building she’s been practically trapped in since she woke from her coma. 

“What are you scared of?” You hum, genuinely curious. You don’t want to patronize her, so you try to ensure that your expression is as open and honest as possible. 

Abigail is silent for a bit. “Disappointing them,” she eventually admits. You try to digest that confession. “And I feel like… I don’t deserve this. After everything I’ve done…” Everything she has done, indeed. Abigail was not entirely innocent in her father’s crimes—and she was more than just complicit. She helped him source his victims, pretended to make friends with them so that they would let their guard down. Maybe that’s why you have formed such a kinship with Abigail: you both know cruelty; Abigail and you have both been victims and perpetrators. “What if they don’t like me?” Abigail whispers, so quietly you nearly convince yourself you imagine it.

Then you’re abruptly reminded that, above all, Abigail is still a young girl—practically a child. Your throat burns a little as you process her statement. “They’ll love you, Abigail.” You’re quick to reassure her. 

“What if they don’t?” Her voice cracks and your heart breaks a little. 

“Then you can make a break for it,” you respond with a dramatic wink. The remark successfully diffuses the tension that had been settling in the air and Abigail laughs. A small part of you wants to offer for her to stay with you, but you know that’s a foolish promise to make. You suppose it’s normal to want a family—every human craves connection, in one way or another… regardless of how that connection may manifest. But you’re not deluded enough to think that you have all the necessary tools to be a parental figure to Abigail. You’re busy enough fighting off your own demons. Abigail deserves a normal life, and you’re not able to give that to her. 

(Maybe, in another world, you would be able to provide her with a quiet, ordinary life and a loving home. Maybe, in this other world, you would have someone to share that responsibility with you—someone who cares about Abigail just as much as you, someone who would protect her with all the ferocity and compassion that she deserves. Someone like…)

Your thoughts are veering into dangerously fantastic territory. You shake your head and try to shift your focus back to the conversation, ignoring the deluded (but compelling) calls of domesticity and belonging. Ultimately, you have never belonged. And you don’t see that changing any time soon. 

“So… it may be a while before I see you again,” Abigail says, tearing you out of your reverie. You stare at her for a few moments. 

“That’s okay,” you then reassure her, upon seeing the guilt written all over his face. “You’ll be busy—going to school, hanging out with friends. You won’t even think about an old geezer like me.” You smile, hoping to cheer her up further. Your efforts seem to work, because a smile rises on her lips. 

“Shut up,” Abigail says with an amused huff. “That’s not true.” 

“It is true,” you say, a fond smile growing on your face. You hope she’ll be able to move on from all this and live a normal life: go to school; hang out with friends; and engage with her hobbies. You can only hope that Abigail’s father doesn’t haunt her mind the same way he haunts yours. “And I wouldn’t want anything less for you.” You maintain. 

A pleasant silence descends across the air once more. A gentle wind blows through the trees and Abigail sighs. You mimic the gesture and she smiles. You’re not sure how long the two of you remain seated in companionable silence before an orderly appears in the doorway of the building and taps her wrist, indicating that your time is almost up.

You dig your hands in your pockets and find the item you intended to give her, turning it over in your hand and hesitating for a moment. Abigail follows your gaze and looks at it. You realize it’s too late and take a deep breath, offering her the object. “If you ever need me,” you say pointedly. 

Abigail takes your business card and looks down at it, raising her eyebrows. “Ooh, how professional,” she teases. You roll your eyes. The orderly motions pointedly and a sudden sincerity stifles the air. “I’ll make sure to text you.” She promises, the resolute gleam in her eyes indicating that she will not go back on her word.

You stand up and she does the same, before turning towards you and reaching forward to hug you. There’s a kind of sadness lingering in her movements, in the unspoken way she tucks her head into your chest and stays there. It’s clear she’s still nervous about the whole foster parent affair, and you don’t blame her. “They’re going to love you,” you assert, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to ruffle her hair. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs against your shoulder. 

“They will,” you reassure her. They’d better, you think darkly. The two of you eventually break apart and Abigail regretfully traipses back to the building, leaving you to walk to your car with conflicting feelings of relief and stress. You get the feeling you’ll see Abigail again, but it may be a little while. You’ll be busy with work and she’ll be busy adjusting to a new lifestyle—a peaceful one. 

Overall, your visit with Abigail was a welcome distraction from everything going on; unfortunately, the moment you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, all of your anxieties come rushing back. You’re supposed to meet with Frederick Chilton. Supposedly, he wants to speak with you. You can only hope that your conversation won’t be centered around getting you to participate in a consultation appointment with him. 

And, to your immense fortune, Chilton doesn’t mention a consultation appointment once. Perhaps he’s finally accepted that you’re not interested in participating in a vulnerable conversation with him (or a conversation at all, if you’re being perfectly honest). Instead, he levels you with a wary gaze as you enter his office, his eyes tracking your every movement. You settle for standing in front of his desk with your hands shoved in your pockets. Admittedly, you’re feeling pretty restless—but you don’t want to give Chilton the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“You wanted to see me.” You prompt, after a few seconds pass and the administrator doesn’t make any move to address you.  

“I’m assuming Jack has briefed you,” he says, cutting right to the chase. You nod and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The prisoner who died was Miggs… His cell was near Lecter’s.” You aren’t very surprised and the thought briefly makes you feel guilty, before you remember why exactly Miggs was imprisoned. “When I went to review the security footage, I noticed something interesting,” Chilton continues ambiguously.

The look on his face is nothing short of pure suspicion. You’re quickly losing patience with this circular conversation. “What?” You demand tersely. 

Chilton doesn’t seem surprised by your sudden rudeness. Instead he just exhales slowly, clasping his hands on his desk and looking at you with an unreadable expression. “There was an altercation between you and the victim.” He states. 

“Yes, he spit on me.” You recall, unable to hide your distaste. Chilton grimaces in sympathy. It’s a fleeting gesture—one that is performed for pretense, rather than out of genuine sentiment. Although, you’re sure he’s had similar experiences with prisoners—what with his position as the hospital’s head administrator. 

“Immediately after, you spoke to Lecter.” Chilton continues. This is just one of the numerous reasons you don’t like Frederick Chilton: when he has the opportunity to speak, he monopolizes it. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, so he’ll go into painful and unnecessary detail for his own amusement. You always struggle with being patient in these moments, and right now is no exception. “Then, hours later, Miggs turns up dead. That seems like more than mere coincidence.”

You grit your teeth, catching the implications of his statement immediately. “You think that I spoke to Lecter and ordered him to kill Miggs?” You repeat, a little indignation seeping into your voice. You’re trying your best to remain calm, but it’s difficult when you’re being accused of a murder you didn’t commit. “Why would I do that?”

“Miggs spit on you, disrespected you,” Chilton answers. It’s an incredibly weak justification, and it almost looks as if he regrets uttering it. In your infinite generosity, you give him a few moments to take it back. But he doesn’t move to apologize or rescind his remark, so you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“My pride isn’t that easily wounded,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you know I didn’t sic Lecter on him just for a simple discourtesy.” 

“Men have been killed for far less.” That may be true, but you wouldn’t kill someone over a small act of disrespect. You want to think you wouldn’t kill at all, but you’re afraid it’s a bit too late for that. Your victims cackle in your ears, reminding you of your cruelty and hypocrisy. 

Chilton is staring at you expectantly. You remember that it’s your turn to respond. “Yes, it’s probable that Lecter killed Miggs,” you acquiesce. “But I didn’t ask him to do that.” He did it of his own accord, you know. Arguably even more frightening. 

“Even so…” Chilton breaks off. 

“Just stop,” you interject, before he can hurl any more unfounded conjecture at you. “You’re grasping at straws here. Not to mention, if you checked the security footage, you would know that I left the building after that encounter. There’s no way I would’ve been able to get back in and have another conversation with Hannibal.” You don’t notice the slip until you see Chilton raise a brow, and you’re quick to continue speaking. “Besides, if you wanted to know what he said to me, you could’ve just asked.” You suspect that’s been the prime motivator for this conversation. Chilton likely knows that you didn’t commit the murder—he’s just trying to lead you into a verbal trap in which you reveal details of your conversation. 

“Very well,” Chilton acknowledges with a gesture of mock-surrender. “What did he say to you? The footage shows you about to leave, before you return to Lecter for a few moments.” He recalls, glancing at his computer before looking at you again. 

“He was calling my name,” you remember. “I went back.” I’m not sure why, you neglect to say. “He asked me if Miggs spit on me. I told him that he did. He said it was discourteous. I told him it would be fine.”

“And then?” Chilton asks, practically leaning forward in interest. 

You smile. “Then I walked away.” You answer. 

Chilton visibly droops and you just barely manage to hold back a laugh. Honestly, you can’t believe he had the audacity to try to play mind games with you. You’re a criminal profiler and investigator—you’ve spoken to far more dangerous personalities and have manipulated people far more threatening than Frederick Chilton. The fact that he thought, even for a moment, that he could talk circles around you is insulting—and it speaks to his towering ego. 

“Now, I want to speak to Lecter,” you assert. I’m not letting this visit be a complete waste of time, you think to yourself. You’re already here—you might as well try to squeeze some more answers out of Hannibal. Will you actually get any valuable information? Probably not. But you won’t know unless you try. At least, that’s how you try to justify it to yourself. The voices don’t like that justification, though—Franklyn whispers that you’re just like him, that you just crave his full attention-

“Knock yourself out,” Chilton sighs dejectedly, tossing you his keys. You’re roughly torn out of your thoughts and you just barely manage to catch them, surprised that he’s trusting you with his keys after he just finished accusing you of murder. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Chilton just shakes his head in disbelief. ��It’s been a long day.”

You decide to leave it at that and leave his office, heading downstairs and pacing down the hall lined with iron bars and dehumanizing cages. The prisoners aren’t nearly as rowdy as they’ve been in the past, and you think you make it all the way to the final door before Hannibal’s cell without being harassed or insulted. That might just be a record, you think to yourself wryly as you unlock the security door with Chilton’s door and shut it behind you. Immediately, your eyes aren’t drawn to Hannibal—but to another cell. 

Miggs’ cell is empty. There’s a sizable chunk taken from the toilet (evidently, that’s what he threw at you). More worrying, however, is the rather large, light pink stain marring the floor. It’s clear a janitor was tasked with mopping up all the blood that Miggs left behind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like all of the blood came out. You shake your head and rip your eyes away, that familiar nausea prickling at the back of your throat. 

When you settle in front of Hannibal’s cell, you realize that something is different. Hannibal is seated at his writing desk, staring down at the cracked wood as if it holds invaluable secrets. He looks up when you take another step, but you’re too busy looking at the empty shelves behind him. Consulting your memory, you realize that his books aren’t crowding the shelves anymore. 

“Where are your books?” is somehow the first question that leaves your lips. Hannibal clearly doesn’t expect the question, because he blinks for a few moments before helplessly quirking his lips as he turns to face you. “Chilton took them?” You ask before he can answer. 

“Yes,” Hannibal nods. The irritation that is normally hidden behind layers of his mask almost seems to froth and bubble over, spilling over his frame and tightening his posture. He clasps his hands on the desk and stares at you, studying you. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being shoved under a microscope and relentlessly examined with attentive eyes, yet it doesn’t fail to unnerve you. 

“I’ll speak to him,” you suggest after a few moments. Getting Hannibal his books back may help him to trust you, which could prove beneficial in the long run. But that’s not the real reason you’re offering, is it? “In the meantime-” You try to continue. 

“Will you really?” Hannibal interjects, staring at you scrupulously. There is little emotion in his voice—no sign of hope or gratitude. The statement is spoken with an entire lack of substance. Perhaps captivity is slowly eating away at the man. Somehow, you doubt it. 

“Yes, I will,” you promise before you can consider the consequences. Why did you do that? Somehow, you felt pressured to agree—and Hannibal hadn’t even formed any expectations for you to do so. You just volunteered to speak to Chilton on his behalf… entirely of your own accord. And that troubles you. You thought you were maintaining a professional distance, but your actions are speaking to something deeper. 

“I would be grateful,” Hannibal says. “There is little to do in this cell.”

Now you’re feeling guilty. You’re falling prey to his mind games, knowingly, yet you aren’t doing anything about it. You are an entirely willing deer prancing about near a lion’s den. “Books keep the mind at bay, I’m sure,” you murmur. You’re speaking before thinking and it shows. “Anyway, that’s not what I came for-”

Hannibal inexplicably gets up from his seat and you flinch. He paces towards the glass barrier, until he is a mere two or three feet from you. Then he inhales through his nostrils. The man’s brows furrow and his expression turns pinched. “You smell of smoke,” Hannibal remarks astutely. His eyes flit up and down your form, likely looking for evidence of your new habit. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner,” you say guardedly. Indeed, from what you remember, he has always had a keen sense of smell. That primarily manifested in him making those eerie types of comments, but you also noticed his nose scrunch at unpleasant scents when he thought no one was looking. 

“I noticed the moment you approached the glass, before our most recent conversation,” Hannibal confesses. You frown. “I dismissed it as a once-off occurrence… It appears I was incorrect.”

Silence. You don’t know what to say. Hannibal seems content to let the silence drag on painfully, as he just stares wordlessly. Just when you’re growing to be a little too uncomfortable, he breaks through the quiet air. “Tell me, do you enjoy the thought of lung cancer?” He hums lightly. 

You don’t bother dignifying that statement with a response, instead burying your hands further into your jacket pockets. Your fingers find the steadfast cold metal of your lighter and you take a deep breath. A cough is building in your throat and you tilt your head to the side and cough into the crook of your elbow. You don’t need to look at Hannibal to know that he’s staring at you with a knowing expression, but you find your gaze pulled back to him (as it always is). You’re instantly surprised by the sight of Hannibal frowning at you. You were certain he would take pride in foreseeing your suffering, but instead, he looks concerned. Surely you must be seeing things. 

“Does it bring you solace?” Hannibal breathes. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, but he does anyway. “Burning yourself from the inside out, that is.” Admittedly, you have thought about that before. A part of you, however small, does take solace in the fact that your new smoking habit is slowly destroying your lungs, rendering them entirely inedible to a cannibal. Maybe this is just a small delusion you’ve allowed yourself—one fleeting act of resistance against a never-ending, surging tide. 

The Chesapeake Ripper is waiting for an answer. Inwardly, you find amusement in the realization that, out of all the things you’ve done, smoking is what bothers Hannibal. You have done far more cruel, dangerous, and self-sabotaging things—but this is where he draws the line. Once a doctor, always a doctor. 

“I’ve grown used to the flames,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t find your answer satisfactory. That much is clear, from the way his lips are pulled tight in a thin line to the disappointment lingering in all that remains unspoken between you. “And to addiction?” Hannibal asks. His presence before you now is one big contradiction: his words are non-confrontational, yet there is a combative desire written in the harsh lines that sew him together. 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snap, with a bit more bite than usual. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face roughly, shaking your head in disbelief. Hannibal remains entirely enigmatic—too unpredictable for your liking. One moment, he’s murdering an inmate; the next, he’s attempting to warn you off of smoking. These interactions never fail to give you whiplash. 

“Very well,” Hannibal acquiesces, clearly sensing that he won’t get more information about your harmful coping mechanisms. Before you can get in another word edgewise, Hannibal is continuing to speak. “Send in Dr. Chilton, will you?” You’re being effectively dismissed. Somehow, you feel humiliated. This entire time, you were foolish enough to think that you were controlling the conversation, that you were the one with the power. But that was never the case. Your presence, your existence behind these nondescript walls was always his to dictate. 

“Sure,” you respond through gritted teeth, cursing yourself for letting your guard down. You turn on your heel and walk away, very tempted to ignore his farewell. You eventually settle for throwing a wave over your shoulder as you depart, lost in thought. 

You come back to yourself as you’re standing in Chilton’s office. You blink dazedly and look around you, confused as to how you got here. You don’t remember walking back through the halls, but you must’ve—otherwise you’d still be standing in front of Hannibal. You rub at your eyes roughly and try to collect your composure, painfully aware of Chilton staring daggers into you as you stand there. He’s nearly vibrating in curiosity; unfortunately for him, it takes you a few minutes to regain the ability to speak. 

“He’s asking for you,” you finally utter. Chilton nods and steps out of his office. You stand frozen in the doorway until you hear the doors to the hall shut behind him. Then, as if possessed, you move to his desk and look down at his computer screen, which is focused on the surveillance camera feed for Hannibal’s cell. For a few minutes, Hannibal remains seated at his desk in solitude. Then, Chilton appears in the hall. The camera feed is slightly grainy and there’s no audio, but you try your best to ascertain what’s happening from their nonverbal gestures and posture. 

“I need to speak to Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says.  

“And why should I listen to you?” Chilton scoffs. Chilton is standing at least a foot away from the glass wall. You’re starting to think the administrator has a bit of a complex when it comes to Hannibal. Now that the Ripper is behind bars, Chilton is foolishly convinced that he is the one who holds the power. But Hannibal’s surrender was tactical, and you’re almost certain that he has something more up his sleeve. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead staring at him silently. It’s abundantly clear that the man isn’t very fond of Chilton. 

“Fine,” Chilton responds. “But don’t expect to be getting your books back any time soon.” He adds.  

You’re left to speculate on the nature of their conversation, and you’re forced to make your escape once you notice Chilton leaving. You manage to make it out of the building before he returns, thankfully. As you drive home, you can’t help but think about the interaction you just witnessed. While you don’t know what the two men discussed, you do know that Hannibal will likely get his way. 

And indeed, he does. Unbeknownst to you, within three hours, Jack Crawford is standing before Hannibal Lecter’s enclosure with an annoyed pull to his lips. Moreover, the next time you visit Hannibal, you will notice that all of his books have been returned to him—in addition to the toilet seat and his drawings, which were both removed as punishments. These occurrences will serve as yet another reminder of the power Hannibal holds. He is no ordinary prisoner—no ordinary killer, no ordinary man. 

“You are far from ordinary,” Hannibal had told you once. Even now, years later and separated by a seemingly impenetrable wall of glass, his voice echoes down the halls of your mind palace and slips right past your defenses. You spend the rest of the evening trying to suppress old memories.

next chapter

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[rainbowchaox]

OKOKOKOKOK ANOTHER AU FOR ADOPTION:

Space Romance Au

Pretty much Earth sends out people on missions to research alien flora and fauna. They arrive on a distant planet and live in like a portable housing/research station. The station has good housing quarters and labs filled with the best equipment. Also each station has a food replicator. Usually these stations are only manned by one human. Mostly everything is automatic. And Missa is part of this project and is currently manned on the recently found planet coined Vita Viridis.

Vita Viridis is an oxygen rich planet whose natural flora experience gigantism. It’s heavily forested with flora reaching almost unnatural proportions. It tends to be a mild climate but does have typical seasons. It’s tends to rain often and it’s common for bodies of water to dot the surface. So often in fact that Missa usually goes around by boat.

The station Missa resides in is on an island in a middle of a swamp which the roots of the massive trees delve into. It’s the only dry land he saw when he landed so he had to make do. And also why he takes full advantage of the water to explore Vita Viridis.

But the fact is Missa soon realizes he is not alone. Introducing the humanoid insectoid species of Vita Viridis. (Thank you @changeling-ash for all of these)

Class: Suprainsecta (Above Insect)

Order: Sapenoptera (Wise Winged)

Family: Elytronidae (Covering [wing])

Genus: Sapien Vitari (Wise Vitari)

The common name is Vitari. Named after the planet as it’s the dominant species. And one Vitari is very attached to Missa. A Vitari named Phil. Missa saved him from a giant spider web and he now wants to court the pretty human. And does make himself known often to Missa. He is fully sentient but unable to speak human languages.

Vitari communicate by complicated vocalizations including clicks, chirps, trills, rattles and buzzing. Though they can eventually be taught human languages. Vitari also use wing vibrations to communicate as well.

Missa at first was terrified of Phil because he has common sense and healthy sense of what is dangerous. But it wasn’t long until he found out Phil was pretty harmless and mostly curious (Though it does take him a bit longer to realize that Phil wants to court him)

Vitari have elytra that can make them able to fly. Silver or black are the most common colorings. They also have a stinger of sorts that puts venom into whatever they are hunting. They have black sclera with strange pupils. Their elytra is very fast. Their skin is mostly cartilage but can be numerous shades. They tend to wear basic like robes made from spider silk though some Vitari tribes have ways to dye the silk. And some Vitari communities have made full blown cities deep in the forest. Though it’s more common for Vitari to live isolated lives from the rest of their species.

Anyways Phil is courting human missa. This includes serenades. Mainly flapping his wings to create vibrations (not like actually singing). Phil also does elaborate dances and show off with his flying. Also just in general fly close to him (For example in real life male flies would fly close to female flies for attention). Another big thing is the nuzzles. Phil loves to nuzzle into missa hair or shoulder. Also loves to bump foreheads together. Another thing common in real life is insects prepare a meal for females. So Phil keeps trying to feed Missa with strange creatures he hunted. He eventually learns Missa prefers alien fruits and therefore gathers that for him instead. (Yes Missa falls victim to puppy eyes on his alien love interest and goes against all his common sense and eats the fruit. It’s delicious)

Missa has to contact the crew on earth with new findings and just in general checking he is fine and healthy. And they make fun of him so much for going against basic scientific principles and eating foods he doesn’t know how it would affect his human body. Missa too enamored by sweet alien to not accept his gifts. If he gets poisoned he gets poisoned.

Vitari live in hidden treehouses in the canopy. It tends to use whatever is around them to make it though they make the floor soft with fur and moss to sleep on. And they tend to hoard materials for either expanding their nest of sorts or stock food items. They also make simple tools to help them with their day to day. Vitari are pretty smart.

I personally like to imagine during the period Missa didn’t realize Phil has a crush on him and is courting him the Vitari way is when he had to contact the base on earth about his findings and research and Phil just climbed into his lap for cuddles and nuzzles. As he buzzes and chirps happily. His higher ups are concerned at first that he somehow got the dominant species to want to court him. But he is still doing excellent work so it’s fine with them.

[sashi-ya]

月が綺麗ですね > 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚝?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 ᴅᴀʏ sᴇᴠᴇɴ > ᴛʀᴀғᴀʟɢᴀʀ ʟᴀᴡ x ɢɴ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

♡ request: Anonymous asked: May I request day 6 or 7 w/ Law for your event? I'm afab and use she/her pronouns. If you wanna go with something more gender netural and use they/them, that's cool too 👍. ♡ tw: a spinoff of my first ever fic posted in tumblr! so I hope you all enjoy this ittle story. Sweet. nothing triggering really. perhaps Law being a little sick ٠wc: 905 ♡ masterlist ٠taglist: @zella07 @jin-supremacy01 @alexkanroji @jenwooly |

Law shivers. His temperature is way over the normal numbers. He sweats and tosses in bed. A fever has put the best surgeon out of the game, and you, his personal nurse, is there to take care of him. 

You change the wet towel over his forehead from time to time, and he flashes his sweet golden eyes at you in sign of being thankful for it. But he is drenched in sweat, and you are worried he might be going through a severe infection rather than "a simple flu" as he said. 

"Law, your fever isn't going down… we should call Marco" you suggest, whispering to your best friend. 

"No! I'm fine! It's just the flu!" He protests, with nothing but misery in his speech. 

You try to convince him that this isn’t ok, but he is reticent to it. And you are used to it, he will always take care of others but never of himself. In any case, you have a plan; waiting for him to fall asleep to finally call Marco -his colleague- to assess him. 

But, as Law seems to be finally asleep, and you stand up to go call dr. Marco, he pulls from your hand. “Stay” he murmurs, pulling as hard as he can, even if the snatch isn’t strong enough to stop you from walking away. 

You sigh, it breaks your heart to see him so miserable. “Law… Do you need something?” you ask, biting the inside of your mouth. He has been your crush for so long, but he doesn’t know… he mustn’t know. 

“Stay… I need you to stay” he begs, pulling you to sit right next to him. “Fine, I’ll stay…” you whisper, helping him snuggle back into the bed. You softly caress his cheek, noticing that they aren’t as hot as they were before. Maybe the fever is going down after all. 

Law closes his eyes, as he crawls up to your lap. His face pressed against your leg, his hands squeezing your flesh. He doesn’t want you to leave, and he will grip tight to you to prevent it. 

“I’m sorry (Name)-ya, I know I look weak… but I need you” he moans. And you simply smile, you wouldn’t leave him even if he asked for it. And, with soft circular motions on his back, you lull him to sleep back again. He is, at this point, like a little child and you are glad to be the one taking care of him. 

You take a look through the window, the snowflakes become bigger the more the night approaches and as the temperature outside drops. Both were on vacations at the mountains, and Law didn’t wear proper clothes the first days resulting in his current situation. 

You think of how many people asked you already if you were a couple, because being on vacation with your male best friend alone was something unbelievable for them -or maybe it was just the fact that you two actually looked more like a couple than friends- 

The buzzing of your phone pulls you out of your thoughts. A message from Bepo lights up the screen. “How is the captain doing? Is he feeling better? Do we need to send an ambulance?”  the white haired young man asks. 

You suppress a laugh. Bepo has been friends with Law since forever, and, for some reason he still calls him captain. Apparently, that was the name he got when playing pirates back in the day. “It’s ok, Bepo. He is doing better. He is asleep now, I’m trapped by him so I don’t go away from him” you type, and just when you press send, Law pulls you down as hard as he can. Your phone flies away and you end up on top of him.

“L-LAW!” you scream, trying to stand up. But, his tattooed arms trap you against him. He grunts and nuzzles on your hair, breathing your sweet perfume like the last drop of oxygen in the air.

You shiver, you can’t move. Whether he is awake or not, you notice how hard he is hugging you. And so much he does you end up curling next to him. You move so that you finally face him, and he allows it. Noses so close, feeling the other’s warm breath against your lips. 

Blinking fast, as fast as your heart has begun to beat. Why does he have to do this to you? He doesn’t know how much you love him, or does he? 

Law’s inked fingers search for yours, you let him hold your hand. “I- I… I like- you” he mumbles, still a little sweaty but definitely better than before. 

You gasp. And then, take your free hand to his forehead. He isn’t running a fever any more, but you decide to play dumb. “L-Law? you are delirious because of the fever, you a-” 

His lips, that suddenly find yours and crash against them with passion, shut you up. The first kiss with the man you love, and it’s been totally stolen by him, as he did with your heart… that’s why you call him, Dr. Heart Stealer. 

A kiss that goes from a simple peck, to a more intimate one. His hands pressing the small of your back against his weak body. The taste of his tongue, and the way you couldn’t stop from keep going… 

He flashes his golden eyes, once both decide to take some air in between so many kisses. “I like you, (Name)-ya…” he mumbles again. “And I know you like me too…” he finishes, this time showing pure red on top of his cheeks. 

You smile sweetly, of course he knows. Law always knows. And all of this has been, after all, part of his plan…

[flightyalrighty]

There are currently more important things at stake for both Sonic and Shadow, but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my sanity for very long if I was in Sonic’s shoes. The foul stench of blood. The feeling of being soaked in it. The color that you should see mostly inside of your body. The parts of it and viscera drying and clinging onto your skin. Your own blood possibly mixing with others as it drips down, though you wouldn’t be able to tell either way. The frantic buzzing thoughts of how many and who died to even get to this point. As the day swims by, flies would probably attach to you as you reek of death.

Props to him in keeping it together to worry about the present tbh.

I don't think Sonic's in his right mind to be thinking about anything like that. The only thing on his mind right now is

"AW JEEZ TAILS PROBABLY GOT HURT PRETTY BAD AND I BETTER DO SOMETHING TO SAVE HIM -- WAIT NO NOW SHADOW'S IN TROUBLE GUESS I GOTTA RELY ON MY OTHER FRIENDS TO HELP TAILS WHILE I HELP SHADOW"

He was ready to abandon Shadow then and there for a second because the guy's got tunnel vision right now.