#getting slammed down big style as the bulb rises

[tutselutse]

A goodbye - Colin/Deli

(oops i wrote a thing) _____________________

”So, you’re renouncing your title?”

Deli’s question cuts through the silence. They’re sitting outside, it’s barely morning, and the Bulb hasn’t even begun to peak over the horizon.

Colin looks up at his companion. Deli’s gaze is curious. “Yeah. I don’t want it. I never wanted it, really. But even less now.”

“What are you going to do?” Deli asks.

“I am going to find all of them and make sure they don’t try anything like this again.” Colin says. Them meaning the Sanctus Putris of course. Colin can feel it in his bones, he can’t rest until he knows they won’t come back, until they are no more.

Deli is silent. Contemplating. He hasn’t been the same since Saprophus, since Karna, and now he looks even more thoughtful. “I am going back to the Meat Lands.”

“I thought you might,” Colin says. He wants to ask Deli to come with him on his quest. But Deli isn’t filled with purpose anymore. He probably needs a break from having a purpose to heal from it all. So, Colin doesn’t ask. Better to save himself from the heartbreak of hearing no.

They fall silent again. Neither of them has been sleeping well, so they have been spending these early hours together the past few mornings.

It’s not like when they first met. When Deli, young and excited, hired Colin and brought him along to everything. Eager to learn, eager to be taken seriously. Colin had taken the job, not knowing how much he would grow to care for his younger employer, and how much they would begin to rely on each other. He had been promoted to skáld and had watched in awe on the side as Deli grew stronger, more powerful and more prominent in the political landscape.

After splitting their ways, spending years apart and now losing both Raphaniel and Karna, their relationship is different. There is still a feeling of comfort, of belonging, deep in his stomach and in his spine when he is near Deli, but there is also an air of awkwardness. Of not knowing each other like they used to. Deli is covered in new scars that Colin doesn’t know the story behind and he hates that. He wants to ask for the story behind each of them, but he also knows most of them will involve Karna, and he isn’t ready to hear about that. 

“I hope s– I hope they are at peace. Wherever they are,” Deli’s voice is soft, small. He’s talking about their fallen allies. Probably Karna more than Raphaniel.

“Yeah.”

Colin doesn’t know what else to say. He runs a hand through his hair, briefly distracted by how it’s thinning up there. He was never handsome, but this receeding hairline surely isn’t helping him. The thought almost makes him laugh. What a thing to worry about now, after Saprophus, after everything.

Deli’s hand land on his shoulder, warm and large. “I never thanked you for running back for me. Twice. Thank you, Colin.”

Deli has the softest look in his eye, Colin has ever seen. “Of course,” Colin says, his voice thick in his throat. What else could he have done?

They look at each other for a moment. Colin flexes his hand in his lap, a part of him wanting to lift it and place it on top of Deli’s. But he doesn’t. He is too frozen in this moment. Almost too vulnerable to move.

Something shifts in Deli’s eye, and he takes his hand back and gets up and walks into the lodging they’re staying in.

Colin watches him go. Something urgent and desperate is building in his chest, clawing at him to act, but he remains frozen. Despite his size, Deli seems almost small as he disappears through the doorframe. Colin could follow him, elaborate on how Deli is the only person he would run back after. Say that he’d rather kill Deli himself than know he choked on the poison down there. Tell him he- 

His legs are shaking under him and realizes he has begun to get up. The thing he wants to say is clawing even more in his chest, but he doesn’t know what words to use. He feels dazed as he walks into the hall. Deli’s back is turned towards the door, towards Colin.

And suddenly Colin doesn’t feel frozen, suddenly all he can do is act.

He strides forward, not stopping when he reaches Deli, but swiftly moving him around to face him. Deli has no time to speak before Colin is lifting his hands to grab both sides of Deli’s face and they stumble backwards as Colin finally kisses Deli.

They hit the wall in the hallway and Deli seems frozen for a second, but then he comes alive with the ferocity Colin remembers and he kisses back.

They begin to move, to stumble into the nearest bedroom, tearing and clawing at each other to get closer.

It’s been this all along. The two of them admiring and needing each other and now they’re finally showing it in an unmistakable way. Colin wants and for once, he knows what he wants. For once, he can have it. Deli is as eager as he used to be, and he is strong and heavy and perfect. And he clearly doesn’t care about how Colin’s hair is thinning.

It’s desperate. It’s loving. It’s ridiculous that it took this long. Ridiculous that it’s happening after everything. Neither of them speak. But the Bulb rises in the sky outside and Deli smiles through it all.

They fall asleep after, holding onto each other, Deli’s head in the crook of Colin’s neck.

And when Colin wakes up several hours later to an empty bed and an empty safehouse, he isn’t surprised, even though it still hurts. Cuts deeply.

The only thing remaining of Deli’s is the cheese rind dagger on the dining table. Colin picks it up and looks at it for a long time. Finally, he smiles to himself, happy to have something of Deli with him for this, knowing he will use this dagger for the mission he has chosen himself.

He knows that wherever his travels will take him, he will look for Deli there. And he also knows he won’t find him. But he will look anyway.

[zorocomunista]

im happy i just cant believe we didnt get a reprise of theo getting slammed down big style with them! the joke was set up in like episode one. come on provolone, have sex with deli as the bulb rises!

colindeli nation how we feeling

[doodlebless]

One-shot: I fear your smile and the promise inside

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Blood, whump (13 whump) Characters: Thirteenth Doctor, Whittaker!Master Summary: “Welcome to 'impossible', Doctor.” She could only assume she was on some strange parallel earth. Okay, that was fine, nothing she hadn't handled before. That was until a sharply dressed woman approached her and things suddenly became a lot more dangerous. Words: 1333 Ao3 link: archiveofourown.org/works/23595385

She’d let herself get distracted. Big mistake. She stared transfixed on the woman before her, not even realising the restrained, almost caressing way she raised her cane to the side of her head as she spoke.

“Now now, dear, you don’t want to see what’s in here, surely.” She lowers the Doctor’s hand slowly, moving it away from her temple. “Or maybe you do?” she teased, her voice melodic. “Ever the nosey one, I see.”

The Doctor didn’t reply, eyes narrowing as they scanned every detail of her. It couldn’t be possible, yet here she was, standing before her.

“But maybe…” The woman began, the slow movements she made missed as her face held the Timelord’s attention. “Just maybe…” The topper of the cane smashed into the side of her head, dazing her as she stumbled to keep her balance. The woman slammed it down into her shoulder, sending her crashing unceremoniously to the ground. “Maybe I might try to get into that pretty little head of yours instead.” The Doctor blinked hard against the fuzz that had clouded her vision; the woman standing over her shared her face—the exact same face. Only the deadness of her eyes and carefully styled curls of her hair told of any real difference.

“You’re not...possible,” she ground out, gritting her teeth against the throbbing in her head. The smirk grew into a grin as the woman crouched down, expertly balanced on the balls of her feet. She carefully took hold of the Doctor’s chin, tilting her head to look at her face on.

“My Doctor…” The words sat awfully in the Doctor’s stomach. “Tells me such absurd things too.” She stood up again, expression eerily neutral, but hiding something underneath that sparked recognition in the Doctor’s sluggish mind. “Welcome to 'impossible', Doctor.”

The toe of her heeled shoe slammed against the Doctor’s stomach, a cry escaping her as she gasped for air, rolling onto her back. A patronising ‘aww’ escaped the woman’s lips as her foot came down again, heel so sharp she could feel it digging through her. Despite that, she tried to wriggle free, only to be met by an even more powerful wave of pain as it was driven in even deeper, grinding into her. She coughed, cringing at the iron taste it left in her mouth. She didn’t have time to care about that though; it would heal fast.

If she could get away.

It was an agonising while before the pressure on her stomach was lifted and she almost curled up in herself, halted by the base of the cane planting straight into her chest. Not as sharp as her heel, but it still smarted more than a little. Her head slammed back into the ground from the motion, a fresh ache stabbing away at her, joining the rest. The pressure from the cane increased; her breaths grew short and sharp.

“I wasn’t done looking yet, love,” the woman said so sweetly, like sucrose venom. Every inch of her face was studied; same as how the Doctor had studied the woman’s barely minutes before she lost any advantage she could have gained. “My, you’re such a young little thing, so starry eyed, so immature, and yet…” She leant in closer, eyes widening in her own sick sense of childlike joy. “Oh, this is beautiful! Such a longing to burn—to turn both the universe to ruins...” She raised her free hand to her face, finger to the corner of her mouth as she deducted. “...And yourself.”

The Doctor’s expression steeled, hand reaching up to grab the cane, painfully yanking at it as it slid away from her chest, the woman caught off guard. She made a panicked attempt to stand—to run—but the woman who shared her face had other ideas. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, this darker version of her hoisted her onto her knees. Her vision clouded ominously from being lifted so suddenly, head swirling as she tried to refocus on the figure in front of her.

The smart trousers. The shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The waistcoat.

That sickeningly familiar face.

“Come on now, dear,” she cooed. “I thought you had a bit more fight in you than that.” The sly smile on her face faded. Maybe she was getting bored without any fightback, the Doctor thought fuzzily. Things were clicking into place.

“Say my name.” The request—more of a demand—came suddenly, the Doctor’s blood running that little bit colder through her heavy limbs, hearts picking up the pace.

She knew the name, of course she did. But to speak it out loud would make this entire scenario entirely too real, entirely too much something she’d definitely have to fix.

“Say it.” The voice raised in intensity, a storm building in her voice, in her eyes. The Doctor sucked in as deep a breath as she could; her lungs protested and threatened to send her into a coughing fit. She closed her eyes as the breath escaped her shakily.

“Master.”

The ‘Master’ sucked in her own deep breath, releasing it with a satisfied ‘ahh’, lips pulled tight into an expansive grin. “Once more, love? It’s not every day I hear my own voice speak my name with such dread.” She remained quiet, staring resolutely at her face as it blurred in and out of focus, the pressure of her hair pulling at the roots becoming unbearable.

The Master whipped her cane to the side suddenly, the movement sending the lower half to the ground, leaving a sword in its place. “Say it again,” she said firmly, pointing the blade at her face. “Or we won’t look quite so samey anymore.” She feigned a sad pout at the words, completely for show. The Doctor gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing as she launched her hands towards the cane, grabbing it roughly and pushing it aside with a grunt, rising up just enough on her feet to gain purchase to kick her legs from under her. The Master crashed to the ground, the cane becoming loose in her grasp. The Doctor took her chance and whisked away with it, half running half stumbling away and through a maze of buildings and construction works. She was beyond thankful that the encounter had happened somewhere so sheltered; even without a potential concussion, she couldn’t even imagine how she’d get away with nowhere to hide.

She could hear the woman yelling after her; curses in Gallifreyan she hadn’t heard in a long time. Stumbling and managing to catch herself before she lost precious time in her getaway, she launched herself over a stack of boxes and slid to the ground, hitched breaths coming in hard. The boxes practically surrounded her, she didn’t think she’d find a better place to collect her thoughts. The grip she had on the cane was tight, holding it close to her chest, eyes scrunched tight with gritted teeth as she thought her brains for a plan.

It was her. But...it wasn’t! But how could that be?! She’d shared faces with those she’d met in the past before, but for the Master to—

Wait, she said ‘my Doctor’. Her Doctor. It was like a dim bulb in the back of her head had finally lit up. There was a Doctor here too! They could help her, they could—

“Oh my darling, you really are making this too easy.”

The voice was close and any attempt to quiet her breathing was lost. It was only then she felt something warm seep into her top and trousers, trickling down her wrists and arms.

Blood.

She’d been propelled by adrenaline, by her own flight responses that she hadn’t even realised the grip she held on the cane the entire time had been cutting into her.

She’d left a trail.

“I’d really like my cane back now, love.” The singsong tone came closer than ever, an ominous prelude that filled her entire body with dread.

[hillywooddestiel]

Stranger Things Have Happened- Chapter Thirteen

Chapter 13: The Battle at Byers

Characters: Y/N Winchester, Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, Sam, Dean

Warnings: angst, language

Word count: 1.9k

Series description: Hawkins, Indiana, November 1983. The Winchesters got out of hunting and decided to settle down in a small town. The youngest of the three, Y/N, just wants to get on with her somewhat normal life and go to a good college. But that’s a little tricky when disappearances start occurring, including her friend Barbara Holland, and there’s reports of a mysterious new girl in town. Can she balance boyfriends, teen drama and monster hunting?

A/N: Hello again! This series has been picking up a lot and its been lovely watching people go through chapter by chapter in my notes (thanks for all the reblogs) I’ve nearly finished writing this and that actually makes me a little sad. I’ve loved coming up with this series and tying Supernatural and Stranger Things together in this way. And my brain may or may not have been prodding me with ideas for a sequel. I don’t know if I can commit to starting it until things are a bit more organised around here. Anyways enjoy xx Series Masterlist  Masterlist

Story:

“It's here, it's coming.”

“Where is it?”

“Wait, what's here?! What's here- whoa easy with that!” Jonathan and Nancy rotate themselves back to back around the room while Steve panics over the lights, the gun, the bat full of nails- he's just in full panic mode over everything going on right now. Nancy has the gun close to her chest while Jonathan has his homemade bat thing up like he's prepared to hit a home run. Steve finches away when he swings it around and rightly so; that thing looks lethal! Man, I want one. 

“I don't see it!” Nancy frets, still spinning in their little formation. Meanwhile, I'm just stood next to Steve trying to listen out for the damn thing which is a little tricky with all of this noise.

“Where is what?! Hello? Will someone please explain to me what the hell is going-” a huge smash from the ceiling cuts Steve off. Plaster and wood fall to the floor as an enormous slimy creature falls through the roof. It stands tall, much taller than any of our squad, opening its mouth hole/ face (if you can call it that) and screams at us at a shrill volume. Nancy fires 3 shots at it that barely do anything. I just stand on the spot staring at the thing in half horror, trying to remember all of my lore to work out what the hell it could be. I have nothing.

“Go, go! Run, go!” Jonathan turns around to myself and Steve, ushering us in the direction of safety, “Get out of here! Jump!” He warns us just in time to vault the fucking bear trap he has nailed to the floor. What the hell Jonathan?!

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god!” Steve panics aloud, looking at all of us with eyes the size of golf balls, “Jesus Jesus, what the hell was that?!”

“Shut up!” Both Nancy and Jonathan shout in unison. I agree; he was getting really annoying. I had enough of worriers back in the hunting days. With all of the screaming done with, we listen out for the creature outside the door making it's strange, alien, purr-like sound. There's a yellow yo-yo with a happy smile on it strung over the back of a chair by the door, presumably linked up to some Scooby Doo style trap- the bear trap! My respect for these guys just went up by a lot. 

“What's it doing?” Nancy asks, keeping her eyes and gun on the door.

“I don't know.” Jonathan glances to all of us. The lights stop flickering, going back to normal and the strange noise coming from outside stops. It can't be gone, surely? For a creature that came through the ceiling like it was made of Lego, it gave up very quickly on killing us.

“Do you hear anything?”

“No…”

Taking tentative steps, Nancy and Jonathan lead the pack into the living room again. Steve brings up the rear, muttering incoherently like a crazy person.

“This is crazy. This is crazy.” He runs his hands through his signature big hair, trembling as he spirals out of control, “This is crazy. This is crazy! This is CRAZY!” He grabs the phone from the wall and jabs 9-1-1 into the keypad. Nancy snatches it away from him and ends the call before anyone picks up. “What are you do- what are you doing? Are you insane?!” 

“It's going to come back.” Nancy growls, “So you need to leave. Right. Now.”

“Do you two want to explain to me what the hell is going on?” I put on my best mom voice when the door slams behind Steve as he flees the house, “You left me at school to babysit because what? You two know what you're doing?”

“I'm sorry Y/N/N, but this is something I have to do. For Barb.” 

“And I don't want to do that? Nancy, I know it wasn't long but she was my friend too! Out of everyone here in this town, I am the only person who knows about this stuff. I hunt monsters, that's what I do. It's what I'm good at.”

“I know that. But just because you've done before, doesn't mean you have to now.”

“Yes it does! If something happened to any of you guys and I did nothing… I would not be able to live with myself.” I realize, as I speak, that I sound so much like Dean when we were deciding whether or not to really leave everything behind. He went on and on about the job and our duty and how, by quitting, every death caused by the supernatural would be on us for not stepping in. It all came from Dad really; he always instilled in us that hunting was in our blood. It was our destiny, almost. 

“Barb is not on you Y/N. None of this is on you.” Nancy hugs me tightly nearly sending me into tears. But when the lights begin to flicker once again, we quickly spring apart. Shit shit shit shit SHIT!

Cocking my gun, I opt not to join the others spinning around the room and instead train my gaze on the ceiling where the bear dropped from before.

“Where is it?”

“Come on! Come on you son of a bitch!” Jonathan riles himself up- subtlety is not his strong suit I see.

“You see it?” 

“No, you?” I answer Nancy, glancing briefly at the flashing fairy lights to see them turn off completely. We're plunged into almost complete darkness. I blink. The creature from earlier rises up behind Nancy and Jonathan making it's weird sound again, unbeknownst to them. “Guys…”

“Wha-” they barely get the chance to speak before the thing attacks Jonathan and pins him to the ground. Watching him get covered in goo from the creature is oddly reminiscent of Cujo. But now is not the time.

“Jonathan!” Nancy shouts, not phasing the Demogorgon at all, “Jonathan! Jona-”

“Don't just stand there, shoot it!” I cock my gun and fire the first shot, not really aiming for any part in particular since I know nothing about the damn thing. I fire twice more with no effect while Nancy fires five times. After the fifth bullet is fired, the Demogorgon turns and screams in our direction.

“Go to hell you son of a bitch!” Nancy fires again and again until she pulls on the trigger and all the gun does is click- she's out of bullets. They don't seem to be working anyway so things could be worse. Well, they are worse. The Demogorgon comes towards us, angered by our efforts to harm it. I take a step back and find my footing unsteady, falling quickly to the floor and hitting my head on something solid. 

“Ah fuck!” I wince, a sharp pain so spreading through my skull and dancing behind my closed eyes. That's going to leave one hell of a bruise. 

“Y/N/N, you okay?!” Nancy helps pull me back up.

“I will be… what about…” the ringing in my ears subsides and I can hear what sounds like Steve screaming. It is Steve screaming. He has the bat full of nails and is in the middle of an assault on the monster, pushing it towards the bear trap. It snaps around it's ankle causing a shrill scream to come from the weird hole in it's face.

“He's in the trap! He's stuck!” Steve declares.

“Jonathan, now!” Nancy urges. Jonathan flicks the lighter on and chucks it onto the trail of gasoline. It ignites and travels swiftly to the trap, sending the creature up into flames. The inferno continues to grow to an unsafe size for which Jonathan luckily has a fire extinguisher at hand. Plumes of smoke fill the house, clouding my vision and entering my lungs making breathing rather difficult. Combine with my head injury, I really don't feel good right now.

“Where did it go?” Nancy sputters, staring down at the bubbling goop left behind on the trap. 

“No, it has to be dead… it has to be.”

“Umm… hate to be the one to break it to you Jonathan but we don't know for sure. Bullets weren't working, who's to say fire does?”

“If you are saying you think it could survive that, you're crazy.” Steve buts in (I was forgetting he doesn't know everything). 

“That's exactly what I'm saying. Other creatures have done it.”

“You mean like roaches?”

“I mean like shapeshifters and skinwalkers.”

“Skin what? What are you talking-”

“Hey look!”

We all look up to what Nancy is pointing at. One of the string lights is lit up. And then another one. And then two more. We follow them along the corridor to the front door, mesmerised by the colourful little bulbs as random ones come to life to form a trail. 

“Mom…” Jonathan focuses on them, whispering under his breath so quietly I barely hear him. “Mom, is that you?” He receives no reply. Whatever is causing the light display continues to travel, taking us outside to the front porch. In the near distance, the street lamp light flickers gently. It's the last sign of something in the alternate dimension before the track goes cold.

“Where's it going?” Nancy asks, watching down the dark road as though he'll see something any second now.

“I don't think that's the monster…” Jonathan says rather ominously.

“Yeah, it probably would have come back already.” My comment gets the stink eye from all three of them, “What? It's true.”

“Is anyone going to explain to me what the hell is going on?” Ah yes, Steve. Prepare for a shitstorm of a story my friend.

I repeat a shortened version of the tale I told everyone back before we went to the school and I also fill him in on the whole situation with Will. Nancy and Jonathan but in with extra details where needed, making it very clear to Steve that nothing was going on between them. Smooth guys. 

“So… you did this for a living?” 

“Not exactly- we didn't get paid. There was a lot of credit card fraud.” 

“Cool.” Steve remarks, his face changing to a frown when he catches Nancy's glare. 

“It was only small amounts, we never took more than we needed. And it was always with the shady banks.” I clarify. 

“This is insane! You guys could have told me, I could've helped you Nancy.” 

“We didn't want to just go telling everyone. And… I didn't want you to get hurt.” Nancy takes Steve's hands as reassurance. Jonathan swallows hard and tries to look away, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. Methinks there are some feelings there. And unfortunately they are one sided.

“Right, well we should probably get back to the-” BANG! The front door flies open startling us all. Steve grabs his bat while Nancy and myself grab our guns leaning Jonathan to take a lamp as a weapon. I relax when the two blundering giants come in with their guns raised.

“Guys, it's okay. It's just my brothers.” I gesture for everyone to put their weapons down. Dean flares his nostrils, glaring at me- here we go!

“You have got a lot of explaining to do Y/N.”

STHH Tags

@marslovesme @bluedefundead  @elenavaldez09@mysanityisgone27 @adridedong @princess-of-erebor1992 @coffeeandwinchesters

[borderlandscast]

some more vines/tiktok for borderlandscast

or whatever it is that you kids call it these days!

rythian and his lactose intolerance:

rythian: (eyeing the plate of crackers and cheese on his desk and mildly sweating, camera jolts as he lunges for it, causing feed to blur)

ravs: (sprinting to rythian’s room with the chorus of ‘holding out for a hero’ dubbed over; as soon as he slams open the door, the gentle guitar ceases, replaced by the dramatic strum as he tosses a bottle of lactaid...right into rythian’s face)

rythian: (music ceases as he slowly slumps down out of frame and his voice is weak but grateful) my hero...

panda and their arsenal:

nilesy (badly dressed up as a security guard): you can pass, good citizen.

teep: (signs thank you and moves through checkpoint; they have a giant knife clearly strapped to their back)

panda: (checkpoint beeps, and panda pauses)

nilesy: (steps in front of panda) sorry, but i’m gonna need you to empty your pockets.

panda: (groans and rolls eye, and starts to remove a single weapon at a time from their pockets and piling it on the table)

nilesy: (adopts a glazed look as the pile continues to grow)

arsenal’s custom greetings:

arsenal: today, i’m gonna teach y’all how to properly greet a fellow captain. (view bobs in his hand as he breaks into a jog) HAMHA! (he slams his fist into daltos’ face)

daltos: (getting up) YOU...HAMBITCH! (lunges for arsenal, who chortles)

lalna’s doki doki:

arsenal: (blowing up a paper bag, slides behind lalna and pops it)

lalna: (emits a shriek of epic proportions before wheezing like a deflating balloon)

arsenal: did that make your heart go... (cue intense zoom on his face so he has a double chin and menacing grin) doki doki?

panda and their arsenal part two:

panda: (still removing weapons, this time shaking out their hoodie which continues to drop weapons onto the pile, which is now knee high)

nilesy: (has pulled out a magazine and is reading; the magazine is full of cats wearing bikinis)

teep: (can be seen in the background, perusing a stack of books from vendor)

lalna and his creation:

lalna: (leaning over camera with terrible spooky glow cast by flashlight; lightning caused by larry robert flickers in the background) IT’S...ALIVE!!!!

leggy gun: (said gun twitches on the bench and slowly rises to face lalna)

lalna: (voice cracks as he coos) say daddy!

leggy gun: DADDy!!!!!! (albeit heavily distorted and in a loader’s terrifying monotone, amplified through loudspeaker)

lalna: (shedding tears) OH, I’M SO PROUD!

larry robert: (dabs in background)

ravs the rooster and an unfortunate victim:

zoeya: (rocky feed as she hoists it up; happy clucking can be heard that grows louder) so what we have here is a vulture, not a chicken. ravs, do you know why you’re a vulture?

ravs the rooster: ovo? uwu! (zoeya holds the camera up properly to focus on the whiteboard sign hanging around ravs’ neck) uwu!

the sign says: i participated in postmortem cannibalism by stealing panda’s dropped chicken nugget, flying onto the roof and eating it in front of them despite my beloved lesbians yelling at me to drop it.

sips and dirt:

sips: (fully dressed and standing in shower) boy, i love coming home to a refreshing hot shower! (pulls something off screen so that a bucket of high quality dirt is dumped over his head; he majestically throws his head back in slow motion to scatter the dirt everywhere; ‘fergilicious’ also plays as he fans himself with a noteful of hundos; dollar bill glasses also spawn on his face)

zoeya and skags:

zoeya: (soft tones of ‘i wanna be like you’ start playing as she nods and gestures to a horde of domesticated skags behind her; as soon as the beat kicks in, all the skags, including zoeya, start to rapidly spin on the spot)

romeo and juliet, bandit style:

sparkles: (wearing a psycho mask with a jaunty blonde wig badly stapled to it) romeo, oh romeo, wherefore art thou romeo?

parvis: (voice reciting lines grows louder in volume before sparkles swings view over to a ramp; parvis approaches, dressed like a bandit edgelord, riding a christmas light decked out stingray) but soft, what light through yonder window breaks? (his voice starts to scream) it is the east and juliet is THE TITS!!!!!!!! (he hits the ramp upon the last two words and goes sailing into sparkles)

panda and their arsenal, part three:

panda: (hoodie is back on, is now thumping their upended boot; guns are still falling out; the pile is now waist high)

nilesy: (playing cat’s cradle with a string in both hands next to panda)

teep: (in background, is holding a tote bag filled with books and is now buying food)

trott is the sand guardian:

trottimus: (buried in sand up to chin) i am the guardian, guardian of the sand!

ross and alsmiffy: (both crouch low and slap sand mountain containing trottimus, and recite in perfect unison) posiedon quivers before him!

trottimus: (alsmiffy lobs a single bucket of water at trottimus) fuck off!!! (sputters and coughs as feed cuts)

lomadia and vapourwave:

lomadia: (swinging a baby rakk around and doting on it, set to that one vapourwave song like in that vine feat a woman and her cat)

arden and dick, janitors:

arden and dick: (slither across hallway floor like a pair of rocky crocodiles; ‘pink panther’ theme plays as the two approach someone’s abandoned trash and swallow it in one gulp and depart as silently as they arrived)

panda and their arsenal, final part:

panda: (unfolds eyepatch to remove one last gun from there) and that’s the last one!

nilesy: you may proceed in-

teep: (approaches and signs ‘i’m done shopping, let’s go’)

panda and nilesy: (both loudly groan, mostly panda, who starts to stuff guns back, starting with the eye one)

nanosounds takes sides:

strife: hello ma’am, nice to meet you! (shakes nano’s left hand, which pops off and he gazes at it, embarrassed and surprised)

nanosounds: oh, don’t worry! (sudden close up of toothy grin) i’m all right!

strife: (swiftly karate chops her on head with her own arm) no.

will’s nightmare:

strife: (clearly struggling in a dark room lit up by a lone bulb, initial view is of his neck and chin) NO, GET ME OUT! (view retreats to show him encased in layers of ties)

strife: (wakes up in cold sweat, wearing his trademark suit and sunglasses) looks like i was...TIED UP last night! (a second pair of sunglasses descend from above onto his face)

crying wolf:

alsmiffy: (mocking documentary voice) and what we have here, folks, is an extremely rare case of ‘crying wolf’, in my room. (steps over an inert trottimus wearing a banana suit, who is on the floor) ignore the trash.

ross: (curled up on floor, loudly blowing nose into towel) no, i don’t understand, because WHY DID THE THREE LITTLE PORKY BUGGERS MURDER THE BIG BAD WOLF? HE DID NOTHING AGAINST THE LAWS OF THE LAND-

trottimus: (trips alsmiffy using top of banana suit) :)

[theshannonlewis]

Petrichor (Iwaizumi/Oikawa)

Haikyuu!!, IwaizumixOikawa, NSFW, 13,700 words.

When Iwaizumi stumbles into a vampire den on the night of the full moon, it seems like his luck has gone from bad to worse. But Oikawa is more than the lurking predator he tries to be, and promises to upend Iwaizumi's lone wolf existence before the sun rises. Iwaizumi POV, companion to Ichor by @carriecmoney​ 

Also on Ao3. 

Iwaizumi was twenty miles west of Baton Rouge when he heard a muffled burst and his semi veered sharply to the right. A blowout. Perfect. Because he needed one more thing to go wrong tonight. He clenched his jaw and eased on the gas, working against the tug on his steering wheel to correct the truck’s course, then pulled onto the shoulder and parked. He was three and a half hours outside Houston and moonrise was in two hours and fifty three minutes. Fifty two. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the cab. Sweat started to prickle on his skin the second his feet touched the pavement, the heat and humidity in the air so heavy they were almost palpable. It made him hyper-aware of every hair and pore on his body, of the itch beneath his skin anxious to claw its way out. He did his best to ignore it.

This late, the two-lane highway was deserted, but he still checked both ways before dashing around the front of the truck. He knew exactly what had happened, but the sight of the ruined tire still made his stomach go cold. The shredded strips of rubber were letting out a hazy, burnt-smelling smoke. He stared at the mess for a long moment before shouting, “FUCK!” He kicked the tire and threaded his hands in his hair, pulling it in frustration. He wasn’t going to make it to Houston.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and held it up, but he was in the middle of fucking nowhere, too far outside the city for more than one flickering bar. He paced back and forth, lifting the phone higher, angling it, praying for the bar to steady, not even daring to hope for a second one, but no. No reception. He flipped the phone shut and took a slow breath, forcing himself not to clench his fist down on the fragile plastic. He pulled open the passenger’s side of the truck and hauled himself into it, then started rummaging around in the glove compartment, looking for a map. He ran this route all the time, but made a point never to spend the night in Louisiana. He had people he could call at every stop from Durham to El Paso, but this stretch of I-10 was a dead zone - literally. The vampires played by different rules.

He unfolded the map on the dashboard, weighing one corner down with his phone and smoothing the other out with his palm. If there was one thing Louisiana had, it was overgrown places he could hide out in, and sure enough, a quick scan of the map revealed that he was barely a handful of miles outside a wildlife refuge. But there was no telling who else he might find there, and he couldn’t just leave a truck with the better part of a million dollars in merchandise abandoned on the highway overnight. They were expecting him before dawn, expecting to have enough time to get the cars on the lot before the dealership opened. He slammed his hand on the dashboard and swore again. It wasn’t even his fucking delivery to make – someone had called in at the last minute, and his boss had said: cover the route, or find a new job. And it wasn’t like he could just say, sorry boss, no can do, full moon tonight, you know how it is. Because his boss didn’t know, and Iwaizumi had gone to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.

What were even the chances of getting a tow at this hour? He wouldn’t be able to get the tire replaced until morning, but if he could get the truck off the road, he might have time to find somewhere safe to ride out his shift. He flipped open his phone and looked at the screen again. Still no bars. He wasn’t going anywhere if he couldn’t make the call. He jammed his phone in his pocket and started refolding the map. When it wouldn’t bend on the creases, he let out a seething breath and crammed the whole thing back in the glove box and slammed it shut, kicked the cab door open, and jumped back out of the truck onto the shoulder. According to the map, he was still miles away from the next rest stop, and he didn’t want to rely on the uncertain hope of finding a working payphone there. He thought he remembered seeing a truck stop off the side of the highway a few miles back, and heading back toward the city seemed like a safer bet either way. With any luck, he’d bump into an emergency call box before he got that far. He double checked the doors on his truck to make sure they were locked, then started walking back the way he came.  

Even after midnight he could still feel heat radiating off the pavement. The swampy night air was so thick with moisture it made his breathing sluggish and confused his sense of smell, intensifying his awareness of the faint, distant scents carried on the breeze – bloom and decay, stagnation and-

He stopped mid-stride and turned into the wind, closing his eyes and breathing deep. It was too faint to be more than paranoia – more than nerves – but the hairs on the back of his neck pricked at the musky hint of wolf he almost-smelled on the air, there and gone too fast to pin down. He started walking faster.

Two miles on, a postal freighter zoomed past him without slowing. He wasn’t holding out hope for catching a ride (and wasn’t in any shape to take one even if he got the offer), but if another driver saw his truck at the side of the road, there was some chance at least that someone would call 911 as a courtesy, and having even one car pass by was reward enough for resisting the urge to put the truck in neutral and drag the fucker to the next rest stop by himself.

He came to streetlights before he found a call box, and not long after that, he saw the truck stop he’d glimpsed in passing. Now that he was really looking, though, he realized the wide lot was empty and all the signs had been taken off the gas station. Sure enough, when he caught sight of the service sign leading up to the off ramp, the markers for gas and food had been taken down, leaving only an unfamiliar logo listed under lodging. But it was better than nothing.

With a quick glance in either direction, Iwaizumi dashed across all four empty lanes of the highway and the median in between, then jogged down the swampy grass incline that bordered the exit ramp and hopped the low chain fence that separated it from the abandoned truck stop. Up close, he could tell it had been out of use for a while: the windows on the small convenience store were boarded up, the paint was peeling off the overhang, and the dense trees had started to encroach on the edges of the lot. There was a payphone next to a metal cage that had probably once housed propane tanks, but when he picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone.

He sighed and looked back to the highway, letting his eyes follow the curve of the exit ramp. If the sign was right, there was a hotel nearby, and a hotel had an even better shot of being open and staffed at this hour than a gas station. He checked the coin return on the payphone for loose change out of habit, then started walking across the parking lot toward the road. He followed it for another half a mile before a narrow drive veered off into the trees. He almost missed the small sign with the hotel logo on it; like everything else, it was half-swallowed by the overgrowth.

At the end of the lane, he found a long, single-story motel with maybe a dozen rooms built in an oblong clearing. The building had probably been hip and new-looking sometime in the sixties, but now it was tired and faded, the paint washed out and the vintage sign short a few bulbs. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t stop for the night unless you really had to, but there was a light on in the front office, and that was all that mattered.

When Iwaizumi pulled open the front door, he was expecting avocado-green carpets and a pervasive, musty smell of age. He was less prepared for the reality – polished wood floors and wood paneling on the walls, expensive looking rugs, and a big candle-style chandelier illuminating it all. It was unbelievably tacky and unsettlingly out of place, like someone had tried to dress up the Bates Motel to look like the hotel from The Shining. The front desk was wide and grand – big enough for an actual hotel – but there was no one sitting behind it. Iwaizumi rang the bell and waited, but no one came. If there’d been a phone sitting on top of the desk, he might have risked grabbing it and making a call, but he didn't see one, and wasn't quite desperate enough to climb over the counter to look. There hadn’t been a payphone outside the building, either.

When minutes passed and still no one came, he started peering down the halls, looking for signs of life. To one side of the front desk was an enclave with a vending machine (broken), and to the other was a long hallway that led, presumably, to the rooms (deserted). Just beyond the desk, though, he found a beautifully carved wooden door with a small metal placard that read: Bar. He could hear muffled sound coming from the other side – music, maybe – and after a moment’s hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bar was, if it was possible, even gaudier than the lobby – the walls draped with rich red fabric, a genuine mahogany bar running the length of one wall, and petite crystal chandeliers casting a dim light over the wide room. And, he realized, the music he’d heard was actually someone playing an honest-to-god grand piano at the far end of the bar. It was outrageously incongruous, not only with the exterior of the building and its location, but with the fact that there were only two other, poorly-dressed people there, both of them draped drunkenly over their tabletops. It was almost like-

-like the way you might decorate if you were a vampire making absolutely no attempt to pretend you weren’t a vampire.

He breathed in. The two people at the tables weren’t drunk, or sleeping. His eyes shifted back to the pianist, whose playing hadn’t faltered. Who hadn’t acknowledged his presence at all, in fact, but who was wearing a very small smile. He had elegant hands with long, graceful fingers, and played like he’d had a lot of practice. Just as Iwaizumi caught himself staring, the pianist’s gaze slid in his direction, a movement of eyes rather than a turn of head. It was just the barest sidelong glance, but there was hunger in it.

It was too late to leave. Iwaizumi knew, academically, that vampires were fast, but he didn’t have the practical experience to know if “fast” meant pinned to the door as soon as you turn around or chased out into the parking lot and gutted like an animal. Too fast, either way. He took a breath, walked past the bar, and followed the sign around the corner to the bathrooms. There was a payphone hung on the wall between the two bathroom doors, and he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

No dial tone.

He pressed down the hook, then let it up. Still nothing. He tried once more, but the line was dead. It was still a little less than two hours until moonrise, but even if he was able to force the shift early, he wouldn’t be able to do it fast enough for it to matter. If he was going to fight, it was going to have to be as a human. He breathed out and set the receiver back on the cradle, found a quarter in the coin return, put it in his pocket, and headed back into the bar.  

The pianist was now the bartender, graceful hands drying an old fashioned glass with a clean white towel. Iwaizumi sat down on the barstool across from him. “What’s your poison?” the vampire asked, his voice like honey with hooks in it.

“Actually,” Iwaizumi said, because if he was going to die anyway, there was no point in beating around the bush, “I was hoping I could use your phone.”

“Paying customers only,” he said, sounding so apologetic.

“I’ll pay you twenty bucks to let me use your phone.”

He tsked, soft and scolding, then drawled, “You ain’t from around here, are y’all?”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know anyone that sounded that Southern that wasn’t trying too hard. “Alabama, actually,” he said dryly. “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Can I use your phone?”

The vampire gave the glass a final wipe before setting it down in front of Iwaizumi and filling it. “In a hurry?”

“Just to make that phone call,” he said, swirling the liquid in the glass and trying to remember what hospitality rules vampires played by. He was pretty sure taking the drink wouldn’t protect him against his host, but he was less sure it wouldn’t oblige him to stay.

“What seems to be the trouble…” his eyes flicked down to the patch stitched onto the breast of Iwaizumi’s work shirt, “Hajime?” He said it the way no one but Iwaizumi’s mother ever did – smooth and fluid, the syllables familiar on his tongue, somewhere halfway between fond and teasingly reprimanding. Most people gave up after two tries and just called him “Jimmy.” It made Iwaizumi give him a second look, a quick glance at his eyes before he could check the impulse, then down to his lips, which wasn’t better. He leveled his gaze resolutely at the sharp line of the vampire’s cheekbone. The vampire’s mouth quirked, the hint of a smile, and he added with the little lilt of a question, “I.?”

“Iwaizumi,” he said, a second before thinking better of it.

“You wouldn’t think they’d need to use an initial,” he said, pouring himself some bourbon. He rolled the edge of the glass thoughtfully along his lower lip. “I don’t imagine there are too many Hajimes in Alabama.”

“I’m the only one I know,” he said.

The vampire hummed eloquently, amused and agreeing, and lifted his glass, “Oikawa Tooru. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

If this guy – Oikawa – had any Japanese in him, it was as far-flung and watered down as Iwaizumi’s, but even with the flippant, ironic tone, the language suited him better than his overwrought drawl. Iwaizumi breathed out a soft laugh, lifted his glass, and clinked it against Oikawa’s, “Yoroshiku.”

He was surprised when Oikawa drained his glass in one long swallow, emptying it and leaving no room to suspect that he’d faked a polite sip. And if he was going to drink… Fuck it. Iwaizumi tossed back his bourbon. It wasn’t top shelf, but it was pretty good. “Now that we’re drinking buddies,” Oikawa said, leaning casually up against the bar, “you gonna tell me why you’re darkening my doorway this lovely evening, puppy?”

Iwaizumi smirked. It was like Oikawa had flashed the cards in his hand and winked, to make sure they were playing the same game. And since the game didn’t seem to involve either of them tearing the other’s throat out just yet, he said, “Blew a tire on my truck maybe two and a half, three miles west on I-10.”

Oikawa made a sympathetic sound, refilling Iwaizumi’s glass. “Hoping to call a cab, then?”

“A tow truck, actually.”

“Mmm, you sure? If you left now, you might make it to Homochitto.”

Underneath the reminder that he was trespassing, it was a surprisingly apt suggestion. Homochitto National Forest was the closest sizeable stretch of woodlands outside Louisiana state lines, and probably the only one he had a prayer of a chance of reaching before he started to turn. Any other route out of the state, he’d shift before he hit the border. Oikawa knew it, and knew that he knew it, too. Iwaizumi took a moment to consider. The tourism in New Orleans was enough to sustain the highest vampire population in the south outside Orlando, but unlike Florida – which was mostly new blood and spread out enough for the vampires and shapeshifters to keep to themselves – Louisiana was run by vampires who were very old and very territorial. All the major packs in the state were blood-bound to one leech or another, and if you weren’t pack-allied, you weren’t welcome. There were probably a handful of smaller packs, maybe a few pockets of loners, but without knowing who ran where, just being within state lines on the night of a full moon was all but asking to get attacked.

It was impossible to guess Oikawa’s age, but if he was a vampire of any standing, he probably had control of at least one pack – and if he did, he could probably, maybe, give him permission to run in his territory for the night. But he wouldn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. In fact, it was entirely possible that he was stalling, cutting Iwaizumi’s options by running down the clock. If he was, there wasn’t anything Iwaizumi could do about it. If he tried to leave and Oikawa didn’t want him to, he wasn’t going to make it very far. Then again, if Oikawa wanted him out of the state, he wouldn’t keep trying to stall him.

“Can’t just leave my rig in the road,” he said finally. “If you’d let me use your phone, though, I’m sure I could get myself a lift. I know a few of the guys up by Homochitto that wouldn’t mind having me.” A handful of werebears that owned a bar in Jackson had the southern portion of the park on lockdown, but he’d managed to drink their big white-haired bouncer under the table enough times to earn himself an open invitation to run with them whenever he was in the area.

He could tell Oikawa hadn’t expected that, the subtle shift of his eyebrows revealing that he was maybe even just a tiny bit impressed. “I take it you were headed that way already?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Just came from there. I was on my way to Houston.”

“Houston?” Oikawa parroted back at him, and this time surprise flashed across his face, too plain to hide, before he was able to school his expression. “I was under the impression that Houston was predominantly feline-controlled.”

It was, and the pack that ran the east side of Texas was notoriously exclusive and aggressively territorial. But he and the packmaster were close; when he didn’t run with them, he usually rode out his shift in one of the pack’s heavily reinforced, soundproof storage units scattered throughout the state. Out loud, Iwaizumi said with a shrug, “I’m not picky about who I run with.”

It was a card well played, he could tell from the subtle curve of Oikawa’s lips. “And good at making friends.”

“I’m a friendly guy,” he said, letting something not so friendly show in his smile as he stood. He picked up his glass and swallowed down the last of his bourbon, then tossed some cash on the bartop. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“I can get your truck to Houston,” Oikawa said, plain and flat, no bullshit, smile dropping.

“And?” he said, looking at Oikawa expectantly.

He only realized he’d looked him in the eyes again when Oikawa said, “I can give you anything you want.” He felt the pull of it, more than words, like hot fingertips on his skin, like hazy lights and wisps of steam, sparks in the periphery of his awareness. He was momentarily drawn in by it, felt the pull of his breath leaving his body, his vision narrowing down to the sly promise in Oikawa’s heavy-lidded eyes. His feet were moving on their own, making him lean into the bar, bringing him closer to Oikawa, solidifying the ghosts of lips and hands, the phantoms of soft, short breaths dancing through his mind.

He could feel himself falling, but he could still see the trap. He slammed his hand down on the bar hard enough to make his palm sting, forcing himself to focus on the pain and tear his eyes away from Oikawa’s. He blindly grabbed Oikawa by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward, then growled, “I want to make a fucking phone call.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened minutely, and then he laughed, loud and genuine. The whispering, dreamy feeling sloughed away, but Iwaizumi’s skin was still prickling, like someone had breathed, softly, on every inch of his body at once.

“You’re going to break my heart, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, then stumbled a little when Iwaizumi let go of his shirt and shoved him backwards.

“Your mind games won’t work on me,” he said, only falling back a step before forcing himself to stand his ground.

Oikawa leaned forward on the bar, wearing a lazy smile and resting his cheek on one hand, “No, they won’t.” He looked smug and self-satisfied, a sated cat with a feather sticking out of its mouth. “An illusion’s no good when what you want is right in front of you.”

Iwaizumi grit his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. “I think I’ll take my chances with your pack.” Oikawa’s smile faltered, just a little. “That’s who I smelled on my way here, right? Up in the wildlife refuge?”

The smile came back, but it was a little less genuine-looking. “I don’t think even your diplomatic skills are a match for my bloodhounds.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said again, and this time he put his back to Oikawa and started for the door.

“They’ll kill you, Hajime.” The way he said it made Iwaizumi stop in his tracks, because it didn’t sound like a gambit – he sounded tired and resigned. “The reason you smelled wolves is because the leader of the pack doesn’t turn back except for the week around the new moon. He’s completely rabid, and the others are too afraid go against him.” Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffened. It was the politest-possible way of saying the packmaster was a flesh eater. He had to resist the urge to let his eyes wander over to the bodies still slumped on the tabletops. So it was true; the Louisiana vampires really did use wolves as their own personal garbage disposals.

Iwaizumi clenched his fists, “Are the others-”

“No,” Oikawa said flatly, “and for what it’s worth, he was… a gift.” The word had an edge to it that made it very clear the “gift” had been unwanted. Before Iwaizumi could ask why he didn’t put the beast out of his misery, Oikawa added, voice dripping with disdain, “From the Bishop.”

Iwaizumi sighed. He’d spent years trying to stay as far away from pack and pact politics as possible, but one blown out tire and he’d stepped right in it. “How big is your pack?”

“Seven wolves total.” If it was true, it was a big pack – too big for the patch of land they had to run in – and with a vampire-appointed rogue werewolf leading it, it stank of the worst kind of gamesmanship. Iwaizumi wrinkled his nose in distaste, but Oikawa didn’t seem to notice. “I could mark you as a pack member, but even if I did, without an introduction I think Mad-Dog-chan would tear you to shreds.”

“What’s your offer?” Iwaizumi asked. He was running out of options, but the fact that Oikawa had tried to mind control him meant there was something he wanted that he couldn’t take by force. Iwaizumi just had to figure out what it was.

“I’ll get your truck to Houston and no one will know it wasn’t you who drove it. And I’ll give you a room where you can ride out your shift, and safe passage until sunset.”

“What’s your price?”

“One pint.”

It was Iwaizumi’s turn to show his surprise. “A pint,” he repeated. “Of my blood?”

Oikawa gave a small nod. “From the vein, or no deal.”

He took a moment to survey Oikawa’s expression, careful not to look him directly in the eye. He knew there was a trap somewhere in the offer, but he needed time to find it. He needed to stall. “Show me the room.”

“Of course,” Oikawa said. He stood and walked around the bar, passing Iwaizumi at a casual distance, then gave a flick of his hand, motioning for him to follow.

Oikawa’s movements were smooth and graceful; he knew how to carry himself, and how to draw attention to his… assets. Iwaizumi forced himself to look up at the back of Oikawa’s head. He was a few inches taller than him, which Iwaizumi found inexplicably infuriating, broad through the shoulders and lean in the hips and, shit, he was staring at his ass again. Iwaizumi dropped his gaze to the ugly carpet and forced himself to think. If all Oikawa wanted was his blood, he could easily have taken it by force – and more than just a pint. Which meant he had something else to gain. Was it the bite itself? But no – as far as he understood it, establishing a blood bond was more involved than just a bite or a fluid exchange. It was possible Oikawa wanted to trap him in his safe room – which was why he’d asked to see it before agreeing – but again, if vampires were as strong and fast as he’d been told, Oikawa wouldn’t have even needed to negotiate; he should have been able to just take whatever he wanted.

But he hadn’t, and for the first time it occurred to Iwaizumi that, just maybe, it was because he couldn’t.

Oikawa had drained and killed two humans earlier that night, which was strange enough by itself; he’d shown genuine-seeming distaste for the idea of feeding corpses to his hounds, and his location paired with his mind control abilities should have guaranteed him a steady and discreet supply of blood, assuming he played catch and release with his customers. Instead, he had two fresh bodies on his hands and was, apparently, still hungry after drinking both of them dry. That was, what, close to three gallons of blood? He should have been glutted, but instead he had a starved look in his eyes. It didn’t add up.

Iwaizumi walked half a step faster, narrowing the distance between them, then took as deep a breath as he dared to without being conspicuous about it. He caught it on his third controlled inhale – the subtle, cloying stench of decay, almost imperceptible beneath a layer of tasteful, expensive cologne. Oikawa was hurt.

For a brief moment, he considered turning around and bolting. He wasn’t certain he could outrun Oikawa, but he was pretty sure, now, that he could outmuscle him, which made speed less important. Even if he could get away, though, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He still didn’t have a working phone, there was no safe place for him to hide, and he was running out of time to find a solution. The offer Oikawa had made him was the best one he could hope for; no other vampire would be so quick to cut a deal, and he doubted a blood-maddened werewolf would give him a fair shake, either. Oikawa’s offer was a fair one, and his injury – whatever it was – gave Iwaizumi all the bargaining power.

They reached the end of the hall and Oikawa unlocked the last door – room 13, because of course it was – and as soon as he opened it, Iwaizumi realized the motel’s resemblance to the Overlook Hotel was more than just coincidental, because Oikawa’s room looked exactly like the hotel room from Interview with the Vampire: walls papered in gold and red, opulent furniture and heavy curtains done in red silk and velvet and brocade, polished wood floors, brass chandeliers and unlit candelabras, a second, somewhat smaller piano, and a lace-covered wood coffin in the center of the room in place of a coffee table.

Iwaizumi snorted. Vampires didn’t even need to sleep in coffins. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a movie guy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oikawa said, throwing open a heavy set of curtains on the far side of the room to reveal, rather anticlimactically, a plain steel door. He wore the key on a chain around his neck, and he unfastened the clasp and slid the key free, tucking the chain in his pocket as he unlocked the door. “This key opens the lock from both sides,” he said, handing it to Iwaizumi as he pushed open the door, “and it’s the only one.” Oikawa gestured for Iwaizumi to lead the way inside. “Ladies first.”

“Age before beauty,” Iwaizumi countered.

Oikawa’s lips quirked, somewhere between irritated and amused, and he asked coyly, “Is that a question?” He didn’t wait for a response before heading through the door, and Iwaizumi followed after him. It was a squat room with concrete floors and cinderblock walls, both covered in claw marks, and there were heavy iron chains and manacles hanging from the wall that had obviously been used, frequently and recently. There was a drain in the center of the floor, and the concrete around it – and beneath the manacles – was stained. There were no windows, and only one caged light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Iwaizumi tested the key on the inside lock and tried to remember if there had been a time in his life when getting tours of people’s private dungeons would have seemed unusual or even unsettling. It had been a long time, and he’d seen a lot of private dungeons in the interim. This one wasn’t bad.

“How’s the door frame?” he asked, pressing his hand to it and putting his weight on it.

“I’ve had the door dent but never seen the frame give,” Oikawa said. “And the concrete is reinforced. You’d snap your neck on it before you broke through.” He smirked. “Of course, if you’re worried, I could always chain you up.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Too bad. You’d look good on my wall, Iwa-chan.”

“I take it you don’t have any qualms about mixing business and pleasure.”

“If there’s no pleasure in it, I want no business with it,” Oikawa said, a little too smoothly. It was a pretty good line, even if it sounded practiced.

“How do you want to do this?”

“Well, you should probably start by taking your clothes off,” Oikawa said. He didn’t sound like he was joking. When he caught Iwaizumi’s skeptical look, though, he clarified, “Unless you’re hiding a spare set of clothes somewhere, I assume you’d rather not turn in the ones you’re wearing.”

“I’ve got plenty of time before moonrise,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “I think I’ll make it.”

Oikawa let out a low, rolling chuckle. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He didn’t know well enough what it was he didn’t know to be able to argue without showing his ignorance, so instead he said, “But you have. I take it you have a taste for werewolf blood?”

“It has its charms.”

“They say, for a vampire, it’s like dropping acid.”

“They say a lot of things,” Oikawa said, and it was only when he pushed the door shut with a heavy clang that Iwaizumi realized they’d been circling each other. Oikawa’s posture had shifted from feline to lupine, his shoulders squared and body angled in a display of dominance and challenge that Iwaizumi had responded to on instinct. Even without eye contact, the way Oikawa moved made Iwaizumi prickle with eagerness, the giddy desire to clash and find out who would come out on top.

“Why only one pint?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Because if I’d asked for more, you would have said no, but once we get started, you’re going to beg me not to stop.”

They moved forward in tandem, closing on each other but still not touching, and Iwaizumi found himself smiling. Oikawa was good. If he hadn’t known better, he could have easily mistaken him for a wolf, and the beast inside him did – he could feel it swelling beneath his skin, reaching out and expecting an answer, eager to test itself. “You must spend a lot of time around wolves.”

“I like to watch,” Oikawa said, his smile like a knife.

They lunged at each other, grappling, a brief locking of arms before they both turned and danced back and away. Oikawa was cool to the touch and more muscular than he looked. More importantly, he was strong, strong enough to send a little thrill up Iwaizumi’s spine. “Why not go to your pack for blood?” he asked, his voice gone rough and gravely as he and Oikawa moved in tight circles around each other, drawing ever closer together. There weren’t many shifters who dared to dance with him at all, and fewer that stood their ground even half as well as Oikawa did.

“I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear they're not very happy with me right now,” Oikawa said. He closed the last of the distance between them and pressed his hand flat against Iwaizumi’s chest, deftly undoing the top button on his shirt. This time, he didn’t dance away.

Iwaizumi let out a low, rumbling sound that was too contented to be a growl, and it vibrated through his voice, “But are they too stupid to have noticed, or are you hiding it because you’re afraid they’ll attack you?” He pressed his hand to Oikawa’s chest, mirroring his touch, but instead of bothering with his buttons, he dug his fingertips into the spot where Oikawa’s shirt didn’t sit quite right.

His aim was good. Oikawa hissed in pain as Iwaziumi’s fingers pressed into nothing where there should have been muscle. A second later Iwaizumi was on his back on the floor, Oikawa on top of him, pinning him down, fangs fully extended, the front of his shirt darkened and damp with ichor where Iwaizumi had touched him.

Iwaizumi didn’t fight, didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He just said, “They say werewolf blood has healing properties.”

“They should learn when to stop talking,” Oikawa said, sharp teeth turning his voice sibilant.

“I want a token of yours to grant me safe passage through the state,” he said, “and to meet with your pack on the next new moon.  For that you get my silence, and enough of my blood – one pint at a time, at my discretion – to heal yourself.”

Oikawa let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “Then you’re going to be in my service a long, long time, puppy.”

“Show me,” he said.

“I could kill you,” Oikawa said, cupping his hand around the side of Iwaizumi’s neck, pressing his thumb down, gently, on his Adam’s apple.

“Are you sure?” he asked, a little prickling thrill racing through him. He had to fight the urge to put Oikawa on his back and pin him down.

Oikawa forced Iwaizumi’s face to one side, baring his neck, and Iwaizumi let him. “Let me drink and I’ll show you.” His voice was tight with restraint – with hunger.

“Show me and I’ll let you drink.”

Oikawa shifted his grip up so his thumb and forefinger dug into the soft spots beneath Iwaizumi’s jaw, forcing his head back, then leaned over him, pinning him to the floor. He smoothed his free hand blindly down his chest, keeping his eyes on Iwaizumi as he searched for the buttons on his shirt and plucked them open. Four buttons down, he pulled his shirt out of the way and showed him. He had a hole in his chest. It was maybe the size a pool cue would have left if it had been run right through him, but diamond-shaped and puckered instead of round, just barely off the mark from his heart. The wound was discolored around the edges and seeping a thick, dark liquid. “Another gift,” he said, “from the Bishop.”

“Silver?” Iwaizumi asked, reaching up to touch and framing the wound with his hand.

Oikawa gave a small, tight nod. “Barbed arrowhead, right next to my heart.” Iwaizumi recoiled. There wasn’t much that could leave a lasting wound on a vampire, but even a small piece of silver would burn up as much as blood as Oikawa could drink until his body ran dry. In such a sensitive place, it would be almost impossible to get out himself without running the risk of piercing his own heart. Someone else could probably remove it, but someone else could just as easily give it that last little nudge into his heart, too. “Turns out it’s a surprisingly practical and efficient way to put down a rival.”

“Fucking politics,” Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa hummed, both halfhearted agreement and dismissal, but it turned into something more contented when Iwaizumi turned his head to one side, good to his word, and offered up his neck. Oikawa leaned down over him, close enough to brush the tip of his nose along the prominent vein in Iwaizumi’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like rain,” Oikawa said, the movement of his lips the barest ghost of a kiss. Iwaizumi gasped and reached up to thread his fingers in Oikawa’s hair.

Oikawa groaned and parted his lips, and Iwaizumi could feel the points of his fangs gliding along his neck as he opened his mouth wide. Before he could bite down, though, Iwaizumi tightened his grip on Oikawa’s hair and pulled his head back. Oikawa made a curt, angry noise, but Iwaizumi held him in place and asked, “How long will the marks last?”

“It’s too bad you asked,” Oikawa said, resisting Iwaizumi’s grip by running the tip of his tongue along the side of his neck. Iwaizumi grunted, low and hot, and Oikawa snapped his teeth at him. “If you were human, they’d be gone by morning. For you, maybe a few months, depending on how rough you like it.”

“Not on the neck.”

“Unless you want a bruise that’ll last twice as long, I need an artery.” He slid a hand between them, smoothly popping the second button on Iwaizumi’s shirt. “Your wrist will work, or your elbow.” He made quick work of the rest of the buttons, then slipped his hand under the shirt, pushing it down off one shoulder and murmuring against the curve of Iwaizumi’s neck. “Or if you really want to make sure no one sees it…” His hand slid down, fingertips toying with the buckle on Iwaizumi’s belt.

“Nice try,” Iwaizumi said, catching Oikawa’s wrist and pulling his hand away.

“I was only trying to be discreet.”

“I’m sure,” Iwaizumi said.

He pushed Oikawa back and sat up, shrugging the rest the rest of the way out of his shirt. He did it quickly, so he wouldn’t get caught with his hands tied up in the sleeves, then tossed the shirt aside. He reached back over his head and hooked his thumbs in the neck of his black tanktop, but before he could start to pull it off, Oikawa said, “Stop.”

He grunted. “I don’t want to get blood on my-”

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi’s gaze jumped to Oikawa’s face before he could check the instinct. His eyes were dilated inhumanly wide, brown irises swallowed up almost completely by his pupils, and he’d gone dangerously still. “Don’t move.”

Iwaizumi froze. He’d mistaken Oikawa’s easy, graceful movement for catlike, but he was more like a snake in tall grass, so fluid he seemed boneless. The inky voids of his eyes looked hypnotized. He slid a hand along the underside of Iwaizumi’s left bicep, cool fingertips angling his arm. Iwaizumi dropped his weight back on his right arm as Oikawa leaned into him and started working slow, wet kisses to the inside of his bicep, sucking on the muscle until he found the pulse thudding beneath the skin. Oikawa closed his eyes and groaned, opening his mouth again, and this time when Iwaizumi felt the press of fangs against his flesh, he didn’t protest. He flexed his arm, and Oikawa made a rough, hungry sound and bit down, hard.

Iwaizumi had been bitten before, but not like this. Being bitten hard enough to draw blood hurt, but after the first sharp stab of teeth breaking skin, the pain quickly gave way a slow, burning ache – the skin-tinglingly familiar sensation of being penetrated – and then to heady, dizzying pleasure as Oikawa started to drink. Iwaizumi curled his captive arm around Oikawa’s head and lowered himself back to the floor, closing his eyes. He’d never felt anything like this, like Oikawa’s mouth was sending a current through his veins, electrifying him between every heartbeat. His pulse throbbed and Oikawa swallowed, and it was like a tug that ran through his whole body, an insistent pull at something deep inside him. He didn’t realize what it was until it was too late, and only had time to grunt out a harsh fuck before Oikawa pulled and it unraveled him – a knot coming undone, a cage coming unbarred – and his wolf flooded through him, prematurely unchained.

He arched his back and moaned, feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor as it started to take him, teeth going sharp in his mouth, nails hardening, hair starting to grow thicker on his body. It wasn’t like moonrise, though, he realized – his wolf hadn’t been set completely free; more like the lead was being lengthened, one chain link at a time. It was intoxicating; his senses heightened as his natures mingled, but his transformation still held at bay. Oikawa had been right – Iwaizumi had no idea how much blood he’d lost already, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want him to stop.

As Oikawa continued to drink, Iwaizumi started to feel his own blood moving beneath the vampire’s skin. At first, it was bizarrely like butting up against another shifter, touch accompanied by a heightened awareness and deeper, more fundamental understanding, but instead of dipping into Oikawa’s mind, it was like he was seeing himself mirrored back in another body, his wolf staring at him from underneath someone else’s skin. He jerked, revolting against the alien feeling and trying to recoil from it, but Oikawa held him firm until they reached a tipping point. Until his body started to absorb the blood and make it his own, until Iwaizumi stopped seeing a mirror and started seeing Oikawa.

He didn’t feel like another shifter, now – there was nothing lurking inside him to answer Iwaizumi’s call – no warmth of life or familiar connection. Instead, he was like a still, glassy pool, infinitely deep and dark, in the shelter of a cool, empty cave, and Iwaizumi was filling him with life, lighting a fire and dipping toes in the water, letting warm laughter echo down hollow tunnels.

It was almost like wearing a second set of skin, like it was him bringing strength to Oikawa’s limbs, filling him up and reviving him, warming his skin and making his heart beat and heat pool at delicious points on his lean, muscular body. He could feel himself being drawn, inexorably, to a hungry point in the center of Oikawa’s chest where the arrowhead sizzled and burned, the shape of it becoming clearer with each throbbing pulse of blood. He hated that sharp piece of silver, blindly and furiously, hated the way it grazed against their heart every time they drew in a breath.

He curled his hand in the front of Oikawa’s shirt and tugged, pulling it tight across his back. Then he twisted his hand, wrapping the fabric around it, and pulled until the seams gave out and the cloth shredded. Oikawa made a low sound that was not, precisely, a protest, surprised enough to relax his jaw and lose his grip on Iwaizumi’s arm, and that was all the opportunity Iwaizumi needed. He flipped Oikawa onto his back and pinned him to the floor, pushing one bloody arm across his throat, knees at his hips, shins pressed down hard on his thighs. Then he pushed his thumb and forefinger into the hole in Oikawa’s chest.

Oikawa screamed, choking on the blood still thick in his mouth and clawing at Iwaizumi’s arms.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Iwaizumi said, his voice hardly human as he pushed deeper into the wound, “but I might if you keep moving.” Oikawa went breathlessly still beneath him, and Iwaizumi let up his grip on his throat, just a little, as he continued to probe the wound with his fingertips. He expected to find at least a little bit of the arrow’s shaft to grab onto but found the threaded base of the arrowhead instead. It wasn’t attached to anything – like the shaft had been precisely removed, or the arrowhead had been driven into place by force. It wasn’t an accident that it was wedged in such a treacherous spot. “Don’t move,” he said, trying to get a grip on the small piece of metal. It was like pinching the tip of a hot soldering iron. When he was pretty sure he had it, he pressed his wrist to Oikawa’s mouth and growled, “Drink.”

Oikawa sunk his teeth into Iwaizumi’s wrist, and Iwaizumi pulled.

The base of the arrowhead was small and slick with blood, but the threading was enough to give him purchase, and he held onto it tightly, not letting it slip from his grip as he drew it out. He could feel the barbs like they were pulling out of his own body, shredding everything they touched and, inevitably, dragging like claws along the vital muscle of Oikawa’s heart. But the silver was already pulling blood to the wound, and Iwaizumi’s blood was potent, flooding in to seal the cuts as soon as the poisonous metal was removed. Oikawa gasped as Iwaizumi ripped the arrowhead free, his eyes wide and dazed and his jaw going slack, freeing Iwaizumi’s wrist.

Iwaizumi held the arrowhead up, blood and flesh sizzling and smoking, and growled out, “This is my token.” He held it in front of Oikawa’s face until his eyes registered it, until he nodded, then he flung it across the room and swore, looking down at his burned fingertips. The silver had all but melted his skin, leaving deep, ridged indentations where he’d gripped onto the threaded base of the arrowhead. The wounds would be slow to heal, and they were on his dominant hand, but at least he couldn’t feel the phantom barbs digging into his chest anymore. That thought made him realize that the intense feeling of connectedness between them was starting to subside. His blood had become Oikawa’s blood and was beginning to burn away as it repaired the wound in his chest. He was surprised by the feeling of loss as the fading connection pushed him back into his own body, his own mind, leaving Oikawa closed to him.

“Is this how you always make friends?” Oikawa gasped out. His voice was steady, almost teasing, but he was trembling. The blood smeared across his mouth made him look wide-eyed and pale. “Random acts of heroism?”

“I keep my promises.”

Oikawa laughed, abrupt and edging on hysterical. “Who are you?”

He made a gruff, irritated noise and said, “You could at least try to remember my n-”

Oikawa pulled him down and kissed him. Iwaizumi groaned, hard, and leaned into him, letting out a low, contented rumble deep in his chest. Oikawa’s mouth was still thick with blood, but Iwaizumi didn’t care; Oikawa knew what he was doing. It was immediately obvious that he was more practiced at navigating two mouths filled with sharp, pointed teeth; he knew how to bite gently enough not to break the skin, how to angle his head to keep their fangs from clacking together, how to lick and tease without bloodying his tongue on their teeth. Iwaizumi shifted on top of him, putting his weight on his forearms to either side of Oikawa’s head so he could lean down into him, and when he did, Oikawa coiled his legs around his waist and rutted up against him. Apparently now that his blood wasn’t racing frantically to heal him, it had had a chance to relocate. Iwaizumi groaned and thrust down against him instinctively, but it made his focus slip, and he sliced the tip of his tongue on the sharp edge of Oikawa’s fang. Oikawa moaned in answer, drawing Iwaizumi’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it greedily.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the floor and Oikawa was straddling his thighs and tugging at his undershirt. He sat up, settling Oikawa in his lap and raising his arms, but Oikawa only got as far as tugging the shirt over his head before his hands fell to Iwaizumi’s belt, undoing the buckle and then the button on his jeans. Iwaizumi tugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it aside. “You could at least buy me dinner first,” Iwaizumi said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that kept it from sounding as teasing as he meant.

Oikawa showed just a moment of surprise before a slow, lazy smile spread across his features and he started to laugh, low and sultry. Then he closed his eyes and tipped his head back and to the side, baring his pale, pristine neck – perfectly submissive, perfectly prey-like – his voice smooth and velvety. “Help yourself.”

Iwaizumi lunged. Before even he had time to process Oikawa’s offer, he had an arm around his waist, a hand in his hair, and his teeth in Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa made a soft, heady little sound that wasn’t quite pained as the sharp points of Iwaizumi’s fangs broke through his skin. Blood welled into his mouth, thick and slightly sweet on his tongue, and when he swallowed, his wolf flared to life, surging through him hard enough to make him sway.

Oikawa gasped. “What was that?”

Iwaizumi growled and bit harder, gripped tighter, and shuddered against him, because his wolf hadn’t just stirred beneath his skin, it had pushed through him and flowed into Oikawa, and Oikawa had felt it. He whined, a low, animal sound, each swallow of Oikawa’s blood expanding his awareness and fortifying his wolf, until it stretched between them like pulled taffy. It was breathtakingly intimate – something that shouldn’t have even been possible, something that was rare even among shifters – his most private self rubbing contentedly against a still, glowing ember in the center of Oikawa’s chest. It wasn’t a wolf, but it was something like it – something more than the lifeless, graveyard chill he felt before; something essentially him. He whimpered, soft and needy, and Oikawa loosened his arms from around Iwaizumi’s head, leaned down over him, and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.

His blood pulsed into Oikawa’s mouth, and when he swallowed it down, something more than blood moved between them – the ember burning bright and igniting, sending a rippling rush of warm air racing through Iwaizumi, the sultry heat of a pleasured sigh. It was an echo of Oikawa’s failed mind control, but – it hadn’t failed. It had showed him exactly what he wanted – not Oikawa the desperate, starving vampire, but Oikawa as he really was: that cool, fathomlessly deep pool turned scalding hot, a subterranean spring that filled the air with thick, velvety steam; the slide of wet skin and slow, breathless kisses; the embrace of hot water and strong hands, every sound echoing off the high stone ceilings.

It flowed into him, an answer to the part of himself he’d given over to Oikawa, each swallow of blood laying Oikawa bare, peeling back his layers and exposing the hidden corners of him. Iwaizumi didn’t know what Oikawa was seeing in return, didn’t know the price of this exchange, but he didn’t care. Oikawa was letting it happen, was letting him see, and that alone was enough to be dizzying even without the electric hum of Oikawa sucking on his shoulder, keeping the wound from closing, keeping the blood flowing, keeping the connection open between them. Memories that weren’t his own flickered at the edge of his awareness – faces and smells and half-forgotten moments – and beneath them the faintest whispers of Oikawa’s thoughts – gratitude, awe, hunger that was only partially for blood, and a soft, hushed murmur of his name, Hajime, Hajime, looping in the back of his mind, a tug that pulled at the core of Iwaizumi’s chest, calling his wolf and coaxing it loose with every repetition. His change was so close his skin was tight with it.

They drew back at the same moment. Oikawa gasped, “We have to stop,” just as Iwaizumi groaned, “Do it.”

Oikawa threaded his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair and pulled, holding his mouth away from the pulsing wound on his throat and murmuring, “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Iwaizumi looked over at him, dazed and bewildered, and when Oikawa realized he wasn’t going to bite him again, he started rubbing gentle circles against Iwaizumi’s scalp with his fingertips. “If you keep drinking, you’re going to become my thrall.”

Iwaizumi let out a raspy laugh, because that wasn’t what he’d meant – was the last thing on his mind, though he could feel it at the forefront of Oikawa’s. “Don’t pretend that’s not what you want,” he said, Oikawa’s thick, dark blood dripping from his open mouth. “I know how badly you want to chain me up and point me at your enemies.”

“I don’t think you’d take well to a leash,” Oikawa said a little murmur of amusement in his voice. He turned his face into Iwaizumi’s hair and lowered his voice, soft and serious. “I want you willing or not at all.”

They were miles beyond concepts like “willing” and “unwilling,” but that wasn’t something a vampire would understand. He liked the idea of a blood bond even less than most other kinds of obligation, but it didn’t really matter anymore; in decades of searching and dozens of packs, this was the first time he’d ever had his wolf slide under someone else’s skin like it belonged there. And he didn’t think it was a trick of the blood, because when he pulled Oikawa into another kiss, slow and hard, the boundaries still blurred between them. With his eyes closed, it was hard to tell where he ended and Oikawa began, a tangle of lips and hands and sensations that made it easy to forget they were two instead of one. When he drew back, he was breathless. “My wolf is already yours to call,” he said, pressing their foreheads together, “and if you don’t realize it, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Hajime,” Oikawa breathed, but it was more than enough to make Iwaizumi let out an abrupt, startled moan, his back arching and something important straining and popping in his chest, his hands shifting to claws and the color draining from his vision as his eyes turned golden and lupine.

“Fuck,” he said, scrabbling at the concrete and twisting beneath Oikawa, “fuck, please.” He saw the smile slide across Oikawa’s face, but before he could test this newfound power and say his name again, Iwaizumi flexed his misshapen hands and barked, “I don’t care how pretty you are, if you say it again before you take my pants off, I’ll claw you in your smug, shitty face.”

Oikawa smoothed his hand up the center of Iwaizumi’s chest, laying him out on his back, then slid down between his legs, murmuring teasingly, “You think I’m pretty, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi growled, slamming a fist down hard enough to crack concrete, but Oikawa was already making quick work of the last of Iwaizumi’s clothing, tugging off his shoes and socks, then pulling his jeans and underwear down and off in a single fluid motion. “Please,” he said again, rough and harsh, because moonrise still hadn’t come, and with his wolf curled at Oikawa’s ankle like an obedient dog, he couldn’t force the turn himself, no matter how achingly close it was. “Please.”

But instead of saying his name again, Oikawa smoothed his hands up Iwaizumi’s thighs, then leaned down over him and licked a slow line along his cock. Iwaizumi’s hips jerked and he had to resist the urge to curl a hand in Oikawa’s hair as he closed his mouth around the tip.

“Mother fuck,” Iwaizumi growled. “I swear to god, if you bite my dick, I-”

Oikawa’s lips curled, the promise of a smile, and he hummed before plunging down, taking Iwaizumi all the way into his mouth.

It was too much, the mounting pressure of the wolf inside him, the pull of Oikawa’s mouth (just slightly cooler than it should have been), the muddied boundaries of his awareness. It overloaded his senses, blurring the line between pleasure and pain. It was the first time his impending shift had ever felt good, the first time it had been something he was eager for, rather than the particular, chronic pain that he was so accustomed to.

Oikawa proved as deft with his mouth and careful with his teeth as he had been when they were kissing, and Iwaizumi found himself mesmerized, watching Oikawa as he moved. This time, though, it wasn’t magic or mind tricks that held his gaze – it was the new and different kind of hunger he saw in Oikawa’s dark eyes. It wasn’t long before Iwaizumi was drawn bowstring tight, trembling with the effort to keep himself together – balanced on the cusp of too many sensations. A heartbeat before he tumbled over the edge, Oikawa drew back, mouth pink and wet, then struck, snake-fast, sinking his teeth down into the hollow of Iwaizumi’s thigh.

He moaned, loud and sharp, as his orgasm tore through him and his wolf broke free of its chain.

Nothing had ever felt so good, the surge of pleasure and relief darkening over his vision as his muscles started to tear, fur flooding over his skin and his joints dislocating as his limbs reshaped and remade themselves. He only noticed Oikawa was still drinking when his pelvis shifted and his leg didn’t slide into place at his hip because Oikawa had a death grip on it. Iwaizumi let out a sharp, pained yip and kicked, and though it felt feeble – like he was moving underwater, half drunk and hardly himself – it sent Oikawa flying across the cell, blood blossoming on his arm where claws had struck flesh.

As soon as Oikawa was gone, pain flooded over him, but with one last wrench of his spine, Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades slid into place and his tail twitched to life, his body settling the rest of the way into its new shape. Iwaizumi closed his eyes and panted, staying spread eagle on his back on the floor. He ached exactly as much as he always did after he turned, his limbs loose and useless, but he could still feel the whisper of Oikawa’s presence in his mind like silk, and he was dizzy with blood loss, his heart beating just a little too fast in his chest.

He opened his eyes as Oikawa knelt down beside him and started running cool fingertips through the shaggy, deep brown fur on his belly. Iwaizumi let out a soft huff, but stretched under the attention, letting Oikawa pet him. “You’re a big boy,” Oikawa cooed. Iwaizumi snapped his teeth at him, but made no genuine move to stop him, and when Oikawa stilled, looking down at him pensively, Iwaizumi leaned in and gave the wound on his arm an apologetic lick. Oikawa curled his fingers under Iwaizumi’s chin, stroking the soft fur there, and murmured, “I’ve never seen anyone so calm after a turn.”

Iwaizumi chuffed, then leaned in and bumped his cheek against Oikawa’s before tucking his head gently under his chin. He didn’t know if Oikawa understood the gesture, if it meant anything more to him than just a touch, but it was enough that Oikawa coiled his arms around his neck and rested his cheek against the top of his head.

“Where did you come from?” he asked no one in particular, and Iwaizumi huffed again, butting his head against Oikawa’s chest, then yawned and flopped onto his side, stretching and kicking his legs out in front and behind him before curling up next to him. When Oikawa didn’t get the point, Iwaizumi let out a soft little bark to draw his attention, then rested his face between his paws and sighed. Oikawa laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you sleep,” he said, starting to push himself to his feet.

Iwaizumi grabbed the hem of Oikawa’s pants with his teeth and let out a little grumble of displeasure.

“Or not?”

Iwaizumi shifted on the floor again, uncurling and rolling, just slightly, onto his back, showing his belly.

Oikawa’s face went placid for a moment, picking at a puzzle behind an impassive expression. Then, just as abruptly, he started to laugh. “Oh my god, you want to cuddle.”

Iwaizumi growled, rolling back onto his stomach defensively, but when Oikawa dropped back down to the floor, he stilled. Oikawa wrapped his arms loosely around Iwaizumi, one draped over his side, the other around his neck, and nuzzled his face down into the thick, soft fur on his flank. Iwaizumi rested his head gently on top of Oikawa’s and huffed out a little sigh, closing his eyes.

***

When Iwaizumi woke, he was alone and naked, but his cell was no longer empty. There was a chair by the door with folded clothes and towels, his cell phone, two protein bars, and a small bag of cookies set neatly on the seat. There was a piece of paper tented over the back of the chair, and a big bottle of apple juice and large metal basin sitting on the floor next to it.

Iwaizumi pushed himself to his feet and found that he was still sore and a little lightheaded from the night before. He braced himself against the wall and took stock of himself. He hadn’t quite managed to shed all the dried blood and other bodily fluids between his transformations, but the bite marks were far more healed than he expected them to be – like they were weeks old rather than hours. Oikawa’s blood had probably expedited the process, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of himself. He looked like a vampire junkie – like he’d been bitten too many times for even a vampire’s saliva to heal the marks, like he’d given himself over to a whole nest of vampires at once for the thrill of it.

…But the burns on his fingertips were almost healed, too, and other than being a little, well, drained, he felt surprisingly good. Strong. Really hungry. He staggered across the length of the cell and grabbed one of the protein bars and the note off the back of the chair and read while he ate.

Iwa-chan:

As promised, your truck made it to Houston this morning before the dealership opened, and no one is the wiser. The pickup in the parking lot is all yours for the day; the keys are under the visor, just park it outside your dealership when you’re done with it and someone will pick it up. The token you requested of me is in the right front pocket of your jeans, which I believe resolves both of our debts to one another.

Oikawa Tooru

P.S. My apologies for the lackluster accommodations; while I was indisposed, the water heater broke and I haven’t had an opportunity to have it repaired; the only running water in the building is currently in the kitchen, which incidentally has no food in it. Also, I’m unsure about the particulars of your physiology, but be cautious of your blood pressure and iron levels, refrain from operating any heavy machinery, etc. etc.

Iwaizumi read the letter over twice more and frowned. “Debts resolved” wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, though he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He was a means to an end, and lucky to be that rather than a meal, or an example. Maybe what they’d shared the night before had been a trick of the blood after all, or maybe Oikawa just hadn’t felt it, or wasn’t able to. It wasn’t like he had much point of reference. He crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor, then squatted down next to the big metal basin, which was filled with water that had probably been piping hot some time around dawn, but was now just a degree or two warmer than room temperature. It felt good anyway when he splashed it on his face and arms, washing away the sweat and blood and other things. He dunked his head in the tub and scrubbed his hair. When he was about as clean as he thought he was going to get, he lifted the tub and carried it over to the drain in the center of the room and poured the whole thing over his head, rinsing himself off.

He shook off the excess water, toweled dry, and dressed. In the pocket of his jeans, he found the arrowhead affixed to a black leather cord, and he carefully slipped it over his head, making sure to leave it resting outside his clothing so the silver wouldn’t burn him. He turned his phone on while he was eating the second protein bar, and of course now – now – the fucking thing was working just fine, and from the look of it, he’d been bombarded by messages over the course of the morning:

BossMan: Great work tonight, Jimmy! Sorry about the short notice, but you really pulled through for us!

BossMan: Next round’s on me!

CatBreath: Yo, where are you? You’re missing brunch

CatBreath: Seriously man, we’re not waiting for you. You should see what Bo ordered

CatBreath: Dude, I just went by the storage facility and they said you didn’t show last night. Are you okay??? Message me back when you get this

BirdBrain: BEHOLD THE NEST:

That message came with a picture attached: a slightly blurry snapshot of a stack of Belgian waffles piled eight high, layered with bacon and whipped cream, set atop a massive pile of hashbrowns dotted with fried eggs.

It was the last set of messages that surprised him, because half of them he’d apparently sent himself, to a contact that hadn’t been in his phone the night before.

Me: Had a great time last night. Wanna do it again?

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You’ll have to ask nicely, Iwa-chan~ My time is very valuable, after all.

Me: Well, I know you said that we’ve fulfilled our debts to each other, but I can’t help but feel like it would be cosmically unfair of me to give you one little taste of my (frankly magnificent) cock and NOT spend at least ten consecutive hours showing you what I can do with it.

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You make a very compelling point. Dinner and a movie, next week?

Me: I’ll be dinner, you can pick the movie ৲( ᵒ ૩ᵒ)৴♡*৹

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Hmm, sounds delish (ᵒᴗ-)b

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Zoltan: Hound of Dracula, or The Forsaken?

Iwaizumi snorted. Apparently Oikawa wasn’t ready to let him slip away after all, if not quite for the reasons he’d hoped. He scrolled through his contacts and changed “Tooru-chan” to “Booty Call,” then stopped, hesitated, and changed it to “Oikawa” instead. He bit his lip, chewed it, then swore softly and changed it back to a simple “Tooru” before pulling up his messages and typing out a reply.

Me: How about From Dusk Till Dawn or An American Werewolf In London?

Me: I’ll bring some popcorn for you to smell

Me: And get your hot water fixed. I’m not actually a dog.

He pocketed his phone before he could think too long about it, then ate the cookies Oikawa had set out for him and drank half the apple juice straight from the bottle while he wiggled his feet into his shoes. He double checked the room for any stray belongings, then fished the key to the cell out of his pocket, only to realize the door was unlocked. He shook off his surprise. Of course the door was unlocked – he had the only key. Still, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. Deep down, he expected to find the hotel empty. Even if Oikawa was genuine in his desire to see him again, a secret hideout that wasn’t a secret wasn’t much good as a hideout, and for a vampire a resting place that was known to others wasn’t a safe place to rest.

But when he pushed the door open, he found Oikawa’s room exactly as it had been the night before… and Oikawa fast asleep on one of the low sofas. He was stretched out on his stomach, arms curled around an overstuffed pillow, face turned to one side, evidently completely nude except for a red satin sheet draped low on his hips that spilled over onto the floor.

Iwaizumi stilled in the doorway, breath caught in his throat and heart squeezing off-time in his chest, because Oikawa had left himself defenseless as a newborn - not just where Iwaizumi could find him, but directly in his path to leave. With an unlocked door between him and an unfed werewolf. Oikawa was too smart and too careful to do that for someone he only counted as a booty call.

Iwaizumi approached cautiously, not wanting to wake Oikawa and wanting less to startle him, but he hardly stirred as Iwaizumi knelt beside him. In sleep, he was changed, and not merely softened in repose. In the dim light of the room, Iwaizumi could see what he hadn’t the night before: the old, mottled tissue of a bullet wound on the back of Oikawa’s shoulder and a small hooked scar to one side of his chin, both obviously from before he’d been turned. The more he looked, the more subtle differences he found – there was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of Oikawa’s nose and the broad span of his shoulders, more faint, pale lines of scar tissue etched into his skin, and the littlest finger was missing on his left hand – all visible only because he wasn’t awake to conceal them. The gouge he’d left on Oikawa’s arm the night before had mostly healed, as had the neat lines of claw-sized puncture wounds framing his spine that Iwaizumi didn’t remember putting there, but the bite on his neck looked just short of fresh, and that made something primal and possessive bubble up inside him and come out as a low, pleased rumble.

Oikawa made a soft, sleepy sound and shifted subtly, murmuring, “Hajime?” The sun was still up, so Oikawa couldn’t wake up short of someone smashing open a window or setting him on fire, but he made a good effort of it, propping himself on one elbow and reaching up to card his fingers through Iwaizumi’s damp hair, a lazy smile on his lips. “You’re all wet.”

Iwaizumi breathed out a laugh. “Go back to sleep.”

A small furrow of thought – of worry – marred Oikawa’s forehead, and the unguarded openness of his expression made him look terribly young. “You’re coming back, right?” he asked, settling onto his back and brushing the pad of his thumb along Iwaizumi’s cheekbone.

“Apparently I have a cosmic injustice to right,” he murmured, grinning at the slow flush and lazy, satisfied smile that spread across Oikawa’s face. After a moment, he let his gaze drop to Oikawa’s chest. The wound there had closed, but the cross-shaped scar was fresh and puckered, the skin around it still faintly discolored. He reached up and touched the mark, gently, and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Oikawa breathed out a chuckle, just a low rumble in his chest, and stretched out on the sofa. “Like I’m not dying for the first time in six months.”

Iwaizumi recoiled. “Six months?”

His reaction made something change in Oikawa’s expression – the drowsiness disappearing and the small scar on his chin vanishing with it. Oikawa waved a hand dismissively, the sleep-heaviness of his voice becoming affected. “An exaggeration, Iwa-chan. No one could survive-”

“Liar.” Oikawa stilled, gaze leveled at him like an expectant cat. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. When Oikawa shifted his eyes away, a little petulant, Iwaizumi leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Oikawa’s chin where his scar wasn’t anymore. Oikawa drew in a soft breath, relaxing into him by inches and closing his eyes. “Don’t hide from me,” he said, letting his voice drop low as he moved to kiss Oikawa’s lips. Oikawa moaned softly, reaching up to curl his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair, but he didn’t pull him away. Iwaizumi pressed his hand to the base of Oikawa’s throat, pushing him back down against the couch and looking him in the eye. “I’ve seen you. I know you, and unless I’m very mistaken, I think you know me, too. So let’s make a point to be honest with each other, okay?”

Oikawa looked up at him, his gaze unfocused, then allowed himself a long blink, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “When you realized what I was, the first thing you did was turn your back on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.”

The haze of sleep was settling over him again, unconsciousness tugging him under, his scar and freckles just a suggestion on his skin but slowly becoming more visible. Iwaizumi leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of Oikawa’s mouth, murmuring, “No one’s ever been able to call my wolf before.” He rested his forehead against Oikawa’s temple, voice dropping to a low breath. “You’re the only person it’s acknowledged as an equal.” It was a confession Oikawa wouldn’t understand, but one that weighed in his chest and left him feeling winded when he said it out loud.

Oikawa reached up and pressed his hand, deliberately, to the base of Iwaizumi’s sternum, and Iwaizumi shuddered and closed his eyes. That simple touch was enough to draw his wolf to the surface, to make it butt affectionately against Oikawa’s palm.

“Please tell me you can feel this, too,” Iwaizumi gasped, bracing his arm on the back of the sofa and leaning on it heavily.

By way of an answer, Oikawa gave a small curl of his fingers, carding them through the invisible strands that stretched between them. It was like being stroked on the chin, and Iwaizumi let out a soft, involuntary little croon.

“I can call all the wolves in my pack,” Oikawa murmured, winding and twirling the tendrils of Iwaizumi’s wolf around his fingers, “but this is new.”

Iwaizumi let out a low grunt. “What about this?” he asked, pressing his hand to the center of Oikawa’s chest and reaching for what he knew was hidden beneath the surface. It answered his call, like a puff of steam released from an opened door.

Oikawa gasped, arching up into the touch. “New,” he panted, “very new.” Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile. Not a trick of the blood, then, and something appreciably different than what Oikawa shared with the wolves that were bound to him. “I thought I was hallucinating last night,” he said between heavy breaths, “but this…”

“Let me show you,” Iwaizumi murmured, drawing Oikawa’s hand away from his chest and leaning down over him, letting the reaching parts of both of them find each other and grab hold. Iwaizumi let out a shuddering sigh. It felt like belonging. It felt like being whole. And when Oikawa pulled him down into a kiss, he was drawn in by more than just lips and hands.

He kissed Oikawa slow and languid, leaning over him so their chests pressed together and slowly losing himself in the sweet softness of Oikawa’s mouth and the inexplicable sensation of being joined. It was only the sharp, unexpected taste of blood welling up in his mouth that reminded him that Oikawa wasn’t in full possession of his faculties. When he drew back, nursing the cut on his tongue, Oikawa curled a hand in the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt, eyes closed and breathing hard, and panted, “You should probably take your pants off immediately.”

It was more than tempting, but Iwaizumi shook his head. “You’re half asleep. I don’t even know how you’re awake at all.”

“No rest for the wicked?” Oikawa breathed, eyes heavy-lidded.

“You must not be so bad, then,” he said, brushing Oikawa’s bangs back and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Oikawa whined. Iwaizumi smiled and murmured against his skin, “You wouldn’t want to fall asleep while I’m fucking you, would you Tooru-chan?”

Oikawa moaned, but it was hard to tell if it was the promise or the endearment that brought the flush to his cheeks. “Not fair.”

“Get some sleep,” he said, brushing his fingertips along Oikawa’s jawline. “I’ll call you the next time I’m going to be in town.”

“You could stay,” Oikawa said, leaning into his touch. “Until sunset.”

Iwaizumi shook his head again. “If I don’t get back to Houston soon, a lot of people are going to start scouring the road looking for my body, and I don’t want to bring them to your doorstep. Not until I’ve had a chance to explain in person.” He grunted. “And as much as I appreciated the cookies, if I don’t eat some real food soon, my muscles are going to start to atrophy.”

Oikawa groaned, long and low, reaching up to press a hand to Iwaizumi’s mouth. “There’s nothing less sexy than logic, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi kissed the palm of his hand and murmured, “You look cute with freckles.”

Oikawa blinked up at him, and Iwaizumi forced himself to stand. Oikawa dropped his hand, but it still felt like they were anchored to each other, rooted as firmly as though they were clasping arms. “You’re going to come back?” Oikawa asked again.

“I’m going to come back,” Iwaizumi said, then grinned. “As long as you promise not to put any more shitty emojis on my phone.”

“There’s no purer form of expression than kaomoji,” Oikawa said, but the end trailed off in a yawn. He stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes, and was asleep again before Iwaizumi could muster a comeback.

It was a damn shame all the arguments he’d made against staying were true, because on his back, Oikawa was a portrait of muscles and pale skin against blood red fabric. One long leg peeked out from beneath the silk sheet, which looked like it might slide to the floor if he stared at it hard enough. He would almost have accused Oikawa of posing himself intentionally if it weren’t for the uncomfortable-looking way his arms had tumbled back around his head and the fact that he was snoring. Even so, he was absolutely stunning.

Iwaizumi sighed. There’d be time to stare later. He slipped out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him. The hotel was deserted and eerily quiet, but he retraced his steps back to the lobby and headed out into the parking lot. There was a vintage baby blue Chevy pickup parked right in front of the door, and as promised, it was unlocked. He slid into the seat, ran his hands over the steering wheel, and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the artificial vanilla scent of an air freshener. Then he fished his phone out of his pocket, pulled up his missed messages, and started typing a reply.

Me: Hey TK, call off the search party, I’m fine.

The response was almost immediate.

CatBreath: WTF HAPPENED MAN? WHERE ARE YOU?

Me: Long story. Face-to-face long. You free tonight?

CatBreath: I’ll make time. But seriously, wtf? Some people at your work said they saw you this morning after moonrise.

Iwaizumi sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Me: Wasn’t me.

Me: I got stranded in Louisiana last night. Blowout.

He chewed his lip, then let out a slow breath. If anyone would be able to help him figure this out, it was TK. Before he could decide out how to phrase what he had to say, though, a new message popped up.

CatBreath: Holy fuck. You’ve been hiding out?

Me: No. I walked right into a vamp den. I thought I talked my way out of it, but…

Me: Fuck

Me: I’m like 98% sure I just pair bonded with the Deacon of Baton Rouge.  

This time, there was a long pause.

CatBreath: Is that even possible?

Me: Beats the fuck out of me. I was hoping you would know

CatBreath: Shit.

CatBreath: I’ll ask around.

CatBreath: Did he bind you?

Me: No. He made a point not to.

CatBreath: Weird.

CatBreath: …is he hot?

Me: He’s fucking perfect

Me: And it scares the shit out of me