#maybe they're someone who just seemed to like violence a little too much

[blackcatanna]

I feel like people talking about the Purge are either way too excited about all the slaughter or way too smug about how good a person they are for not being filled with bloodlust but I want to hear more about who people think is most likely to take advantage of the situation to come after YOU. And WHY?

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘꜱ

Summary: You didn't expect that chasing after a bounty in the middle of the desert would lead to perhaps the most insulting and upsetting predicament of your entire career. But after being lead across barren land and scathing heat, you know that you're running out of time to escape.

All you can do is hope that you can beat the clock before your luck runs out.

Warnings: 18+ MDI! Canon typical violence; violence against reader (not by Cooper), depictions of gore and death. AFAB Reader, some fem pronouns used, PiV sex, unprotected sex, boot riding, oral sex (M!Receiving), deepthroating. Mild overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

Notes: 23.1k words. I lied and told myself that this was going to be a short story . . . two weeks later. . . Ended a little bittersweet, which was entirely unintentional, but oh well. Not proofread. A little bit of sweet Cooper but not too much.

The sun is a crippling thing, beating down on you with a stifling heat that nearly feels like a physical presence driving down and tugging on your limbs and the crown of your skull. Intent on wringing your strength and every drop of moisture from your body in its torrid grip. It's debilitating and the only thing that you could ever possibly compare it to is standing next the roaring flames of a bonfire, or maybe, from what you've heard, like opening an oven door and being blasted by the rush of the preheated air. But it's the weight of your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth that really seems to wave your circumstances in your face. It feels like sandpaper; brittle and harsh, like one attempt at swallowing could cause the walls of your throat to grind and split along each other. 

You remember specifically when your last drink of water was. A few casual sips taken from your canteen only a few hours earlier, close to thirteen now to be exact. You've been counting. Torturing yourself with each passing second and every weakened, slipping step. It goes by slow in your mind, dripping by like molasses, and the scorched, barren ground cracking beneath your feet and giving way to loose, lifeless sand just makes it all that much slower. But truthfully, it's the sound of their laughter that's really getting to you. The group of them chortling like a pack a wild dog's; coyotes giggling and gloating over a kill. You aren't sure what they're all joking about. Probably something twisted that would make your stomach turn if you paid it close enough attention, but you've been making an effort to focus your concentration on absolutely anything else. The crunch of the rock underneath your boots; the lonely, empty whistle of the low wind brushing across the ground; your own panting breaths. Even the gentle clink and jingle of the rusted handcuffs that dig into your wrists like a taunt. 

You're not supposed to be the one in fucking cuffs, trudging across the desert with a bunch of lowlife criminals keeping you hostage. 

In your defense, you were only expecting one, not four. It's a flimsy excuse. Even in your own eyes, but to be fair, coming by caps as of late has been difficult. And no caps means no food or water, and your supply of RadAway has become concerningly low. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to come by funds without murdering someone over it. It had made you a little reckless. Desperate honestly, and the need to get some actual currency in your palm, instead of scraps, had hung heavy on you. So when you had caught sight of some random wanted poster fixed behind the counter of a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, you had all but jumped at the opportunity. He was low rung and inexperienced by all accounts. Just another random, petty man with a propriety for violence who had shaken down the wrong establishment. He wasn't anything special. There are thousands of others just like him, just as there always will be. 

It was supposed to be a low effort job. You were planning on shooting him dead and taking just enough of him with you to retrieve your money. But what you hadn't accounted for was getting jumped by three (four technically, you did manage to kill one) other men when you confronted him. But they had been like ghosts, leaping out of the empty shadows of the night in the manner of creeping phantoms when you had approached the bounty with a loaded gun trained at his head. The cocky, gnarled grin that had stretched across his chapped lips should have been a big of enough clue to let you know you were on losing side of your fight. 

But even now you aren't sure where they had even come from. You had been tracking your bounty for a couple days across the desert landscape, and not once had he met up with a single person. You hadn't heard a word of gossip about him running with any groups or raiders either. So imagine your surprise when the figures that had stepped from the dark had all been familiar. Familiar in the regard that you've seen the rough sketches of their faces pinned up along just about every business and dilapidated building in the Wasteland. Drawn out on rough parchment that declared them all wanted, dead or alive. The Silva Gang; a small band, but a notorious one. They've been making a name for themselves as of late, snatching up people in the cover of the night to sell them off to organ harvesters and sex slavers. 

You aren't sure which of the two they have planned for you, but you aren't exactly psyched to find out. Regardless, if they have a buyer in mind, it'll be a wonder if you even manage to survive the trip there in your current condition. After you had shot down one of their members, made his head explode in a splatter of red and brain matter, they had all been quick to gang up on you. Knocking you to the ground to kick your stomach in with their steel toed boots until your lungs couldn't manage much more than a pathetic, airy wheeze. You had bit the inside of your cheek in the middle of the beatdown, tearing it open until iron had flooded the inside of your mouth and stained your teeth scarlet. 

Every breath hurts. It's like your bones have been rattled loose, and you swear you can feel them wiggle with each sharp gasp, just barely held in place by the bruised sinew that binds it all together. All you can do is hope that there isn't any internal bleeding, but it's difficult to tell with the wound in your cheek tainting your mouth with a coat of blood. Though, if you can't manage to find a way to escape, then passing out from hemorrhaging might actually be a blessing in disguise. A mercy carried in on violent wings. But then again, the Wasteland has never been known for its mercy. 

A brittle, whistling laugh breaks out with all the subtly of a gunshot. Though it sounds closer to a cough with the way that it sharply cuts across the atmosphere like cracking a bone-dry branch over your knee. It's about the only warning you get before the man strolling in front of you - your bounty - harshly tugs at the chain connected to your cuffs, jerking your joined wrists forward and forcing the rest of your body to follow in an ungraceful lurch. Your legs scramble to right themselves, weakly trying to balance the entirety of your body's weight on feeble ankles. For a split second you think that you might actually collapse and get a face full of sand, but you just barely manage to catch yourself on time, flinging a foot forward to get a hold of your equilibrium. 

He doesn't give you proper time to gather yourself before he's nudging you along again with the chain, flashing you a nasty grin over his shoulder in a show of filed down teeth. You've seen the pictures of sharks before. A few years back when you had stumbled upon the old remains of a school building. You had meandered through the halls, searching for what little you could find, anything that might have been useful. For a moment your mind had wondered and wandered as you allowed yourself to entertain what the halls and rooms may have looked like all of those years ago when the paint wasn't chipping and brimming with radiation, even though you really had no basis to go off of. And you were quick to find yourself sidetracked, digging through old textbooks and sheets of homework. It was just some biology book, with wrinkled, stained pages and dust collected on the hard cover. There had been a chapter about marine animals: dolphins, fish, and the like. But what had really caught your attention was the drawling of a shark that had been in the corner. Particularly its teeth. Massive rows of lethal points designed to slice through meat and tear flesh. Underneath the depiction of the great white there had been some offhand little fact. 

Did you know that you're more likely to die by bees than a shark? 

But this shark, you're certain has taken countless lives; sank his teeth into human skin and gorged himself on their bodies. And you might just be next if you don't manage to find an opening soon. You aren't certain where they're taking you. How many more miles you have to cover on shaking legs and bruised lungs, but the longer they lead you the closer you're getting to a death sentence. 

"What do you say, lovely." The voice jumps out with the pressure of a dead weight linking across your shoulders, pulling you close into the cradle of someone's chest. The stink that rises up to greet you is abhorrent; stale and putrid from weeks, if not months' worth of sweat and dirt and grime. You could choke on it. "You ready for a break yet? You look like shit." 

A brief scathing glance upward reveals that it's the one that you had shot in the leg. Right in the artery. It would have killed him too if they weren't fortunate enough to be in the possession of a stimpak. He still has a bit of a limp in his stride, but now he's here to gloat. Squinting at you to combat the unrelenting glare of the sun with a crooked smile, his tongue reaches to slip across his teeth in an unsettling leer. If all the posters haven't left you astray then this would be the one that calls himself Vulture. A fitting moniker for a cannibal and a scavenger, you suppose. 

You want to shove him off and flee. Even with the cover of your jacket still secure over your torso, his body heat feels like acid on your skin, biting and stinging. He has your gun on his hip, secure and snug within his holster. The silver steel of the handle glints like a taunt. Your fingers itch with the urge to slip around the familiar grip. To feel the heft of it in your palm and the recoil reverberating up your arm as you squeeze the trigger. But the chain pulling your hands taut and forward isn't very giving. Even if you managed to tug your bounty down by the tether in his hands and grab ahold of Vulture's gun (your gun), with how sluggish you are the other two would be on you in a blink. And then you really would be dead and left to bleed out on the parched ground and give it the only moister it's probably seen in decades.

Though you might have an opportunity soon. Reluctantly, you lift your head up and shift your focus from him to survey the horizon, and in your unsteady vision you notice a few buildings nestled close along in the distance. A weathered sign is fixed to the roof of one of the structures, declaring something in a mixed bold font. But what those letters spell you're unable to make out from the large gap of space, about a half a mile, give or take. But you think that one of them may be a gas station, based of the old pavilion posted out front; tilted and threatening to lean over on its columns. 

"What do you say, Vernon?" The man with his arm still cinched around the back of your neck asks, shouting over his shoulder to look at one of the men walking behind you. "I say we give her a little break. She might collapse otherwise, and we wouldn't want the goods to spoil, now would we?" 

He leans in low when he says it, wafting his humid breath over your face in a revolting puff. You don't even bother fighting of the grimace that crosses over your expression, letting disgust twist up your features into an offended sneer. But Vulture doesn't seem to be insulted in the slightest. If anything, you catch a glimmer of amusement pass through his bloodshot eyes in a mirthful wink. A part of you entertains lunging forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh above his cheek bone; letting the sun burnt skin there break underneath the weight of them to ease the way that his words sear across you mind like a brand. But you can't lose your head yet. So you keep your mouth firmly shut, teeth tucked behind your dried lips while you fantasize about gutting the four of them open from pelvis to groin. 

You let them lead you across the desert floor, still guffawing and cackling over their perverted jokes and braindead banter. It still makes you nauseous how you've managed to let them get advantage on you and drag you miles across barren land. Humiliation settles in your gut like you've swallowed oil and salt. And despite your lethargic limbs and tender stomach, it's safe to say that your pride is the most damaged thing out of this entire situation. It's tart on your parched tongue. No respectable bounty hunter should ever be caught in a state like this. You can hardly even recall the last time a query has managed to get the upper hand on you, much less captured you in handcuffs and held you hostage. It's pathetic. 

You can practically hear that grouchy bastard's voice berating you in that lazy, accented lilt. Chiding you for getting caught. For slipping up like some kind of rookie.

Well that just ain't like you, sweetheart, lettin' a coulpa shitkickers get the jump on ya. 

But as harsh as the echo of his voice is, it does serve as a sort of comfort in a paradoxical sort of way. Like a soothing balm on a fresh, stinging wound. Bittersweet from the familiarity of it; sharp and smarting like a fresh bruise, but also dulcet and homey like the swaddle of a soft blanket. As big of a pain in the ass as he is, a part of you has to be curious how life has been treating him these past couple of months. You're sure he's fine. No matter how dire the situation, he always manages to survive somehow, whether that be by sheer luck or by the skin of his teeth, he always makes it out. He's older than you by decades; experienced in horrors and calamities that you would struggle to imagine. Still, sometimes you can't help yourself from being a little . . . worried. It's so nonsensical to be fretting over a man that has the blood of a thousand souls on his hands; who's just as hardened and unforgiving as the land he walks. Especially when you're the one with your hands fastened together by old metal, and the damaged taste of iron in your mouth. 

Despite your hard exterior, you've always been a bit of bleeding heart deep down. And somehow, someone as brash and knavish as him has managed to worm himself past all your defenses and latched onto that tender little piece of your soul. He was purely competition at first. A rival. A thief is what he was. Then a reluctant acquaintance, and eventually a . . . tentative friend. A vulnerability, really. But you can't ever keep yourself from wondering about him. Even now, with a violent band of criminals crowded around you and guiding you like a twisted procession towards death or slavery, you can't fight of the impression of a smile that begs to lift at your lips. You have to contemplate the next time that you might see him. If you'll even have the opportunity to see him again, so's long that this doesn't go tits up and you end up dead on the ground. If he'll still smell with the subtle musk of the earth; the residue of soil staining his tattered duster, all damp and rich hidden underneath a layer of dust, and at times blood. 

That bastard. That old, mean bastard - 

"What are you over there grinning about?" Vulture queries, slipping his other arm up to clutch your jaw between his dirty fingertips, squeezing your cheeks close like an uncle with boundary issues would do at a family reunion. It has you mouth splitting into a snarl and the urge to bite is back again, like an itch on your gums. But you hold yourself back. 

"I was imagining what your blood might look like on the sand," you snap, jerking your face from out of his tight grip with venom on your tongue. It nearly could have surprised you when a splitting white-hot heat erupts across the side of your face with enough force to swivel your head to the right, licking an electrical current down the back of your neck, but you were honestly expecting the strike. You draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way that your lungs rattle while you focus on keeping your legs steady. You can feel him when he leans in close again; you can see the hint of him in your peripheral vision too, a little blurry and unfocused from how close he is. 

"Well, keep dreaming. Cause that ain't never going to happen."  

You don't agree or refute that remark. Not even while you picture wrapping the chain lead hooked to your cuffs around his throat and watching the light dim from the pale blue shade of his eyes. It's then that you decide, even if they do manage to kill you today, you're taking at least one more of them with you. 

You let yourself fall silent again, counting the soft tread of everyone's footsteps. The way that the dry, dead earth splits underneath the soles of your boots in a weary whisper. But you mostly try to think about all of the weapon's secured to everyone's person. The gun - your gun - cradled in Vulture's holster. The idiot had tossed his away earlier to swap it out with you own. And you're pretty sure that it had still had a few rounds left in its chamber. There's the handle of a small hunting knife peeking out from past the lip of your bounty's (Thatcher is his name) boot. You didn't see him brandish any other weapon when you had tried to corner him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have any. 

As for the other two following closely behind, you know for a fact that the one called Vernon has a 10mm pistol, and the other's been totting around an old baseball bat with nails buried through the barrel. The nails are rusted, tinged red, but you're certain that the dusty, maroon and vermillion is old caked up blood and not just oxidation. 

There are too many guns. Too many of them. And you're weakened from exhaustion and dehydration; sore from getting your stomach kicked in. Running as of now is entirely out of the question. But if you make it to the gas station you should be able to use it as cover. There should be counters in there, shelves and a backroom. All of which can be used as protection against you and them, and the possible spray of bullets. But if you aren't careful enough, the tight quarters can also be used to box you in and keep you trapped between the four of them. You'll have to be cautious. 

The twin buildings ahead of you are much closer now, and you're able to make out the worn, crippled details of the ancient establishments much better now. Old remnants of a time long before yourself, left shabby and broken by harsh conditions and war. The paint is all chipped and sun faded on both the motel and gas station; the colors muted down into dusty, pale shades that are probably a far cry from what they used to look like. Windows are opaque with dirt, and some of the panes have been busted out entirely, making some of the curtains still hung above the sills to billow softly. There's an old Nuka-Cola machine posted out front of the station with bullet holes peppering its metal casing; and a long bordering piece of the of the pavilion's roof is hanging from the edge, creaking and trembling with the influence of the wind, groaning and squeaking sharply with each tremor. Like the cries of a wounded, wild animal. 

Apprehension settles deep in the pit of your belly like a stone, and you can feel it prickling along your fingertips and toes. The presence of the four men walking along you is like a heat on your skin, searing and stifling. It makes you hyperaware of everything. The brush of your own clothes, the weight of their eyes burrowing into your body; the light, shifting sounds of the desert. It's putting you on edge, making your muscles longing to tense and lash out but you have to keep yourself collected and calm. If you were to act out prematurely or let your nerves get to you, you might just end up with a bullet lodged between your eyes. 

Thatcher stops short of the threshold of the gas station, which is left wide open from the twin doors that seem to have been blown from their hinges. He pivots on his feet suddenly, turning to you with another one of his nasty smiles. "Lady's first," he coos obnoxiously. That's the only warning you get before he's jerking the chain a second time. This time is much harsher than the first, and it sweeps you off your feet in a rush that snaps your neck back. You don't even register yourself falling. It's the pain that washes over your knees and eventually your right side that your mind notices first. Blossoming over your flesh like boiling water, and you can feel the stinging tingle of fine glass shards burying past your clothes to poke at your skin. 

The hiss of pain that slips past your lips is overshadowed by the boisterous laughter that rings out around you. The sound of it has hatred simmering along your chest and slipping up your jaw, making you clench your teeth together so tightly that a part of you distantly worries that they might break. A string of curses and pyrophanites are heavy in your throat, but you don't want to give them the satisfaction of openly swearing. To let them know that they're getting under your skin. You keep your focus forward instead, ignoring the way they all chortle around you while you scan the dilapidated space. All of the freezers and shelves have been picked clean and left like a discarded skeleton. They would give you ample enough cover to hide behind, but there's still a decent amount of space between you and the aisles, and you aren't sure if you'll reach them in time. The counter ahead might be your best bet. It's thick enough that it can block a decent number of debris and bullets alike. But there's only a small gap of room provided between it and the wall behind it, which would end up working against you if one of them manages to follow you and evade getting shot. And coincidentally, you only have four bullets left in the chamber. One for each of them.  

You can't afford to miss. 

You have to swallow back a groan when you rise up on your feet, lifting yourself slowly to properly collect your balance; building up the tension your muscles while anticipation and adrenalin run heavy in your veins. Their body language is all still relaxed and unbothered, and in their comfortability, Vulture has trailed close to you. Apparently insistent on sticking to you like a disgusting shadow, but for once in this entire journey you're actually counting on his close proximity. 

Something almost close to excitement trails down your back, lashing a familiar buzzing fire down your palms; thrumming like a living thing. You can almost taste it too, sharp and prickling in your mouth, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing along your tongue. It flutters in your chest like something wild and stirred; but not panicked. This is something you've done a million times. It's like breathing almost. Like your brain giving your body a command without you having to consciously tell it to; it's second nature. 

You jolt forward like a blur, fluid and quick even with bound hands. And when your fingers slip around the grip of your gun it's almost peaceful, subtly warm and familiar within your grasp. But you remove it from Vulture's holster even quicker, and in a blink you squeeze the trigger. The burst of sound that rises out is deafening, making your hearing fade out and go dim. Vulture's head lolls back on his shoulders from the bloody crater that splits into his skull, driven there by the speeding bullet that lodges into the wall behind him. You're already pivoting on your feet before you can relish the sight of his body collapsing on the old tiles in a heap of dead weight. But your sense comes back to you just enough to hear the dull sound of him striking the floor when you raise your pistol up to line up the shot, training your weapon up on Thatcher, who looks like he's preparing to tug the chain again in the hopes of knocking you off kilter and ruining your aim. But you set the gun off with a single twitch of your finger, and just as his companion's had, his head swings back like he's been struck and a crest of red sprays from the back of his skull. 

As soon as his hands go slack, you're tugging the chain from his grip, making it swipe across the floor like a wounded snake towards your feet. But you don't get a single moment to enjoy your freedom before a bullet whistles past your ear, splitting and hissing. It doesn't allow you time to return the fire before Vernon begins unloading his clip in your direction with an angry cry. And without any other options you move back to spring away from him, launching yourself across the floor on shaky legs; burdened and aided by both adrenalin and exhaustion, but your desire to keep yourself in one piece has you hurtling yourself over the counter. You knock over an empty rotating shelf as you go, and the chain drags behind you with a harsh, metallic drag, striking against the front of the counter as you slip over the edge and fall on the floor. 

When you land, it's on your ass, and heat sears across your tailbone and trembles up your spine, but you don't give yourself time to dwell on the pain when a spray of bullets erupts around you, bursting through the air and eating up the bit of wall above your head in a scatter of fraying wallpaper. 

"You fucking bitch, you killed 'em!" A voice shrieks, hoarse and raw in its distress. "You fucking killed them!" 

Based off of the tone, you're willing to be that it's Vernon, and the near relentless flurry of bullets is definitely coming from the pistol he had hanging from his hip. He has to run out of rounds soon, and hopefully it'll give you an opening when he has to load up the chamber, which shouldn't be too far off. But you still have the other one to worry about too, with his stupid bat. It has you looking around at your surroundings for anything that may held you pick the lock of your cuffs, glancing behind you to check the empty cubbies built into the counter for an old paperclip or a bobby pin, but there's nothing except for dust and an old candy wrapper. There's another scathing swear on your lips, and you can't help but spare an aggravated glare up the water damaged ceiling; cursing the universe, or bad luck, or maybe even whichever god is out there. But you choose to take your frustrations out on the remaining raiders instead. 

"Yeah, and I'm planning on you two being next!" You shout loud enough to be heard over the onslaught of bullets. They've got to have another gun at this rate, there's no other way. "I just hope you don't go out as easily as your friends did!" 

It's then that you notice the fisheye mirror posted along the corner of the wall, just above the counter, giving you a clear view of the front of store and some of the shelves that stand along the right. But you're concerned with the two figures that are posted near the door, standing close to the fallen bodies of their partners. And sure enough in the other man's hand - Rocky? Rocco? You aren't entirely sure - he's holding a pistol up in the direction of the counter you hide behind, his baseball bat long forgotten and discarded on the floor near his feet. 

They both have ammo pouches strapped to their thighs and cartridge belts strung around their waists. Your only saving grace might just be that the majority of the loops are empty of bullets, but between the both of them, there's still enough to be a problem. You've been counting the number of bullets that Vernon has blindly planted in his maddened onslaught. One, two, three, . . . He has a few more in the chamber. Four or five more, at least. 

You should have a clear opening soon. And Rocco dares to creep forward, most likely in the hopes of coming around the side of the counter to close you in. Unfortunately for him, he was also taking it as the time to reload his pistol. Probably lured into a false sense of security while Vernon continues the assault with his own gun. His bullets should be running out shortly if your count isn't wrong, but Rocco will reach you by the time that Vernon's supply of bullets has been drained. It's an ill-timed assault on their part. Sloppy. You can hardly believe that they're the gang that's been ravaging the towns made from the remnants of old Los Angeles. The same gang that had trapped you in a pair of rusty handcuffs. This is going to be salt in the wound for years to come. 

It must be the deaths of Thatcher and Vulture that's made them messy. But it is working in your favor, so you can't complain much. 

You keep your eyes trained Rocco as he approaches, hand raised to slip another bullet into the cylinder. He curses when he drops it, fingertips probably shaking and slick with sweat and twitching from the rush of adrenalin and the deaths of his companions. It clatters on the floor, metallic and chiming, skipping over the tiles, sounding like a bell. You draw in a breath then, forcing your body to gulp in the stale air even though its hurts and sears around the edges; even while fire licks at your lungs, you never wince or remove your sight from the mirror posted along the wall. You keep your focus trained on their reflections; the even, calculated steps that Rocco takes in your direction, nearing closer with every movement. All the while Vernon continues to fire, gun blazing while he screams himself hoarse. And for a moment, one wicked moment, you worry that he isn't going to run out of bullets. 

You might have to risk jumping out of cover and hoping that you aim is true while your hands are bound with metal and dragging a heavy chain. But then, like a blessing you hear it: the harsh, hollow click of an empty chamber. It's a dull sound, echoing across the confined space of the tattered gas station with a pronounced finality. 

Click, click, click

He repeatedly presses down on the trigger like he might jostle loose a magic bullet and kill you with it. You hear him swear. A low, scathing, shit huffed under his breath. The sound of the empty gun is like a countdown, and you're quick to act before the timer runs out. With an aching pain in your gut and the taste of blood in your mouth, you scoot yourself across the floor to line your shoulder up with the edge of the counter. Rocco has just one more bullet to slip into the chamber of his gun before it's fully loaded, and he already has his quivering fingers clutched over the copper casing of a bullet, ready to drop it into the last empty slot. 

It's like you're tugged forward on a string. Muscles twitching and lead by pure memory; instinct. You have your gun drawn before you pivot yourself around the corner on the point of your knees. You know where Rocco is standing. You marked his place in the mirror above. It's bleached behind your eyelids now; fixed across your mind like a picture. It's a blueprint, a set of instructions, and all you need to do is follow your body's orders. 

The trigger is warm when your squeeze it. Rocco's head jerks up as he notices you, eyes rolling and a little frantic when he registers the glint of the gun in your hand. In that spit second, you see so much pass through his eyes: surprise, disbelief, fear, and finally, a fleeting shred of what might be angry acceptance. It's a look that you've seen on all of the faces of the people you've felled. The five stages of grief compacted into a singular, short moment before the killing blow lands. And the blow lands in his chest, puncturing a clean hole through the flesh and sinew and clipping his heart. His breath rattles. A nastier sound than the labored gasps that have been ailing you, and you can't help but relish in the wet noise of blood welling up in his throat. 

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the ground long before he stumbles back on weakened legs and collapses backwards with a death rattle. But you don't have any time to gloat. Vernon cries his friend's name in protest. Like it'll keep the blood in his veins if he does. And then his eyes are on you like a rabid dog's that's been crowded into a corner and is coiling to lash out. He doesn't even bother finishing up on reloading his gun before he tosses it like it's useless trash, and then he's lunging forward to cross the bit of space that's between you. 

It has your body twitching to spin your focus onto him and shoot. But the abruptness of it all, the hindrance of the cuffs has your aim off by just a few inches, and instead of hitting his heart like you had intended, you miss your mark by a few inches and get his left shoulder instead. That was you last bullet. Your chamber is completely useless, and your pistol might as well as be dead weight. You try to right yourself. To shift yourself on your feet properly to launch yourself out of the way and behind the cover of one of the shelves, but you hardly make it more than a few scant feet or so before he's pile driving you to the floor with a violent snarl. The weight of him pinning in place is crushing. Digging your bones into the tiles and forcing the air from your lungs in a brutal press; squeezing a cry from your aching chest. 

Your lips peel back into a feral sneer when one of his hands slip around your throat to wring the oxygen from your body. Your hips writhe and feet kick in some mindless scramble to shake him from you, but he might as well as be made of lead; fixed in place and unwavering. And for a horrendous moment your brain is reduced to an animal's. Wiped blank and clouded over with pure primal instinct. You hand claw up towards his face, desperate to feel flesh underneath your nails to tear, but he leans himself out of your reach with a caustic, demented laugh. 

"You brought this on yourself," he hisses harshly and flexes his fingers to make you choke. You can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull; your muscles draw up tight when your lungs seize, empty and burning. Tears threaten to fall, prickling at your waterline while your brain fogs over in a suffocated haze, and for a brief, drifting second you wonder if this might be your final moments. But then you feel it. The pull of the chain tugging at your handcuffs. Tender around your wrists. And while he's distracted watching the life fade from your eyes, you slip your fingers around the groves of the chain, drawing up the metal links until you have it gripped tightly within your sweating palms. 

You bare your teeth when you swing your hands up to launch the chain in the air. It cuts across the atmosphere with a heavy whoosh, and when it meets his cheek, it splits the skin underneath the force of it, parting his flesh with a rivulet of red. His head jerks on his shoulders harshly and his body twitches and tugs to the side from the sheer weight of the hit, but his grip around your neck doesn't so much as flinch. His free hand strikes out like a serpent, snatching ahold of the chain before you can strike him again and he pins it to his side, immobilizing your defense. And in some mad scramble your frayed mind catches onto the glint of red pouring from the hole in his shoulder. It guides you to lift a hand up to burrow your fingertips into the wound, pinching and tearing at the torn flesh until blood flows over your hand, all warm and damp. 

The angry, anguished roar that he lets out could have been deafening if your hearing wasn't already tarnished and fading from the pressure of his chokehold. But instead of getting him to flinch away or weaken, somehow it makes him grip you harder. The sheer strength behind his fingers has your lips parting in a silent, tortured cry. It's here and now that you decide that your luck really must have run out. You suppose that the Wasteland can only do you so many favors before it comes to collect, and you've evaded horrors and troubles that would have shaken and killed the Devil himself. You were honestly just hoping that your death would be a little more honorable. A blaze of glory with fire and blood. Not delivered by the hands of some cheap raider. But you can't always refute the hand you've been delt - no matter how shitty it is. 

You can feel your vigor and breath slipping. The blood rushing in your veins while your heartbeat pulses in the cage of your chest - all frantic and panicked in a hail marry to keep your body functioning while your lungs starve. Even with all of the adrenalin thrumming hot throughout your body, the exhaustion that tugs your limbs down is too great. It's like you've been dipped in syrup and glue and have been left to stick to the tiles like a rat caught in a trap. Your eyes roll again. Slipping back to focus past the sadistic grin curling on his lips; past the form of his head which has faded into a sort of silhouette. A dopey sort of smile blossom on your face when you catch sight of a stain marring the ceiling. Its shape is all random, made from a scattered assortment of moldy blotches that bleed into each other, made from shades of tan, and brown, and gray. It's nothing. Just stain on the ceiling. But if you squint your eyes a certain way, it kind of looks like a cowboy hat. 

It makes you wonder if he'll miss you once you're gone. If he'll even notice that you're gone. That maybe, after a few more months or maybe even years, after fate or circumstance hasn't led you to cross paths again, that he'll realize that something has happened to you. That life has finally struck down the hammer on your head and snuffed you out. Maybe he'll look out ahead one day when the sun's brushing along the earth and painting the sky in searing shades of orange and red and rose in its descent and realize that you're well and truly gone. All you can do is hope that he'll think back on you fondly; that his deadened heart might actually miss you - if that is something that he's capable of. But the Wasteland is a vast place. It's so big that it can swallow individuals whole; get them lost in its sweeping landscapes and violence. It's so easy to forget people here. Family, lovers, friends can all get swept away and distant until they're hardly more than a mirage on the horizon. A ghost on the fringes of the mind. And maybe that'll be you. Just another ghost lined up alongside a thousand others. 

And while you choke and sputter on your last remnants of breath you continue to stare up at that murky little cowboy hat on the ceiling with something akin to hope in your chest, taking the place of air. But he probably won't remember you at all, the asshole. He's too brash. Too guarded. The sharpness his eyes is always hardened and a little distant behind the sardonic glint in them. He's shown you parts of himself that others could only dream to know. Small pieces in the grand scheme of things. Like broken, trivial shards torn from a greater image. Hardly enough to make a full picture. But it still lets you see him a little more clearly. You've seen all the ugliness. The callous, indifferent brutality; the sarcasm and guarded emotions. He's a walking mystery. An impenetrable fortress. But every now and again you see a hint of the human underneath it all. The man, the movie star. 

You can't believe that he's going to be your last thought while your lungs burn and draw up tight. His wicked, playful grin; the charming, languorous drawl of his voice; the gentle chime of his spurs when he walks. You can almost hear it over the wild roar of your blood in your ears and the relentless string of Vernon's swearing and gloating; repetitive and ringing and light. Like old useless coins jingling in someone's pockets. Almost musical in the rhythm of his phantom steps. 

You always did like his walk. Always lazy and confident like a saunter. 

When Vernon's head explodes like a ruptured balloon you think that you're imagining it. One second he's grinning down at you with his teeth bared and glinting, and the next his face seems to fracture. It erupts and cracks into tiny fragments and slivers like a dropped vase. But instead of water splashing out, it's sprays of warm, wet blood and chunks of brain matter. In your oxygen deprived daze, you're certain that you see a scatter of teeth soar across the air like nuggets of porcelain. The blood lands against your skin like the drops of a rare rainstorm. But it's still hot from the heat of his body, like something molten on your skin. 

His torso wavers unsteadily, rocking and unbalanced from the sudden absence of its head, rolling back on its weakened spine like an old tower swaying in a strong wind. The debilitating grip around your throat slackens when the body finally gives underneath its own weight and topples over on the tiles in a bloody heap. The greedy, hoarse gasp that you draw in instinctive, but once you start, you can't stop. Not even when the air catches on your throat and threatens to choke you again with the twitching, painful coughing fit that wracks your body, clawing and itching at your lungs. 

Clarity comes back to you slowly, nudging at the disoriented cloud that fills your skull like drugged stuffing. You shift onto your stomach with another long gulp of air, kicking at the corpses legs that lay across your own; and finally, it begins to feel like a cool balm inside of your chest instead of a fire. But the world is still sluggish. Muted and slow from your distress and you relax your belly on the tiles, suspending yourself on shaking elbows. 

It's then you notice the figure standing in the open doorway. Your body coils up tight, sucking in a few more desperate puffs of air while you brace to fight again, even though your limbs are drained and quivering, and your stomach and chest ache and burn. But then you notice the little details of the silhouette. The worn brim of the hat, the tattered and torn edges of their duster, the relaxed and confident way they hold themselves. It has you thinking that you really are dead. That you passed away right on the floor from the pressure of the raider's hand around your throat. That he really did succeed in squeezing the life out of you. This must be some sort of deathly hallucination. Your mind playing tricks on you as pass out to the other side - into an afterlife or into nothingness, you aren't sure. 

But then a tepid, clement wind brushes into the store, and it's perfumed with the scent of something earthy and rich and familiar: Soil. The figure tilts their head like a curious dog before they holster their gun against their hip. On the right side, just like it should be. He steps forward, and you can feel the weight of it pass over the floor in a gentle thrum; joined by the soft chime of a spur. Of the disk jingling and spinning in its rowel pin. He crosses the distance in a few calm strides with the metallic, melodic sound following each step, and pauses to consider you once there's little more than a foot of space between you and him just before he lowers himself into a crouch. 

You watch his descent with a rapt, dazed sort of fascination, and you can feel the impression of a smile on your lips when the shadow made by the brim of his hat fades from his proximity. The familiar weight of his eyes surveying you is comforting, and the delirious grin on your face grows even more.  

"You look like you've been dragged through ten kinds of hell," he observes tactfully. But you can't even manage so's much as a flicker of annoyance when the only thing you feel is pure relief. You want to greet him properly, like you usually do. Something witty or sarcastic, but your lethargic brain is about as useful as a bottomless bucket. 

"I was just thinking about you," you blurt, and your voice is raw and shredded when it grates up your throat. You notice the way that his hairless brows perk up at the confession, and something amused passes through his eyes while he considers you from your gore-soaked place on the dirty tiles. 

"Is that right?" He turns his head to scan the rest of the room, taking in the sight of the rest of the bodies that are strewn about like discarded toys. "Well, given the predicament I found you in, I'd say you need to get your priorities straight, sweetheart." 

There it is. That damned pet name. Even though it's spoken with an air of derision, it always sounds so syrupy and sweetened. Cradled softly within his accented drawl like it's saturated with melted sugar. Even with your mind all muddled and scrambling to form a coherent thought, it's still lucid enough for you to register the uncomfortable thrum of embarrassment at the remark. But most prevalent is the sense of bewilderment that nudges up at you and breaks through all of the confusion and pain. You can feel your eyebrows furrowing on your head, openly showing your puzzlement. 

"What exactly are you doing out here?" You ask around your cracking voice, drawing yourself up onto your knees with a ragged groan. 

"That's no way to talk to someone who just saved your ass," he chides without any real bite. He rocks back on his heels just a bit, making the worn leather of his boots creak in a low protest. "I heard there was a bounty for the Silva Gang; a pretty hefty price is out for 'em. I just didn't expect to see Ezra Thatcher here. " His focus settles back onto you then, and the familiar, devious glimmer that shifts through his stare immediately has your hackles rising. "There's a pretty hefty price out for him too." 

A snarl perks at your lips, and you can feel anger flaring in your chest; hot and searing around the bruising ache, and it singlehandedly douses out every bit of joy and relief that you initially felt upon seeing him. He appears to be nothing but amused by your apparent outrage. Not that he ever isn't. But you're sure that shackles still secure around your raw wrists only serve to cement his security. Plus, you don't look particularly threatening, all glistening with a layer of sweat, bags under your eyes while your lungs gasp and shudder harshly. But you're a little tired of this little cycle of yours. Ever since the day that you two have met he's been sweeping bounty's out from under your feet. Sneaking up like a shadow to rip out criminals from your grasp to take the prize money for himself. 

"No!" You snap, lurching forward on the points of your knees to lean you face close to his. Close enough that if he still had a nose, it would probably brush against your own. "You are not taking another one of my bounties." 

He doesn't answer you yet. He cocks his head again, slow and intrigued while his vision lowers to the handcuffs binding your arms. The smile that lifts at his rough lips is patronizing all in itself, but the way that he slips a gloved finger through the link of metal that secures your wrists together is just more salt on the wound. He tugs it lightly like he's testing its hold, checking to see if it'll give underneath the weight, but you know that he's really just rubbing in your current situation in further. Letting you see how well and truly helpless you are with your hands literally and metaphorically tied. 

"I really don't think you're in any position to be making demands," he responds easily. "And considering that I just saved your skin, I'd say that it would properly suffice as payment." 

You settle for rolling your eyes. An otherwise childish gesture, but as much as you want to argue, you know by now that trying to reason with him once his mind is set is about as successful as trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. It's a waste of air, and as of right now you're in short supply with how ragged and strained your lungs are. You're in no condition to be trying to pick a fight with someone as treacherous as the Ghoul. Sure, the two of you are . . . somewhat friends. But his sympathy and courtesy are a delicate thing, separated by an even weaker sense of resolve that often blends in with his cunning and brutality. Associating with him is like befriending a feral dog. He has his moments where he's cordial and even companionable. But those moments are few and far between. Borrowed time. At the end of it all, he's still wild. Corroded and shaped by the harsh, ferocious nature of his environment. Even when he's laughing and smiling, you know that he's really just baring his teeth. Waiting for a moment of weakness so that he can lunge for the throat and rip until rich blood flows, and he can drink. 

It's like reaching your hand out to pet something vicious, even when you know that it can twist around and sink its fangs into your flesh; saliva dripping with poison. 

He can see the defeat weigh down at your body, shoulders slumping as a part of you relents. His satisfaction glints in his gaze like an ember. Buring with the potential to become something greater; something roaring and consuming if need be. But there's no need for that fire today. You know when to give in. Even when it makes your pride curl up into something brittle and pathetic in the center of your chest. 

"Take these damned things off at least?" You nudge them up as much as you can while he still has one of his fingers looped around the small metal rings. The pause that takes over is a little stifling. It's like all of the walls have drawn up tight, and for a second you dread that he might not answer. That he'll leave you to suffer in silence while he snatches up what he needs from the bounties and vanish off into the desert while you rot away in this damaged little gas station in the middle of nowhere. 

"That very much depends on you. 'Sides, I kinda like you in these." He replies, tugging lightly on the cuffs with a glint in his eyes that could be considered dangerous, voice dipping down low like he's sharing a secret or reprimanding you for a sin you haven't committed yet. And you know him well enough to know that he's doing it on purpose, dropping his tone down into something smoky and warm. "Are you gonna behave?" 

For whatever reason it has a smile perking at your lips again. It's soft despite the simmering affect that his voice has on you, rushing your body with a dull flutter of heat. The smile is far from beaming or broad, but you can still feel a delicate trickle of humor spread over you; peeking through the pain that riddles your body. "Come on, Coop. We're friends, aren't we?"

A huff rises from his chest, not quite enough to a laugh or a chuckle but close. "Didn't you shoot at me the last time we seen each other?" 

You hum in agreement. There's no way that you can deny that accusation. That was roughly five months ago on the outskirts of Junktown, on what should have been another easy job. But it had been quick to go tits up when bounty hunters and desperate residents alike came scrambling and crawling out of the woodwork to get ahold of a single criminal; like a circle of starved animals stalking a wounded rabbit. And Cooper had been one of those animals. As dangerous and troubling as his presence had been, it did work in your favor with the other hunter's serving as a distraction and an obstacle for him to get through. Still, he had picked through the majority of them fairly quickly, and once the dust had mostly settled, he was free to turn his attentions onto you and the rambling lowlife that had been clinging onto your forearm - begging to be spared. He had even drooled on your coat while in the midst of his blubbering; hanging from you like a dead weight. So yes, you had shot at Cooper. Actually, he was being generous. You didn't shoot "at" him. You shot him. A light graze really, just along the thigh. But it had worked to waver his concentration just enough for the remaining hunters and armed citizens to sweep in and unintentionally give you time to flee the scene of the chaos with your sobbing bounty in tow. 

So, you can't exactly blame him for being for being wary. 

"And the first time we met you nearly put a bullet between my eyes. It was nothing personal, you know that." It's hard to tell what he's thinking with how unchanging his expression is. That amused edge is still heavy in his features and keeps you from seeing if he's willing or not. "Look, I'm tired, I'm dehydrated, and I feel like I've swallowed a handful of nails. All I want is the stuff that they lifted off of me, and one of the stimpak's they've got, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to start bleeding out of my ass if I don't. You can have the bounties. I don't care." 

When he pulls in a deep sigh you nearly think that he might be ready to deliver one of his famous quips. Some sarcastic remark on how little he cares, or that it sounds like a personal problem. But you notice something subtle shift on his face, and you know his answer before he speaks. It has your body relaxing, muscles unwinding and going lax without you consciously telling them to. 

"All right then, sweetheart," he relents and shifts up to rise on his feet. His eyes don't leave you once, fixed on you with an intensity that could make you breathless. Evaluating you and weighing your soul with a single casual glance. Always stripping you bare with the disarming hold of his eyes. "Better not do something you'll regret." 

All you manage is a nod. Looking up at him from your place on the bloody, dirt coated tiles with a promise lodged in your throat. You must look sincere enough because he doesn't ask you for any verbal confirmation as he pivots his feet to survey the bodies again. It's only then that you manage to spit any words up, forcing the shape of them out with a soft breath. "I'm not sure where the key is specifically, but Thatcher's probably our best bet." 

He doesn't respond when he strides across the floor in the direction of the fallen body, leaving you to stew and sit in silence. As soon as he's crouched beside the fresh corpse, he's rummaging through the pockets. Slipping back the layers of the dead bounty's coat to search the inner, built in pouches when the rest of his pockets come up empty. You stare at the expanse of his back with bated breath, tracing the shape of the rifle secured behind his shoulders and the way that his ragged coattails drape along the tiles as you wait. Suddenly the pressure of the rusted metal around your wrists feels so much tighter. Grating and stinging around your skin. It has you shifting uncomfortably, tracing the nails of your thumbs underneath your fingertips to distract yourself. And then, blessedly, he's lifting a silver key from the depths of Thatcher's coat and jingling it in the air like a trophy. 

The relief that floods you could make you double over on yourself. But luckily, he's standing in front of you before you can give into the weakened sway of your spine and grabbing ahold of the cuffs to slip the key into its slot. You let yourself admire him. It's a little shameless, you know, but you also can't be bothered to care. You always manage to get swept away by harmless little musings. Tracing his gaunt features with your eyes while you try to reimagine what he looked like before . . . all of this. And even though you've caught a glimpse of his former self, before the radiation and the horror, you still always fail to properly imagine smooth, unblemished skin in the place of leathered, marred flesh. The nose that would have filled out the place where a vacant cavity sits underneath the ridges of his browbones, gapping and almost painful looking. At one time he had hair. He could have been a dark blond, or brunette, or maybe it was an auburn color, or black. 

"Take a picture, darlin,' it'll last longer."

Despite the low register of his voice, it snaps you from your trance like a gun shot. You're forced to meet the hold of his eyes; attention held and stuck by the dark shade made in flecks of a light green and rich brown and amber. For a pause too long, you're left to sit with your words lodged in your chest as the cuffs around your wrists come undone with a metallic rip, and the absence of their harsh pressure around your tender skin is like heaven on your flesh. All light and soft, even while they sting dully. It's only then that you manage to speak as you shake your hands out in the hopes of knocking loose the rest of the pain that thrums through your wrists. 

"Yeah, but I doubt it would compare to the real thing," you quip back. It's completely corny, but it doesn't keep a smile from perking at Cooper's lips even though you can see a hint of what could be exasperation in his gaze.  

"Careful," he chides and lets the cuffs fall onto the floor with a clatter. "You'd give a lesser man idea's." And with that he's rising himself up again  to shift around you. Stepping past your shoulders to analyze Vernon's body for anything that might be useful. You can't see anything with him sitting behind you, but the sharp sound of a knife being freed from its holster is enough to tip you off to his plans. Knowing him, he's probably inspecting to see whichever part of Vernon might be the plumpest to make some jerky out of the meat. The thought does have a grimace threatening to curl at your features, but you're able to hold it off. You've seen him carve strips and chunks out of people more than once, but the sight of it will never truly desensitize you. 

But you've got scavenging of your own to do, and with a quick sweep of the floor your eyes land on Vulture's body near the entrance of the store; limbs strewn outward and skull bleeding in a crimson pool like some sort of morbid halo. But none of that is important. The only thing you care about is the backpack that's still clinging to his shoulders. 

You try to mentally brace yourself before you lift yourself from the ground, but you're quick to find there isn't a single peptalk that could prepare you for the aching, bone deep throb of pain that lashes through your body. It's like you've been gutted at the atoms; cut open from your throat to your bellybutton. You think that you could actually sob, but the last, worn remnants of your pride keeps the water secured within your body as you limp over to Vulture's. He's only a few feet away from you. Eight at most, but it feels like an eternity passes before you're able to collapse beside him with a soft gasp. 

His eyes are dull and faded now. Completely devoid of the violence and arrogance that had once lit them up, but no they stare at the ceiling; dead and unseeing. Maybe at one point, a younger version of yourself would have felt a twinge of guilt. Some sort of remorse, even though his death is more than deserved. But now all you feel is relief. Peace. It's like a drop in an ocean, but at least the Wasteland is devoid of one less asshole. One last violent soul who was even more guiltless than you.  

Of course, he landed on his back, pinning the back underneath limp, spiritless weight. With a reluctant, tired sigh you grip ahold of his shoulder and forearm to start flipping him over. It takes a bit of effort, with the burden of his slack limbs and the searing pinch in your lungs and ribs fighting you in your endeavor, but you do manage to flip him. You're face twists up when you palms make contact with his chest, soaked and warm with a fresh coat of blood, but you swallow your complaints down. Once you get him on his side and shove, gravity does the rest of the work for you and his corpse lands face first with a blunt thump and you're quick to reach and slip his arms through the straps of the pack. You've got it free and stripped from his body in a manner of seconds and in your desperation you're quick to unzip the pack and hold it upside down to jostle its contents out, letting it all spill onto the tiles with a layered clatter. When you drop the bag, you're too engrossed in surveying the strewn jumble to fully register the thud that sounds out when you carelessly drop the pack on the floor. 

Your eyes scan over various items; a box of matches, an old watch, and a balled-up piece of tissue that reveals a morbid collection of teeth when it unfurls. But the most important is the familiar sight of a needle with a rusted gauge crowning the opposite end of the barrel. Your fingers are a little clumsy when you reach for it, slipping with sweat and fried nerves as they wrap around the chilled metal and wires. You try not to focus on the deep ache that wracks through your body when you shrug your coat from off of your shoulder, draping it low enough to expose the expanse of your arm. 

It's with a shaky breath that you lift the needle up to your forearm and sink it into the tender flesh of your inner elbow. It stings when you inject it, flooding into your veins like a dull, white heat. You have to hiss through your teeth, trying to block out the pain until it finally gives into something soothing. You can feel the effects of the medication spread throughout your body like a balm, shifting a near unbearable discomfort into a faint echo of itself. The crushing sting around your throat melts into something soft and docile and the burning in your lungs is nearly doused out completely until your finally able to breathe without gasping and choking around your own breath. It's relief, finally. After hours - almost a day of pain and misery. 

"You never did say how they managed to get you all caught up." Cooper's voice sounds out again, pulling your focus behind you even while you slip the needle from your flesh and let it drop to the floor. Though, you almost wish that you hadn't started listening in on him, because you can hear the sharp and tearing sound of a blade flaying through meat. 

"I was only ever aware of Thatcher. The other's got the jump on me." It's such an awful excuse. You've known that this entire time. But actually, speaking it aloud - admitting it to someone else is entirely different. It tastes rotten on your dry tongue, and you swear you could gag on it. 

"Made you look like a fuckin' fool, huh?" You can hear the delight in his tone. It's grating and acidic on your nerves, but you distract yourself with the dry feel of your mouth. It has you remembering faintly the way that the bag had thumped against the floor when you had dropped it, and with some new hope in your chest, you slip a curious hand inside the pack with some strange optimism that there might be some water tucked away inside. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and cool, and your brain distantly registers that it might be glass. 

"You don't have to rub it in," you snap, gripping your fingers around what must be the neck of a bottle. 

"No. I don't," he agrees, but it's all sarcasm and selfish amusement. 

You pause in your current task, a bit of confusion and frustration setting over your face. "You said that you were tracking the Silva Gang. How long were you following us for?" 

"Caught up to ya when y'all entered that canyon." 

"That was about five miles back," you say with a scowl. Honestly you aren't sure how to take that little revelation, and it has irritation thrumming over your entire body and settling in deep. 

"Yeah, it was," he confirms casually, and another wet slice rips across the air before his voice dips into something teasing. "Truthfully, I wanted to see if you'd try and make an escape attempt. Imagine my disappointment when you didn't." 

"Asshole," you curse hotly with the rush of anger that flares over you, and you tug at the bottle, but it snags on the clothe lining of the pack, stubbornly staying fixed in its place. The wet sound of Cooper's knife slicing through another chunk of flesh rings out, all damp and soaked with blood. You nearly groan aloud; at your wits end from your dehydration and exasperation, but instead of openly lamenting about or turning your attention onto him, you focus that energy and wiggle the container free from the bag. When you finally work it free, the sound of liquid sloshing against the glass could be considered musical. If your body wasn't already wrung of all of its moisture, you could have drooled. So when your eyes and brain finally realize that the fluid contained in the bottle is a rich, dark amber, nearly brown in the shade, the disappointment that prickles at you and pulls at your limbs nearly feels like it could become a physical thing. Your muscles bunch up with the flaring urge to hurl the bottle across the room and watch it explode in a burst of glass and bronze and gold. 

But defeat settles afterwards, dousing out the rage into a faint simmer, and it leaves you to stare at the bottle wordlessly. Your eyes scan over the faded label, probably once a clean, soft white now soiled and stained by years, if not centuries of dirt and grime. The words and artwork that decorated the sticker are now muted and completely incoherent, but you're certain that the liquid inside is a type of alcohol. Most likely a whiskey or bourbon based on the color of it. You shake the bottle lightly, absentmindedly watching as the fluid inside ripples and lulls against the glass, glinting and twinkling in highlights of gold from underneath the dimming sunlight that pours in from the threshold. 

"Hey, Coop," you call and dare to look over your shoulder. It's an immediate regret when you see that he's tugged Rocco's pants down and has been slicing of generous strips of the dead man's thigh meat. A large pool of blood surrounds Cooper's feet, staining the tiles in a heavy red that taints the air with iron and fresh death. An inquisitive hum rises from the depths of his chest; a low rumble that seems a little irritated from being disturbed. He flicks off another ribbon of flesh with a quick, practiced glint of a knife and leans a little to place the dripping piece down onto the saddlebags he's sat beside himself; lined up along the rest. "Feel like sharing?" 

It's then that he finally bothers to look up at you, forcing his eyes away from his task, and they're quick to gravitate towards the bottle of liquor that you now hold up in the air. You brandish it like he had done with the keys to your handcuffs, and the look that crosses over his face is answer enough. 

"Well, shit," he grins, all sharp and a little teasing. "Pull my leg, why dontcha." 

It took a little while to move all of the bodies over from the store to one of the rooms in the neighboring motel. Cooper had been able to carry the majority of them like they were a sack of potatoes, but that hadn't kept him from nearly leaving you drag Vulture's corpse all on your own; abandoning you to grip onto the corpse's feet in an effort to drag it across the burning sand. It had taken a good amount of glaring and the threat to leave the body out in the open for him to help you in lug it inside with the others, tossing it on the ratty rust colored carpet for safe keeping. By the time you're both finished up the sun has already dipped low in the sky until it's brushing along the shadowed mountains in the distance while you both tuck away in the adjoining room. Still fully decorated and furnished. Frozen in time from a past that's well beyond you with various pictures of cowboys on ranches and looking over sweeping landscapes from the saddle of their mounts are hanging on walls where the wallpaper is peeling and stained. There's even a landline phone on one of the nightstands and a water damaged Bible tucked away in the drawer. 

But the air in here is stale from dust, almost cloying with the scent of mildew even with the glass from the windows blown out, allowing a soft, summery breeze to drift in and circulate throughout the room. It does nothing to chase out the dirt and probably mold. But it all becomes little more than an afterthought with the warm thrum of alcohol simmering through your system, making your fingers and toes feel as though they've been dipped into steaming water. You've only taken a few swigs from the bottle, but it already has the beginnings of a decent buzz stuffing your head. Granted you haven't eaten in quite some time. So it probably isn't a good idea to be drinking in the first place, but you're a little beyond caring right now. All you want to do is relax after the absolute disaster that these last fifteen hours have been. To forget it entirely, even if it's only for the night. Though you didn't manage much more than a few sips of the old alcohol before the burn of it had become too scathing and nearly nauseating, and you've long since passed up to Cooper who's downed the majority of it in nothing more than a few gulps. 

A low groan erupts from across the room, drawing your attention over to its origin like a magnet to steel. It's low and raspy, and it has your fingertips curling in on the canteen you have clutched in your grasp, nails burrowing into the thick leather like it might distract you. But it's an awful diversion when your eyes are unable to tear away from where Cooper has slumped himself against the cushioned backrest of the old armchair nestled in the corner. The expression on his face could nearly be described as euphoric - or maybe that's just your own perversion talking. The sunken lids of his eyes are closed and nearly fluttering while he tilts his head back to let the liquor flow down into his waiting mouth. Some of it slips past his lips, trailing down the shape of his jaw to trickle across his throat in a shimmer of faint amber before it vanishes underneath the edge of shirts collar. 

The sight of it could have made your mouth run dry, and suddenly you're even more thankful for the canteens of water that you had both managed to find on one of the bodies. It's shameful the way you watch him, and you can feel embarrassment prickle at your face in response. But it's even worse when his eyes open and pin themselves on you as he lowers the bottle away from his lips. There's something knowing in his glance. It's amused and a little too perceptive, making you feel as though you've been caught red handed, and it has a fresh coat of what must be guilt rushing over you. But you don't have any reason to be humiliated. You were just looking at him. You've done it a thousand times; this one wasn't any different. 

Still the way that he watches you is stripping, like he's weighing you again and finds what he's discovered entirely entertaining. So when he finally drops his attentions down on the bottle cradled within his palm it makes you feel as though you can breathe clearly again. 

"It's been about over two hundred years since I've had some of this," he remarks aloud, shifting the glass in his hand to watch the contents lap and sway inside. "Old Maverick's." 

Your eyebrows perk up curiously and you shift slightly in your position settled on the dingy carpet as you consider him. "You can tell what type of whiskey it is? " 

He nods just the slightest, letting you know that he's heard you even though he doesn't spare you as much as a glance; too caught up in his own thoughts and reminiscing to bother. "I had an old buddy that used to drink this like water." 

You can't hold back the disbelieving huff that rises from your chest at the comment. It's odd, as small as the remark is, for Cooper to make any allusions to his past. He's always been so guarded in what he shares with you - with anyone. Even when he told you that he was an old movie star, he had said it so jokingly that you had assumed he wasn't being serious. That he was pulling your leg to try and make a fool out of you. It wasn't until about a year after he had shared it with you, that you had truly believed him. It was back when you were trying to make a purchase inside of some trader's cabin, staring at the withered face of an old man that was trying to highball you on a pack of ammo. The smarmy grin on his face had made irritation itch down your spine, and the urge to reach out and strike him on the nose had been strong. But it wouldn't have gotten you anything other than kicked out or shot at, so you had slipped your attention off of him and onto the old TV set that sat behind him on the counter. It was playing some vintage grainy film - long before your time when the air wasn't tainted and radioactive, and families sat around a dinner table to eat steaming hot meatloaf and talk about work, and baseball and the quality of their lawns. 

It was the man on screen that caught your eye. He was doused under the monochrome hue casted over the film, which projected a deep shadow over his face from the brim of his cowboy hat. Though it had done nothing to dull the quality of the pleasing, dulcet smirk on he wore while he leaned against the wooden support beam of one of those old western styled buildings. A smirk that had been directed at a pretty starlet whose mouth was busy delivering some sarcastic remark at his expense. But it was his eyes that had really struck you. Even though it was impossible to make out their true shade - turned dark under the black and white pigment of the movie - the familiarity of them had given you pause. The snarky trader's rambling had faded into the background while you squinted at the screen across from you, trying to place a man that you weren't even sure that you had ever met before, and the smirk on his lips had grown into a large, mostly one-sided smile. The familiarity of it had your realization hitting you like a ton of bricks, all abrupt and a little disorienting.

He hadn't been joking, or mocking you with the tales of some past, fancy life. He really had been a movie star with his face drawn and printed across newspapers and gossip magazines. He had a mother and a father, friends, a lover. He might have even had a family of his own that dined with him and sat at his dinner table to gossip about baseball and the lushness of their house's front lawn when he wasn't standing behind a silver screen and dressed up as a cowboy. Or a marshal, like he had been in that particular film; hunting down criminals and fighting for the decency and virtue of the Wild West. 

It's kind of ironic actually, in a dark and depressing sort of way. 

Cooper's attention shoots up to you in the form of a glare from the sound of your amused, disbelieving snicker. You can see the defensive way his muscles coil underneath the cover of his coat, all bunched up like he might jump at you with his teeth exposed in a wicked snarl. "The fuck are you laughin' at?" 

You shake your head softly, and you can only hope that you properly show your apology on your face. "Nothing. I just - I'm surprised you had friends, is all." 

Luckily, he seems to catch the jest in your tone and the subtle tension that had been there melts back into his casual indifference. "And why's that now?" He asks, angling his chin lower as his expression shifts into something impish and mirthful. "You can't say that you haven't been at least a little bit enthralled by my boyish charm. " 

"Boyish? There's nothing "boyish" about you." You nearly laugh again, but this time your reaction doesn't do anything to dull his own amusement. If anything, it seems to amplify it with that way that it seems to dance and glint in his unwavering stare. 

"But I am charming?" He says queekily, and the rough ridge of his eyebrows lift with the question. "Come on, I'm sure this ol' ugly mug does something for you." 

It always throws you a bit when he gets like this. Playful in a way that isn't violent or sardonic, almost soft - not that'd you ever tell him that. These moments are always few and far between, nestled between the gore and brutality of the Wasteland like something rare and delicate. This is when he lets you see a hint of the man he probably was once before, back when his concern was house payments and landing a role for an upcoming film. It's a type of humor and demeaner that's so different from the venomous delight and selfish sarcasm that he often indulges in, and it never fails to make a melancholic ache gnaw away at the pit of your chest. It's always a painful realization, that he had a life and loved ones at some point. He was a person who loved and was loved in turn, and now it's all gone. Scattered away and volatilized by the consuming rushing plumes of heat, and energy, and pressure. But you couldn't tell him that. Just how much sorrow and regret you feel for him. He'd lash out and bare his teeth. For him it wouldn't be sympathy, it would only be pity, and that's something that a man like Cooper just can't handle. 

And you do like feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your skin, just for an entirely different reason. 

"And what if it does?" It comes out easily enough, even though it's anything but unsubtle. The tone of your voice is too telling to be considered a joke, and the knowing look that crosses his face lets you know that he's caught onto the insinuation. The dark glint in his eyes is one that you've been pinned under more than once, yet it never fails to make a shiver shoot down the separate ridges of your spine; like an animal that's wandered to close to danger but isn't smart enough to flee. It's gone so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop with the unhurried atmosphere around you slowing down into a sluggish but striking halt that makes it difficult to believe that the two of you aren't the only people left alive in a world so dead and violent. 

"You sure you can handle this tonight?" His tone has taken on the low, graveled sort of edge. It serves as a warning, and it's only amplified with the way that his eyes glimmer from the receding sunlight that trickles in from the window in the shades of an ebbing gold and lavender, shining like the lethal cut of a blade or the barrel of a gun. It makes you feel frozen in place even though something molten licks through your veins and begins to smolder deep in the pit of your stomach. And you know what he's asking you, what he's cautioning you against. He won't be gentle, or sweet, or nice. Cooper is all want and greed. He takes and takes like something starved and gluttonous that's sole purpose is to devour and pick you down to the bone, all flayed open and quivering. But you don't want sweet, you just want him. 

You could sit and tell him all the way's that you crave him, and all the things that you need him to do to you as proof of your desires, but you know that Cooper is a man of action and not words. If you really mean to prove to him that you need him to touch you, then you'll have to meet him halfway. It has you lifting yourself from the dingy mattress, making the springs groan and whine as you shift and rise to cross the floor. You could try to be sexy about it, swinging your hips enticingly to draw his attention in a performance, but you don't. He has to know that you're being serious, that this isn't a decision that you're making because of the stress or alcohol, but that it's something genuine and raw. 

He watches you like a hawk as you approach, vision fixed to you like he might spring forward and snatch you if you so much as flinch. His fingers run across his thumbs, causing the leather of his glove to creak dully. There's a hunger in his gaze that should make you waver or reconsider your steps, but if anything, it only serves to have a dangerous rush through your body, fueling you with a risky sense of empowerment. It's like a drug almost, having one of the most dangerous men in the Wasteland looking at you like he could rip you apart and piece you back together again, all at once. Like he's going to break you with his tongue and draw blood. 

You're close enough now that your knees almost brush along his. When you lift one of your legs to climb onto his lap, he's quick to place the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside him before settling both of his hands your hips, gently guiding you sit up top him even while his fingertips flex and threaten to bruise your skin. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once, entirely zeroed in on you with the rapt, analyzing sort of focus, like he's trying to notice everything about you at once, searching for a vulnerability to make you malleable and pliant if need be. 

You let your hands settle along his shoulders, feeling the smooth but worn leather of his coat underneath your palms, all buttery and warm from the tepid air and the heat of him. Almost as though it has a mind of its own, one of your hands sweep close to his neck and you glide the pad of your thumb across the textured skin peeking out from his button up's collar, all raised and slightly gnarled from radiation exposure. You've always wondered if it ever hurts him to be touched, if the brush of your hands along his skin might sting or prickle. But you suppose that he might be too dopped up to even register the pain that might come with the old burns and damaged nerves. A look of relief always takes over his features when he drinks that pale amber liquid from those chem vials. The chems that keep him from turning Feral; all drugged and dulled as the effects of it course through his body to soothe and suppress those mental and physical ailments. But even with the chemicals in his system, he is still able to feel you. This you know for certain. You've witnesses the influence that your hands have had on him before. You've reveled in how he's pressed into your palm and demanded more while his chest has risen in greedy, panting breaths. 

And that's all you want. To see his control slip again while he grips your hair to bare your throat to him so he can scatter more bites along the delicate skin, breaking capillaries underneath the wet suction of his tongue and parting flesh from the pressure of his teeth. 

"I know what I'm asking," you answer firmly, fully resting yourself on the support of his lap. "And right now, I'm asking for you to touch me." 

A dangerous smirk breaks across his face; the kind that immediately lets you know that you're in for nothing but trouble. He cocks his head when he considers you, eyes glinting underneath the brim of his hat. "But I am touchin' you, sweetheart." 

This is another one of the moments where you could probably slap him if you weren't already so taken with the charming mischief dancing in his stare, the honeyed drawl of his voice. It never fails to make you a little weak in the knees, and it's a crack in your armor that he never fails to exploit to the fullest. There's already a dim pang of desperation growing in your chest, but you won't dare to let him know that. It's always a constant push and pull in this little dynamic that you've cultivated with him - a constant state of cat and mouse. And unfortunately for you, you're typically the mouse. But every once in a while, if you play your cards right, you can get his claws to slip just the slightest. 

You lean close to him, angling your head just enough to keep from nudging his hat from its perch but also close enough to brush your lips against his. They're rough against your own, rugged from the texture of his skin and a little chapped by the baren, harsh elements just outside the safety of the room. But the shiver that trembles down your spine is far from disgust. It's excitement, clear and burning; thrumming along your nerves like an electrical current. The scent of him only strengthens it, perfumed with the earthy musk of soil and smoky with leather, and there's whisky on his lips, spicy and wooden, and you long to taste it. But you can't be too hasty, not with him poised to strike and sniffing out even a hint of weakness. 

You take ahold of the lapels of his coat, running your fingertips over the stitching worked along the edges as you lock your stare with his own. "Come on Coop, do we really have to do this tired routine, again? " You murmur it lowly while leaning in to nip your teeth along his ear, relishing the subtle salt of skin when it washes over your tongue. "Can't we just treat ourselves, and give in?" 

The grip on your hips tightens just a bit and you can feel him sweep his thumbs over you, though its agonizingly dull through the material of your pants, making it almost impossible to properly feel the way he caresses you. And then his voice rumbles out with the pleasing lilt, dousing out the tiny flicker of hope near your heart. "Oh, call me old fashioned, but I've always been at the mindset that it's best to take these sorts of things real nice 'n slow." 

He wants you to beg. To give in and whine. And pathetically, with the way that one of his hands slips around your front to tease and toy with the button on your jeans, it already has fissures breaking along your sense of restraint. It's such a small touch, but the graze of his knuckles gliding across your skin leaves something blazing in their wake, making kindling out of your bones and threatening to set you on fire. But in your defense, you haven't been in the company of someone in a good while. The last person that you had touched had been him, and that had been all of those five months ago in Junktown, tucked away in some shady back alleyway before you both turned on each other in favor of trying to snatch up the bounty. You had left the dingy passage with your back clawed up from the rough exterior of a building and your knees smarting and stinging, and those little scratches and bruises have long since healed and vanished. 

But you don't want to break just yet. You want to try and hold onto those slipping, fraying little pieces of your pride for as long as you can, but this his deft fingertips are popping the button of your pants open and gripping the zipper to tug it down on its tracks with a sharp, metallic hiss. It has your breath catching in your throat, and the oxygen is all but siphoned from your lungs when one of his fingers softly plucks at the elastic band of your underwear. Like he might finally humor you and slip it inside to properly touch you. But that's such a foolish idea. 

"You know, I think I've missed you," he muses against your throat. You can feel the vibrations of it softly reverberating along the skin and tendons there, sinking in deep and humming along your blood. "Have ya missed me at all?" 

It sounds like such a genuine question, but the tone he's using is entirely too mocking and yet your clouded over brain wishes to give him an authentic response. It's right there on the tip of your tongue, a single, devout yes. But you snap it shut behind your teeth before it can escape. Instead, you settle for a strained maybe, that nearly hurts to say, a bitter half-truth that taste like chemicals and ancient coffee grounds. 

"Don't be like that now," he nearly coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. His face shifts, brushing the rough drag of his lips over the edge of your jaw as his free hand lifts to cradle your chin, guiding you to tilt your head and meet his eyes again. The leather covering his thumb glides over the shape of your bottom lip, while the colorful glimmer of his eyes captivates you and holds you hostage with shimmers of green and amber and rich brown. "I think you did miss me, my little hunter. " 

You hate the heat and want that bleeds throughout your limbs and chest and trickles down from your spine to settle between the cradle of your hips. It nearly feels like a type of betrayal, that way that your body longs to give into him so easily, with nothing more than a few calculated touches and some honeyed words. And when he slips his thumb past your lips and into your mouth your mind nearly draws a blank, falling flat and fuzzy like radio static at the smoky taste of old leather. He flashes you that charming, crooked smile, and you're certain that you must look just as dazed as you feel. When you run your tongue along his thumb, brushing it along the stitching and seams, you see something spark in his stare, all starved and restrained like he's trying to keep himself from eating you alive. 

"Why don't you get down on your knees and show me just how much you really missed me?" 

Those words enter into your brain like a burning bullet splitting through empty air, piercing through the fog and stuffing packed into your skull abruptly. It draws all of your attention onto him, narrowing all of your senses down into a point to latch onto him. Even with the hunger and greed shining through his expression, you can still see a clear sense of patience showing through it all and it grounds you like a stream of warm sunlight cutting through the cover of heavy storm clouds. And despite his words, you know that he's waiting to see if you want to back out. Cooper is a lot of things: a murderer, a cannibal, and easily one of the most underhanded individuals that someone could cross paths with in the Wasteland. But if you uttered the smallest no or showed even the faintest hint of hesitance, then that would be that. You'd be back alone at your place on the bed, and he, sitting across from you while you both catch up on your lost time and exchanged stories and recite the past few of months in words and passing comments. But that's far from what you want right now. 

You don't look away from him when you shift and slip down onto the floor, and his eyes trace you hotly when you settle between his spread open thighs and place your palms just above his knees. His warmth radiates through the worn fabric of his pants, soothing and grounding, but what really draws your attention is the familiar shape of his cock making a heavy impression against the hidden zipper. The sight of it alone has your mouth watering, and you swear that you can already taste him, all salt and musk and like a rough velvet against your tongue. 

His head tilts and the action has the brim of his hat casting a soft shadow over his sunken eyes. "Get on with it then, it ain't gonna take care of itself," he remarks, a little condescending. His brows perk upward when he speaks, and the rumbling edge that his tone has adopted as anticipation and electricity singeing over your limbs and fingertips. And it has your hands lifting forward like they've been drawn up on a string, all impulse and instinct driving you forward to start working on the buckle of his belt and then the clasp of his gun holster. You're a little impatient when you slip the leather strap through the metal ring, with your movements all a little hurried and the amused huff of laughter that rises from his chest has you openly glaring up at him. The way that he casually meets your scowl nearly feels like some kind of challenge. There's an unsaid taunt in his eyes when you pinch the zipper of his pants between your fingertips and tug it downward over the metallic tracks. 

That smug smile is pressing at the corners of his mouth, growing wider and threatening to show teeth when you impatiently tug at his pants, hooking your fingers into the belt loop to try and shift them down his waist. But it's only when you shoot him a pointed, unamused look that he finally lifts his hips to help aid you in your efforts and allows you to drag his pants down around his thighs. It's almost a little surprising when his cock springs from his pants, half-hard and already leaking a few drops of precum. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear. 

You can see another taunt rising up in his expression, probably at the ready to leave his mouth and mock you, and that wicked glint in his eyes is more than enough to have you leaning forward with the desire to finally have him speechless. A challenge for sure, but you're determined. You take ahold of him in the grip of your palm and drop your jaw open to lick up the length of him. He's warm along your tongue, just as textured as the rest of his damaged skin, but it isn't unpleasant in the slightest. The taste of him spills over your palette like salt and a little musky, and the familiarity of it has you eager to take more of him. You hardly give yourself time to adjust to it before you slip the head of his cock past your lips and work more of it down until your nose brushes along his groin, and you can feel the weight of him press along the back of your throat until water threatens to well up in your eyes. 

You hear hiss sharply through his teeth over the haze in your skull and the obscene sound of your tongue and mouth gulping around him wetly.  His thighs clench and flex underneath your palms, hips twitching like he might already start thrusting until you're gagging around the thickness of him, so it surprises you when he holds himself back. His impulse control is such an unpredictable thing that seems to revolve entirely around his terms. Usually, he's intent on seeking out his pleasure. Not to say that he's entirely selfish - he always makes sure to leave you a breathless, boneless mess, no matter if it's an impromptu quickie behind a random building or an entire night spent on top of the roof of some old, dilapidated diner with the stars scattered above while coyotes cackle and yelp in the distance (that won't be a moment that you forget any time soon). But he's more than a little self-serving, and that often translates into sex. Particularly when getting head, he enjoys fucking your throat until tears are pouring down your face and you have to remind yourself how to breathe. 

But he's being gentle, almost - something that you never would have associated with a man like Cooper. Though there's no other way to really describe it when he slips on of his hands over the side of your face, curling his fingers near the nape of your neck and gliding his thumb across the swell of your cheek. It's how you touch something that's delicate; made of porcelain or glass, and it might shatter and crumble if it's handled too harshly. It makes your heart ache and long for something that you weren't even entirely sure that you wanted from him. 

Maybe he's sudden display of uncharacteristic sweetness is just his way of extending a sense of control to you after the sorry state that he had found you in, all clinging to air and bloody with a hand around your throat. It's such a simple thing really, but in a world as greedy and stripping as this one - from a man as selfish and ruthless as him, it almost feels a little vulnerable. And maybe it is a little stupid how a simple touch has a tender gash opening inside your chest, and a small barrage of emotion welling up to the surface and threatening to spill out. It doesn't help that you can feel his eyes on you when glide your mouth over him, all heavy and unwavering when you trace the subtle veins that trail across his length with the tip of your tongue. And even with the chaotic torrent of emotions that are trying to bubble up to the surface, you can't help but to delight in the way that his hips twitch and roll upward to meet you when you bob your head down on him. 

It's all sort of pathetic. The flurry of admiration and want that pools in the center of your gut and pours downward in rivulets of liquid heat to settle in the apex of your legs, where you're already certain that you're wet. And when you dare to look up, glancing through the tears that blur your vision and cling to your lashes, you have to all but slam a door shut on every single one of those dangerous little feelings, packing them up tight and shoving them deep down when you meet the weight of his stare. His head is leaned back against the back rest of the chair, threatening to nudge his hat from the crown of his head and his lips are already parted to release quiet puffs of air that rise and fall from his chest. 

It's dim. Sort of blink and you'll miss it, but you swear that you can nearly catch a kind of glazed over glint to his eyes. Like if he allowed himself, the pleasure could take him apart. It has the warmth smoldering within you fuming into a licking, desperate heat that feels like it could devour you whole. The expression on his face has you mind flatlining into something thoughtless until all you're nothing but impulse and want. You need to see more of that look. To watch the pleasure overcome him until his voice stretches out into rumbling sighs and fucked out swearing. 

It has you doubling your efforts. You lift one of your hands to twist it over the girth of him, adding to the stimulation when you lap at the head of cock and take his balls into your free palm. The low, almost strained fuck that you get in response is like a reward, brushing a shiver down your spine like fingertips and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. It has a whine slipping from your chest, nearly choking you when you take more of him into your mouth and the walls of your throat flex and ripple over the girth obstructing your airway. 

A dazed, bewildered moan escapes you when one of his hand grips you from its place around the back of your neck and guides you up until you only have the flat of your tongue against the head of his cock, catching the beads of cum that trickle from the slit. 

"Easy there, now," he warns lowly. "Wouldn' want you to hurt yourself, now do we darlin'?" 

The saccharine implications of his words and the subtle mocking of his tone has a conflicting set of responses rising in you. A part of you preens underneath his attentions and the other bristles from the taunt. In a small act of defiance, you halt the stroking of your fingertips from his balls and drop your hand entirely from him in favor of slipping it underneath your pants and the elastic band of your underwear. You can't help but to think him for unbuttoning your pants earlier when you nudge them downward until they glide along your clit in tight circles, spreading sparks and heat across your nerves and you mouth drops open even further into a drunk gasp. "Maybe that's what I want," you reply, even though your voice is already a little raw. 

"Well, with way you're touchin' yourself from just suckin' dick, I'd say you'd like that," he rumbles softly with that sharp grin on his face. You can see the lust and delight burning in his eyes when you lick against the head of his cock and eagerly swallow the taste of him - too shameless to even register a shred of embarrassment at his taunt. It feels like your body might turn itself inside out when he grips ahold of his length just above your own hand; stroking himself and making the leather of his glove creak lowly when he guides the tip across your lips to smear them with spit and cum like perverted sort of gloss. "Oughtta grab those cuffs you were in earlier. Bind you up nice 'n tight and use you up until there's nothing left. . . If only I could remember where I tossed 'em." 

It's disgusting how the thought excites you. It should be abhorrent. Something you should shy away from or openly reject considering that you had just been cuffed and dragged across the desert only a few hours earlier, but it only has something burning and heavy filling up your skull again. It threatens to sweep you under, clouding you mind over like a haze and the scent of him only intensifies it, all earth and dust and leather and salt. It's enough to have your mind twisting up and fraying around the edges until it might become completely useless. It makes it difficult to notice the impression of his hand slipping back around your neck again, digging into the tender flesh of your nape to guide your mouth back onto his cock. 

You yield underneath the nudging pressure of his hand easily, allowing it to coax you downward until your throat is flexing and swallowing around his girth; saliva slipping past the suction of your lips to drip and coat him in a way that's entirely filthy. But you welcome and bask in it completely, relishing in how it aids you when you begin to work your hand back over him, syncing it up with the drag and glide of your mouth. 

The hinges of your jaw are already beginning to ache a bit, straining from how he stretches your jaw wide to fit between your lips, but you still have absolutely no desire to stop or take a break. You can hardly even focus on the dull throb while you sweep your slick fingertips around your clit, flooding your veins with molten lust and endorphins. And it isn't long until you're rolling your hips against your own hand, and it has you almost completely pulled under, enraptured by the weight of and taste of him in your mouth and the pleasure you have building between your thighs. It makes you completely helpless. All caught up and moaning lowly around his girth when you sweep your tongue along the head of his cock in each upstroke before you glide your head down until he nudges the back of your throat. 

"You know, I never did give you permission to start touchin' on yourself like some cheap slut," he comments, all casual and sardonic, but you can still a sweetened edge to his tone. A little too sweet honestly. It would have concerned you if you weren't already hazed over and unbothered, but you should have taken it as a warning, because he's suddenly shoving one of his legs between your thighs and rudely grinding the toes of his boot up between your thighs. The pressure of it crushes against your knuckles and forces you to remove your hand from your pants to try and evade the sting of pain that spreads along your tendons and the back of your hand. It has you split in your reactions, and in your confusion, it has an almost melancholic whimper bubbling from your chest at the loss of your fingertips while you also glare up at him through the blur of tears from you place on the floor. Though, you can't imagine that you seem all that imposing with his dick completely stuffed in your mouth. 

The smug grin that he sports is confirming in that little assumption, and the arrogant glint in his eyes has a little trickle of irritation skipping down your back. "Don't worry, now. You've caught me a generous mood," he says, much too composed even when a soft groan rumbles from him at the wet glide of your mouth.  "I'll play nice with you; just this once." 

And then he's pressing his boot up against the heat of your cunt. Even with the layers of your pants and underwear still secure around your hips, the friction and weight of it against you is exquisite. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feel of it as you get caught up in the fire and burning, liquid honey that scolds and eats at you bones and flesh. The fit of your jeans is loose enough that it has the seam of them dragging along your clit, and it's only amplified by how he nudges the firm leather of his boot against you. It has your hips twitching and rolling over him mindlessly; your body instinctively seeking out pleasure before you have to consciously tell it to. 

It all already entirely too much and too little. You can feel the creases in the leather along the top of his boot pressing underneath the material of your clothes, firmly grinding against the wet heat of your cunt in a way that's almost mean. A sob rises in your throat, begging to slip free but the gentle press of his hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned in place as he rolls his hips to work himself into your mouth. It's obscene, the way that you can hear yourself, whimpering and moaning weakly around the ceaseless thrusts of his cock; the sloppy, wet glide of your spit slipping past your lips and tongue. 

You should be ashamed of yourself. A bounty hunter reduced to a mess with your knees digging into the dingy carpet while your mouth and hands are full of someone who should only be a rival. A threat to your survival and lively hood. But you know damned well that even if you weren't currently blowing him like you'd been paid for it that you could never bring yourself to see him as such. Cooper - even with as infrequent and unplanned as your interactions always are - has been the only constant in your life. The closest you've ever come to a friend or anything of the like. Everyone else is dead and gone. Killed off by time, circumstance or bad decisions. Ever since that night in the Mojave when you were both strangers with nothing more than the driving force to survive and the need to claim the same bounty there was an intrigue there. A morbid sort of curiosity that comes with leaning over to admire the depth of a canyon and wondering what it might be like to just dive in, and like a glutton for punishment you had been unable to resist the call to it. You had flirted with danger every chance that you had gotten; nearly each time you had crossed paths. He's been a sort of shadow in your life ever since. Always looming in hanging in your peripheral vision, even when he isn't close. Always present, despite being miles and months apart. 

Maybe that's why you always end up on your knees or on your back whenever you cross paths with the ghoul. Not that you're complaining. Especially not now with fire searing at the base of your spine and settling deep inside the cradle of your hips. It has your cunt clinching around nothing, begging to be filled while you desperately roll them against Cooper's boot in a fruitless attempt to nudge yourself close to the edge that seems to rise and fall and extend out in front of you with no end in sight. You swear you could sob. And with the dim groans and rumbling breaths that nearly pant out of Cooper's chest he seems to be getting just as worked up as you. But you can feel his cock pulsing along your tongue and his thighs tense and clench, signaling that he's about to reach the precipice that you're helplessly dangling along. 

You can hear him whispering over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears; hushed praises and snippets of "that's it - just like that." His head is still lolled back against the rest of the chair, chin tipped upward, and lips parted while his eyes are all lidded and dark and threatening to slip shut while he watches you. It's almost lethal, how gorgeous he looks like this. Just a little glazed over with pleasure, but still coherent enough to have a hint of that smug smile pressing at the corners of his mouth. Despite his viciousness; all jagged, rough edges and scathing sarcasm; gaunt and worn features crafted by the Wasteland, there's a brutal sort of beauty about him. A kind of repartee and charm that you don't find in many anymore, and you can still see a faint reflection of that suave, chivalrous move star in that smile of his. Even if it's just a vague ghost. A faded reflection of something - or someone - who's dead and gone and buried. 

You like those old glimpses of Cooper that you've seen. The star that graced the silver screen and entertained and enraptured the masses with his gallant declarations and witty one-liners. That old version of him seemed kind with a sort of virtue and gentleness glinting in his eyes. Something that you're always unable to find reflecting in Cooper's gaze now that centuries of war and violence and bloodshed have carved him into an entirely new being. One that has to fight and tear and kill to survive. But you like this version of him too. Maybe just as much, skeletal features, jagged edges and all. You can't tell him that. Not when you can hardly admit it to yourself. Not when the revelation could tear apart this delicate little friendship that you've curated with him throughout the years. 

But you can show him as best as you can. As best as he'll allow. And you'll pretend that every tough of your fingers, the stroke of your palms and the brush of your tongue along the salt of his skin is completely detached, even while it digs and cracks at some pathetic little piece of your soul. 

You swivel your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the precum that's collected there as your work both of your hands along the base of him. You're desperate to taste him, to feel him pulse in your mouth as that long, guttural groan slips from his throat, and his thighs twitch and shudder. Just the thought of it has your hips working against the firm shape of his boot with even more fervor, shooting electricity throughout you with each grind along your clit. It already has your stomach clenching, muscles seizing up tight in the preparation to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy from your body. 

You're both right along the edge, you can feel it. The anticipation of it has that smoldering, debilitating wave rising over you and cresting up higher with every roll of your hips. You can feel him throb in your mouth, only seconds away from coming. It has your body twisting up tight, moaning wantonly around the length of him while you eagerly await the rush of cum to spirt from his cock. But that's when the guiding hand on the back of your hand suddenly grips ahold of your hair, grabbing it tight to use it as leverage to pull your mouth from his length with a nasty pop just as your orgasm sweeps over you like a burst of fire and smoke. It forces you to make eye contact with him while bliss and heat ravages every ounce of you and your mouth drops open in a silent cry. 

He doesn't even wait for the bliss and pleasure to subside or for you to get your bearings before he's all but lurching forward with a quickness that's frightening. You just hardly catch the dark, starved glint in his eyes before he's on you and sweeping you up from your place on the floor with a jarring speed. Taking you into his arms as his rough lips meet yours in kiss that's mostly teeth, and then he's backing you up, guiding you towards something that you can't see and nearly dragging you in his urgency while his hands grasp the back of your neck and hip with an iron grip. The ferocity behind it has you moaning, all wanton and depraved when he licks into your mouth, tasting himself and biting at your lips with the ardor of a man possessed. Your hands are everywhere they can reach, sweeping along the expanse of his chest and shoulder, slipping up his neck and knocking his hat free from the crown of his head to land somewhere forgotten on the floor. 

He follows you down onto the support of something soft yet firm when the back of your knees hit what must be the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeak and groan in your shared weight. When he speaks next, it's nearly mumbled against your lips, grumbled out between the sharp, starved nips of his teeth. "You're too pretty for your own good," he drawls, breath tasting of whisky and salt. He pulls back just enough to look at you, supporting his hands on either side of your head as he wedges himself between your thighs. "I could just eat you alive." He dips his face into the crook of your neck and biting into the tender flesh there just harshly enough to sting. It's just enough for you to think that he might actually follow through with it and eat you alive; sink his teeth into you while you're vulnerable and dazed to lick your blood from his lips. It should disturb you that you wouldn't really mind it. But then his voice speaks out against your ear, thick and slow like molasses. "I think I'll just settle for fucking you." 

That's when he starts shoving your pants down your thighs, shifting back enough to peel them down your legs roughly. When he reaches your boots, he doesn't bother with any sort of finesse or tact, he just starts tugging them from your feet and tossing them like he's being timed for it and is running behind. It has you worried that you might slip from the bed and your fingers sink around the old comforter to try and stay latched on as he finally pulls your underwear and jeans free from you, digging your nails into the stitching sewn into the blanket like it might help you stay put. But he's on you with all of the fervor of a wild animal, eyes blazing even in the dark that's fallen over the room. 

You're completely enraptured while you watch him slip two of his fingers between his lips, biting into the tips of his glove to tear the leather from his hand before spitting it out somewhere on the mattress. But even with the entirety of your focus zeroed in on him it still takes you by surprise when he reaches down and swipes his fingers along your cunt, spreading you open to glide one of his knuckles along your clit. It has your back bowing and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream from the pressure of it. You're still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and your nerves feel as though they've been zapped with an electrical current. It has you hissing through your teeth, your breath snagging in your lungs while your body writhes and jerks like it isn't sure if it wants to squirm away or lean closer to his touch. 

"You're fuckin' soaking," he gloats openly with a shameless grin. 

"Cooper - I don't know if I ca-" 

"You can," he insists. His voice is coated with a layer of satisfaction and perhaps even humor, but there's still an edge of patience to it despite the boastfulness. It almost seems like enough to center you, quieting your thoughts down in to dim background noise. But it's the brush of his lips along your own that truly silences everything, drawing you attention onto him when he licks into your mouth, still tasting like whisky. It's almost enough to distract you from the tight circles he draws around your clit, forcing a broken whine from your throat when he replaces his fingertips with his cock, smearing your cum along his length in filthy, teasing glides. 

Now you find yourself pulling him forward, slipping your hands around the back of his neck and hooking your legs around his waist to tug him closer even though you're still too sensitive; lit up like a live wire from his touch. It has you gasping into his mouth, nipping your teeth along his bottom lip like you might be the one to eat him alive this time, and the pleased rumbling sigh that rises from his chest feels like a reward all in itself. For a moment everything is all soft. Placid and unrushed despite the frantic, zealous edge to it. Like you've been drawn into a hushed pocket of time. But it's just as dangerous as it is gentle. Begging to lure you into a sense of comfort and adoration that you can't afford to succumb to. An adoration and comfort that you know that a man like the Ghoul will never be able to give- the vicious, maverick creature that he is. 

Loyalty in the Wasteland is a liability just as much as it's an advantage. It's the people you cherish the most that cut the deepest. They slow you down and keep you tied. A death sentence for a world so violent. It makes your time with him limited. Always borrowed until the seconds tick down to zero and either one of you slink away until you cross paths again weeks or months later. After tonight you aren't sure when you'll see him next. If you'll ever see him again. There aren't any guarantees in this life, and at any moment your days could be cut short. A single bad decision or one bad move and your breath could be snuffed out like a weak fire on a short wick. You aren't sure how much longer you have left, but here and now it's safe to pretend that there's more waiting for you. That he won't slip away into the night as soon as the rush has worn off and the tension has ebbed from your bodies. 

It's the drag of his cock slipping over you harshly that snags you from the chaotic scatter of your thoughts, forcing your attention to snap onto him abruptly. The look in his eyes fixes your focus onto him like it's magnetized. There's a weight and fervor burning in them that leaves you completely breathless, pinned underneath his gaze and left malleable and wanting. But the smug, calculating glimmer to it should have tipped you off that he's planning something, because it's the only warning you get before he's notching the head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt and shoving himself into you in a single thrust. 

Your jaw drops in a silent cry as your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands scramble for purchase, clawing and clinging to the leather of his coat, slicing along the material and probably leaving visible marks along the tanned hide while you try to hold on and survive the wild pace that he's set. He's driving into you with a sort of ardor that already has your back bowing, driving his cock into you with debilitating strokes that punch the air from your lungs each time he bottoms out. You feel like you've been set on fire, all tingling, burning nerves and electricity rippling up your spine while he splits you open on his length. 

It's stupid how easily he always reduces your mind to a useless pile of mush. But no matter how many times you wind up underneath him or on top of him, he always manages to strip you down to your basest levels. And the way that a bout of low, guttural groans slips from him with each thrust has you squirming even more, meeting his rhythm with the roll of your hips. You feel the sound of him more than you hear him with his breath puffing against the crook of your neck and reverberating along your chest as he mouths along your throat with the sharp scrape of his teeth and the soft brushes of his tongue. The sounds echo along the room are filthy, filled with the sharp, repetitive squeak of the mattress's springs and the wet slap of skin on skin. It's all a little filthy. The unrestrained way that he fucks into you, the tender bruises that he's leaving along your neck - like he's trying to leave his claim on you. Like he wants to carve a place for himself inside of you that no one else will ever be able to fill. Making you a wreck and mess just for him. 

The buckle of his belt has become pinned between both of your bodies, and the chilled brass and silver rubs against your clit with each and every thrust. But it's the bumps on the plating that really make you twitch, almost forcing your body to tighten and clench around his girth with each deep drag. It has you gasping in seconds, clinging to his shoulders like the support of them underneath your palms might save you. 

Sharp, warbling moans split across the air, and it takes your sluggish brain a few moments to register that it's your own voice that's whining and sobbing. You can feel your lips moving, the shift of your tongue in your mouth but you can hardly comprehend what you're even saying. It could be anything from rambling pleas to cries of Cooper's name, but you can't be entirely sure. Not when your body is already coiling up tight, muscle seizing and your abdomen bunching up while that familiar surge of smoke, and fire, and ecstasy rises up to take you over and apart. 

It has you entirely conflicted, mourning the thought of already reaching the end and what might happen afterwards, but your body also craves the release. It has you staring up at the ceiling while you cling to him, darting your vision along the cotton webs and dust that sticks to the surface like it might stave of the wave of bliss that threatens to pour over you. But he must be able to tell that you're resisting somehow, because of course he can. 

He nudges his head back from its place along your throat, and his bare hand rises to grip your face between his fingers. Stroking along your chin and your lips as he stares into your lidden eyes with a sharp grin. "Come on now, sweet girl, what'er you holdin' back for?" 

It almost sounds rhetorical in your dazed out state, but honestly, you couldn't answer him properly even if you wanted to. The way that he pistons himself in and out of you gives you no breathing room to form a coherent sentence or even so much as a word. Your tongue is useless in your mouth, and it leaves every little motion that you make nothing more than instinctual. Driven by pure impulse and bodily desire as you scratch your nails along his back and cry out into the dark. And it's now that you realize that you are indeed saying his name. Whispering it out brokenly alongside wild, broken cries of rapture. 

One particular thrust from him brushes along that devastating spot inside of you and it has your spine arching in almost painfully and you toss your head back with a noise that's close to a sob. Like a feral animal drawn to a weakness, he's unable to resist the exposed collum of your throat and suddenly you can feel the wet, hot heat of his tongue laving along your neck. No doubt feeling the scattered thrum of your pulse and blood beating wildly and coursing throughout the veins underneath your tender skin. The damp drag of it continues upward until glides up to the edge of your jaw where he nips and bites with his teeth like he might sink them in deep and gulp down the rivulets of red that would pour from the wound. 

"I can feel you fuckin' squeezin' me," he groans raggedly, now staring into your eyes. His glimmer faintly in the final scraps of light that trickle in from the twilight. Searing and gleaming like the vision of some sort of otherworldly entity that's come to take you in the night and drink you of all of your vigor and affections; leaving him incomparable to anyone else who may touch you. 

You try hard to bite back the scathing fire that's ripping across your nerves and atoms like something molten and consuming, but your body is yielding to it despite that fact that you don't want to give in yet. You don't want this moment to end. You aren't ready for the quiet that may come afterwards. The way that you'll have to pretend to be indifferent and unaffected when he begins to buckle his belt and holster before he disappears into the dark. And you'll be left to wonder if he's alive or hurt as he trudges across the barren earth in search of the thrill of a fight, and the gore-soaked glory that comes with it. But even with all of your fears and anxieties looming in the back of your mind like unwelcome phantoms it's too difficult to stave off the bliss scorching at your flesh and rushing alongside your blood. Not when he's holding you so closely, and the scent of him hands heavy in the air like leather and rich soil. Not while he's still holding your face in a grip that could almost be taken as soft with the sensation of his bare palm cradled against your skin. It's warm and intimate. 

You can hardly see him anymore with the final traces of the sunlight having finally wanned behind the distant mountains, but you can still make out his silhouette above you. You can still feel him, firm and real and present; you can hear his breath and words in the hushed, heavy atmosphere. It's such small things. Little minute details that hurtle you closer to the end. It makes you latch on to him with even more fervor, hitching your legs around him tightly and digging the heels of your feet into his lower back. 

"Quit holdin' yourself back," he it urges in a snarl against your lips like a devout prayer, like an addict asking for absolution or another fix, and the hot coil in your gut burns hotter. "Let me fuckin' feel you. Just let go for me - you can let go." 

That's all it takes for the band to snap and the waves to crash down on you in an unforgiving torrent. Everything in your winds up tight simultaneously as a rush of an almost violent sort of euphoria tears throughout you and leaves your lungs gasping for even a shred of oxygen. You're certain that you might be screaming. Your throat feels raw enough. But it's difficult to make sense of anything while stars dance across your vision in a flurry of burning white like you've gone lightheaded and might faint. And you might would have if not for the support of the ragged mattress underneath you or the grounding weight of Cooper above you, still driving himself deep inside you with heavy, practiced strokes as he chases after his own release. 

The aftershocks of you twitch throughout your body, forcing weak sobs from your empty lungs as the pleasure melts back into that electrical sort of overstimulation. It makes you weakly lift up your head to bite into the leather draped over his shoulder as your body bears down on the girth of his cock to wring out his pleasure. And the ragged string of curses and loud, guttural groan that breaks out across the room is quickly followed by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout your cunt, stuffing you with his cum with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before he collapses on top of you. 

The hush that falls over the room is almost jarring now- a complete juxtaposition to the desperate pleads and blissful sighs that had filled the space just moments before. You can still smell the scent of sex in the air, all tangled up with the fragrance of tobacco and leather that always clings to him like a kind of cologne. It seems so bittersweet now. And when he pulls out of you - the both of you hissing lowly from the sensitivity that it brings - you expect to hear the familiar metallic chime of him slipping his belt through its buckle so that he can right himself to leave.

But he doesn't do that.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he huffs and rolls over onto his back with a ragged groan, situating himself next to you before he curls one of his arms around you to guide you to lay alongside him. Your head is cradled along his chest, allowing you to listen to the wild, steady thrum of his heart raging underneath all the blood and bone while you both pant and collect yourselves. It brings a comfort and fondness to you that you still know is stupid to entertain, but it's so damn easy to give into. Everything with Cooper is always so damn easy with him even though he's as difficult as they come. And you suppose that's what's made you so helplessly stuck on him. How easily you've been lulled into this relationship with him, this cat and mouse game; the constant, simultaneous state of both confidant and rival. It's isolating and welcoming all at once. Despite being such an infrequent presence in your life, he's also managed to become such a permanent fixture as well. The mere thought of his absence always leaves you completely lost, and you aren't sure how to deal with that.  

"You should try and get some shut eye," he mumbles, and you swear that you can feel the brush of his lips against your forehead, much too gentle and delicate for a man so rough. It has a smile threatening to break across your face and suddenly you're thankful for the darkness, and the cover it provides. The last thing you need is for him to taunt you for going soft, even though you certainly could do the same to him with the way that he's got you curled against his chest. But for once you don't have the urge to ruin with moment with sarcastic quips or well-meaning insults. You want to stay here forever. Even though you know it's impossible to remain paused in this moment with the delicate, cooling desert air gliding into the room to brush along your bare skin like a lover's fingertips. 

For once in this hellscape, everything is quiet. Intimate and peaceful. But just like always it's all on borrowed time. And come a few minutes or maybe hours, if you're lucky, Cooper will lift himself from the old bed and slip into the dark to claim whatever poor soul manages to catch his eye. But here and now, you can play pretend. You can imagine that when you wake up in the morning, while the horizon is blossoming with the golden hue of the dawn, that he'll still be here to greet you with that honeyed drawl. It's a fool's dream. But dream you do. 

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

TERRITORIAL. | Pretty Baby

Who would've known that the big bad wolf isn't actually all that bad?

Tags/Warnings: Punk!Jungkook, Wolf!Jungkook, Good girl!Reader, Dom!Jungkook, Sub!Reader, Corruption kink, strangers to crushes to lovers, Fluff, Adult themes

Length: uuuh long idk

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

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Strawberry milk is your favorite.

It's always been a comfort thing for you- just like certain snacks or fabrics make you feel comforted, strawberry milk gives you that little bit of extra braveness at night after work has ended to finally make your way back home into the safety of your apartment.

But tonight, it's a bit different. Tonight, there's a group of vamps outside, clearly trying to agitate the wolves who've been ruling the streets for a while now.

It's not actual gang-behavior. They're not actively fighting or anything, there's never any guns or other violence involved- at least not on the surface. Underground, you're sure this must be a different story- but on the streets, the wolves play the tune everyone else dances to- the vamps only occasionally trying to provoke something, which never actually happens.

But that doesn't mean it won't tonight. Maybe tonight's the night it'll escalate.

And on nights like this, you sometimes feel like moving into the big city was a big mistake too, because this seems so normal to everyone else around you.

Back home in your little town, there wasn't anything like this at night. People would go to bed at reasonable times, you'd know every neighbor by name and house number, and you never had to fear going home alone. But here, things are different. Here, things are a lot more dangerous, especially as nothing but a human with no connection to either group.

You kind of want to stay neutral- even if, deep down, you feel more drawn towards the wolves with their more laid back approach to life.

Outside the small convenience store, you throw away the empty bottle of strawberry milk, before you reluctantly make a few steps- looks from a few vampires immediately making you retreat however, pulling out your phone to appear occupied. You can hear them snickering amongst each other already, laughing and talking, making comments about you.

You can't do this, fuck that.

You look around a little, when you notice someone from the nearby wolves looking back at you- a young man, golden eyes a tell-tale sign of what he is, as he sits on his bike that's perched up on it's kickstand. He's watching you, but not in an intimidating way- he's more so calculating it seems like, scanning the situation before he looks towards a friend nearby, who nods, some others nodding as well as they move closer.

He's got his hands in the pockets of his jacket, beanie hiding the slightly faded blue-ish strands of hair. Everyone of the tiny group appears relaxed and non-threatening. But there's a certain confidence in them that intimidates you a little as they walk closer.

That is, until he smiles at you-

and his black tail behind him wags, swaying from side to side.

"Alright guys, can we make some space here for the lady to pass through?" He asks towards the group of Vamps, who laugh, before they reluctantly make space for you to walk. The young man carefully moves to walk a little behind you, the other's shielding you just as much on the side that's turned towards the blood-dependent human variants. It just confirms to you that yeah, you're definitely more drawn towards wolves.

"There we go. Is your home far?" The young wolf asks, still keeping a respectful distance towards you.

"Uh.. no, not really." You deny, and he nods. "Thanks, by the way." You bow to him and his friends politely, everyone just waving it off- though you can see all their tails swaying a little. It's honestly.. cute, if they didn't all look like they could probably break your neck at a moment's notice.

But they don't. Instead, they all agree to your request to walk home now by yourself, and let you go-

though you can feel one person's eyes on you for a little longer, and when you turn around, he smiles that smile again.

A smile that's just.. genuine.

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You meet him again the day after at the convenience store, though he's sporting a fresh scratch on the top of his cheekbone. He doesn't seem to be in too much pain as he spots you however, having just bought your typical strawberry courage to go home tonight. "Do you always work this long?" He wonders, and you nod, sitting down next to him at the narrow table at the windows of the small store. He's been eating something, bowl now empty though, faint redness on his lips the last remnant of his meal.

"What happened?" You ask, pointing to your own cheek, when he seems surprised, touching his own before hissing at the sting. "No don't touch it-" You whine, before you look for something in your bag, opening another, smaller, makeup bag. "here- or... do you want me to help?" You wonder, making him nod and lean forward with a faint smile on his lips, hands holding onto the chair he's sitting on between his legs as he closes his eyes so you don't feel watched.

As you clean up the scratch and put a bandaid on, you kind of have to think about the fact that he seems awfully.. less threatening than you thought he'd be, considering he's a wolf from the big city. But maybe the one's you know from the smaller towns are just.. a little too full of themselves, pride getting the best of them.

"Oh-" You suddenly say, noticing the little cartoon fish on the bandaid you just placed on his cheek.

"What, 'oh'?" He wonders back, and you hold out another bandaid to him so he can take a look.

"I'm sorry, I didn't- I forgot I only have those…" You mumble a bit caught off guard by your own actions. But he just laughs, giving it back to you with a smile and shake of his head.

"It's fine- they're cute!" He simply shrugs, not bothered by it at all. "Thanks." He offers, tail swaying behind him. "So- can I ask what you work as?" He wonders, and you nod, putting your stuff back into your bag.

"Just data management. It's pretty boring." You shrug to yourself. "But I can work by myself and I like that." You explain, zipping your bag shut before you look at him again. "Although.. I might have to get myself maybe a dog, when I go home at night. A big, scary looking one you know? But they've got to be nice so I can bring them into the office with me.." You mumble, drinking the last of your milk as he turns his body to face more openly to you again, a playful smirk on his lips.

"How about I'll be your big bad dog then, huh?" He flirts, tail swinging side to side behind him. "Though I'm probably not allowed in the office.." He laughs, especially when you roll your eyes and still smile at his joking attempt at flirting. It was a joke.. right?

"Ha-ha." You say because of that, though he just widens his eyes, feigning innocence.

"Hey I'm serious!" He offers, leaning a bit closer. "I could take you home every night- and if I can't, someone of my pack could do the job instead."

"I- I'm probably not even gonna stay in the city for too long." You sigh, playing with the fluffy pom-pom ball attached to your bag. "I don't like it here very much.. it's too.. I don't know. I don't belong here.." You mumble.

"Maybe you've simply not seen the good parts of the city." He shrugs. "I could show you some."

"And by some you mean your bedroom?" You sigh, looking at him with a bit of an attitude- and he can't help but be intrigued by that little hint of spice you seem to have, underneath your pretty visuals and rather introverted appearance.

"If you'd like to visit, the door's always open for a pretty girl like you." he purrs, and at that, you clearly turn shy. "..And I don't ever open that door for anyone but myself, typically." He adds on, and at that, you look back at him, searching for the deeper meaning of that statement-

and you seem to find it, in the warmth of his eyes and the slight redness to his ears.

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──💗── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

"Have you ever been a backpack before?" Jungkook asks, as he waits outside of your apartment, one helmet on his bike and the other in his hand.

"Uh.. no-" you say, honestly never having heard the phrase.

"Would you like to try?" He asks, motioning towards his bike, holding out the helmet. "Got this one from a packmate. Should fit you." He says, black and grey tail wagging as you take it somewhat reluctantly. "And I'll drive extra careful too." He says, helping you put on the helmet properly before his hands adjust the strap under your chin.

"What if I fall off?" You worry, but he just laughs, putting on his own helmet. You notice that his hair seems freshly dyed- nor black.

"Not if you hold on to me." He explains, sitting on the bike after putting up the kickstand. "Hop on- I'll keep it stable." He reassures you, as you somewhat awkwardly climb onto the back of his bike. Only when his hands pull yours around his middle do you notice he's only really keeping you both and the bike stable with his feet alone.

And it makes you wonder how strong he might be.

"There we go. You'll figure things out as we go, trust me." He chuckles, small speakers in his head connected to his own too so you can talk properly. "Good to go?" Be asks, and you nod-

That is until his bike roars to life, and you instinctively cling onto him for dear life as he turns to drive off onto the main road.

He laughs. You're not sure what's so funny.

"Oh look at Jungkookies new passenger princess!" Someone jokes suddenly over the speaker, and you look around just to find three people on bikes as well at the same red light.

"Nervous?" Another voice asks, and Jungkook growls a little in front of you.

"You're making her nervous, hyung!" He complains, making the stranger's laugh. "Don't worry, they just want to mess with me.." he mumbles towards you, hand squeezing yours for a little in comfort.

"Yeah of course, after all Jungkook's finally all grown up!" The first voice laughs. "Finally up for an actual relationship now, fuckboy?" He asks, and at that, you grow a bit nervous.

Fuckboy? Relationship?

Just who is Jungkook really? You've got no idea. Sure, you've texted over the past few days, but you basically know nothing about him. He could just try and get into your pants, maybe that's his whole thing- maybe he likes them innocent and stupid to have a quick fuck and then drop them again. With looks like his that must be easy.

You're easy.

"Please don't listen to them, they're just assholes-" He tries to explain as the light finally turns green, but you're quiet, and Jungkook has a feeling that something's wrong. "You okay?" He asks occasionally, but you just nod and move on, not really up for talking anymore. He just wants to screw you anyways. Maybe he really is just a big city wolf down the line.

The scenery is nice, but you don't really feel like enjoying it too much as you just want to go home right away again. It's something you do- you hide from things, because confrontation just ends in you being at fault all the time. And maybe, this time, you are at fault.

You shouldn't just trust someone like that. You both barely know each other.

He parks at a gas station, turning off his bike in a more secluded parking area, before he takes off his helmet, and helps you take off yours too.

"What's wrong?" He asks, hair a bit wild, but eyes serious as they look at you, reflecting the light from the neon signs a little like mirrors.

"Nothing." You shrug, avoiding eye contact.

"He was just messing with me. They're always like that-" he tries to explain, and as you sigh, he knows that that's exactly what must've set you off. "Listen, I won't stand here and tell you I'm a church-going virgin because I'm not. Yeah, I fucked around, because sex is fun to me." He shrugs, and you're caught off guard at how boldly he says that. "But that doesn't mean I can't take things seriously." He offers, finally catching your gaze again. "And I want to take.. you seriously." He offers you, but you're not sure.

"...why?" You wonder. "Cause I'm pretty and innocent?" You jab at him. "Cause I'm the small town girl you can corrupt and then drop after you finally got into my pants?" You accuse. "Sucks to be you, I'm not a virgin anymore. I've had sex already, and for me it's not fun." You deny, crossing your arms almost defensively, though you quickly move your hands back on the bike as it moves slightly the moment he sits on it again, facing you however.

"I don't care about that." He tells you. "I won't lie that the corruption part isn't something appealing to me-" he chuckles, as he tests the waters, hands on your thighs not moving, just resting on the tops of them. "-But I'm not dropping you, if you ever let me have you." He purrs.

"What if I'm not ever letting you have me?" You respond, trying to act tough so he won't think you're easy.

"Then that's your choice." He nods.

"So if I say no right now, you'll leave me alone?" You ask.

"Depends on what you say no to." He shrugs leaning back a little, your legs feeling cold without his hands on them. "No to sex? Alright, we won't fuck then." He explains. "No to being with me? Cool, we'll just stay friends then." He goes on.

"No to me entirely?" He offers, eyes unreadable. "I'll accept that, and back off."

"That easy?" You ask a little caught off guard, and he nods. "So you're.. huh." You mumble to yourself, defeated. So he's not even up to put any effort in you. That's slightly disappointing, and honestly makes you feel a little ashamed even.

"So what is it?" He asks, and you shrug.

"I don't know." You answer honestly.

"Then how about I'll work for it?" He smirks, and you look at him now. "Let me take you out. Let's go on dates, I can take you to pack meet-up's so you can get to know those assholes better, hell, I'll even have you meet my mom if you want!" He excitedly proposes to you, tail wagging, hitting his bike occasionally. "Just- you seem really cool. Exactly what I've been searching for." He explains a bit softer now. "Let's try.. okay?" He asks.

"... okay." You answer, and at that his lips turn, part in a happy grin, before he gets up from the bike and punches the air once in his excitement before he returns.

"Okay!" He giggles to himself, helping you back into your helmet. "I know an awesome place to get some food-" he instantly rambles, kicking up the stand for his bike again before he drives off with you-

Eager to show you that he's the one for you.

[izzyspussy]

honestly i think the root of ed and izzy's communication problems was not that they were unwilling to talk about their thoughts and feelings to each other - although of course that is also true and certainly didn't help. no, the root of the problem, and the foundation of their relationship dysfunction, is that they don't think they need to talk about it. they each think the other one already knows.

see, izzy thinks he's simple and ed's complex. it's not that izzy's unintelligent, in fact he'd say he's quite clever, and frankly smarter than most of the men he's sailed with (in his opinion). but he thinks in one fucking straight line, and- well, he frequently doesn't understand even his own feelings, but it seems safe to assume they follow generally the same path. it's just that one straight line, point a to point b, and that's it. no matter how much he tries to bend or take a different direction he just can't do it without someone else dragging him along every step of the way. it's just a matter of fact that he could never understand ed, who is so much more complex and dynamic that he's practically a higher life form. no one would ever expect him to, not without a detailed guide. but of course since ed can think every which way like breathing, looking down izzy's straight line is surely the easiest thing in the world. so obviously ed always knows how izzy will take things. and when ed says or does something that doesn't make sense to izzy and ed doesn't enlighten him, ed is choosing to withhold an explanation. forcing izzy to have to guess, or setting him up to fail completely. maybe to humble him or maybe to punish him, or maybe just to remind izzy (again) that they may be fucking and they might even possibly be friends but they're not lovers and izzy's desire to be so is definitely unrequited.

meanwhile, ed thinks he's nuts and izzy's sensible. it's not all bad to be nuts, you know the line between genius and insanity and yada ya. most of the time he likes being different, he likes being chaotic, kind of indecipherable, ineffable like a god. to most people anyway. because most people are a little bit nuts too, but just a little bit, not enough to do anything really interesting or cool with like ed (also not enough to be as volatile as ed, as dangerous. inhumane - you know, like a god). but not izzy. like obviously izzy has flaws. he's temperamental and high strung and he's got a chip on his shoulder almost as big as he is and he can be absolutely fucking ruthless. but he's logical. he makes sense, and he always notices the little fucking details ed misses and he never loses track of anything. he's so neatly put together and he makes everything around him fall into order too - the ledger, the store rooms, the men (or so ed thinks). obviously if izzy can be so objective about all that shit, he can do that with ed too, solve for him in his head like he does with sums. hell, izzy's so meticulous - and so obsessed with ed - he probably understands ed better than ed himself half the time. he must have all of ed's feelings mapped out like the ship's course. if he ever seems not to get ed, it's only because he's decided ed's feelings are just too fussy and convoluted to humor, or else he thinks they're not even worth pinning down in the first place.

so izzy resents ed for tricking him and for rubbing his nose in his shortcomings, and he never tells ed he feels that way because the only thing bitching about it will accomplish is for izzy to look weak as well as foolish. and ed resents izzy for judging him and ignoring the parts of ed he doesn't like, and he never tells izzy he feels that way because izzy would just double down and tell him to get over it.

the fact that they've spent the majority of their lives in a dog-eat-dog world of treachery and gratuitous violence where any vulnerability is taken advantage of and/or belittled is just one of many icings on top.

[ghostieyanyan]

Yandere! Kalim x reader, but yandere but they're bad at their jobs au. Like one minute Kalim act all sadistic and dark then the next thing when reader asked if he wants some pets he went to his usual happy sunshine puppy that demands pets

yes~~ presious baby boi just wants love but he so spoil x3

what i also like to think about with yandere kalim is that he knows right and wrong but its so water down for him that "he just cant help it ^^

For fun, im making this into a modern mafia au ^^

~Just trying to help~

Yan!Boss!Kalim x Worker!mc

Warnings: power dymanmic, mafia mention, violence mention, nsfw hints, death?, manipulation

~~~~~

The Asim, they are known for their wealth and their trades. They're a super big powerful family with a lot of people (both loyal and not loyal) under them. They kind of give "untouchable kings" vibes. Theyre still really nice to their "people", you just don't see them a lot, or at all really. The only way to really "talk to them" is by talking to someone in their circle but there are layers into that circle. some people thinks that their family is shady, like the rich people act is a persona to hide something but no one really has proof.

But you really don't have to worry about that. You have your own stuff to worry about, like living expenses. You were basically living on the streets, barely living. You did side jobs to get by. maybe you'll clean or maybe you'll babysit. when you were a kid, you always wanted to help people. But with your home life, money, you couldn't really get to your dreams even if you tried. you stopped school pretty early and its a little too late for you to get back into it. plus what school will accept you. you lived in a community where rich gets richer and medium class becomes poor... I guess that's where you are, what your luck...

you were heading to your next "job" place. you had to clean for a really sweet old couple, the Wrights. They couldn't afford much either but they try to help you whenever they can. Example, you clean places that they cant reach, in exchange they give you dinner, as much as they can. you always wish them good health. they are too sweet for this unfair world.

you were lost in your head, enjoying the memories and conversation you had with them. But when you to their place, you see 3 grown men towering over Mr. Wright.

"please understand.. we aren't here for trouble but your son does owe us some money. were just here to collect."

"please.. we havent seen our son in months. hes not here."

"come on, blue carb! i wanna go home! if you dont tell us-"

"Floyd, we aren't here for threats."

"hmm..? oh my... what do we have here?"

the light hair man turn to you with a very scary smile. You didnt have time to take even a step when one of the men grabs you by the arm. he had teal hair with a black stirp. he had awful smile that showed off his sharp teeth.. the smile looked every threatening..

"were just here to talk about business, why dont you scram shrimpy."

you started to tremble and turned to Mr. Wright. he gave you a weak smile and moved his hand like to shoo you away.

"go on dear. it'll be okay."

you gulped in terror but you dug your heels into the ground. if you didn't, who knew what these shady guys would do to this kind old couple.

"h-he.. said he hasn't seen his son! n-ow get out of here before i call the police!!"

"..."

".."

"..."

everyone got quiet.. no one moved.. the men seem stun by your outburst. the man, that was holding you, didn't seem to like your outburst and gripped your arm, harder. it hurts..!

"tck.. im getting really annoyed, shrimpy... Should break your arm to show you-"

"actually Floyd, i have a better idea."

the light hair man walks up to you and hands you a card.

"i am Azul Ashengrotto. i run a cafe called the Mostro Lounge and Mr. Wright's son has owe us a pretty penny~"

The way he spoke gave you chills. You hated it. it was too sweet when you knew that the words he spoke are laced with poison.

"What if-..."

You had to take a long deep breath, you're risking a lot for even thinking this... but you had to. you were the only able person to protected these people who gave you more than you've asked.

"what if... i worked for you..? i'll work for you, pay off the owe money and you'll have to leave Mr. and Mrs. Wright alone! Deal..?"

the light hair man pauses.. then smiled. he put his hand out for a handshake.

"Its a Deal."

when you took his hand, that was it. you had to say goodbye to your home away from home. you gave mr.wright a smile and left with the strange men...

~~~

the next few weeks you learned what they did, kind of, and what they needed of you. they didn't tell you 100% of everything but you were supposed to be their servant, or an errand boy, or something like that?

the job wasn't bad at all. you cleaned, get anything they need, run things for them. sometimes they call you for... personal reasons. In exchange you get 3 meals a day and a comfortable room. which honestly, you weren't complaining. before, you would have one meal a day and even sleep on either a hard floor or a gross mattress. At this rate, after you finish paying off the Wright's debt, you might just stay here.

sometimes the job brings pretty scary people that show up out of nowhere. they often had big weapons to their side, some would have the weapons ready and loaded. Jade, Floyd, or Azul often gets you out of the way and most times tell you to cover your ears and close your eyes. sometimes they have you clean up their messes after these scary men... "leave." you knew better but you cant really say or do anything about it so.. you just don't question it.

after a month, you thought you get used to your new home life now but- you accidentally ran into someone or someone ran into you.

"oh my-! are you okay? im so sorry!! i-"

"no no! its okay. i should have been more careful."

the mysterious man helped you up. he had bright red eyes and white white that complement his dark skin every nicely. he had a black dress shirt and a red suit with gold accents, red dress pants to match. when he helped you up, you notice he's hands are really soft. big contrast to your hands.

"I'm sorry again."

he was about to run away but stopped and sheepishly turn and smile at you. it kind of reminded you of a happy teenage.

"actually... do you know where the Mostro lounge is? i... i think im lost. hehe." he scratched the back of his head. the embrassement on his face was slowly growing on you because he kept smiling.

it was kinda weird to see someone around here with such a bright smile..? like an genuine smile or maybe hes just a good actor or something..? you cant say.

"oh.. its a left then a right." you poked.

"kk! thank you~"

he turned and ran away again. you were about to leave but he stopped you again.

"can you actually walk with me there..? i asked directions before and got lost.. hehe~ pretty please?"

with his charming smile, you couldnt help but smile back.

"okay, follow me."

during your walk there, he asked a few question. they were harmless questions, enough. favorite colors? favorite food? favorite animals? where have you been? favorite places to go? etc.

when you got there a tall man with dark skin and long beautiful black hair rushed to your side, well more like to the other man.

He had the same outfit as the white hair man but they both wore it differently. which wasnt a bad thing. it compliment their personalities. Like jade, floyd, and azul do with their suits too.

"Kalim! where have you been?! we just left the elavoter and you were gone from my sights?! why did you-?"

"oh ya! i saw this pretty ocean theme pillows and i wanted to get some but you had my wallet hehe~ so... can i get them? they be perfect for-!"

"no. ugh..."

you felt really uncomfortable... it was like a mother scolding her kid... the black hair man looked at you. you shifted your feet uncomfortably.

"who are you? i dont remember you from our last visit?"

you raise your hands up and backed up slightly. people here are either very suspicious, they often come to see azul for his deals, or naive soul, that came for the ocean-like atmosphere.

"im just a-"

two arms snaked around you. you started to freak out. this is how you die--!!!

"shrimpy!! where's my drink~~? ive asked it for about... like 10 minutes ago~~~"

Oh! its just Floyd. he practicely moaned in your ear. it was a lot to get used to Floyd's mood swings. but you learn to avoid him when hes upset or just do want he says and not say too much. if he tries to tease you, he often gets bored and wonders to do who knows what.

"oh! hi sea snake! hi sea otter!"

"Floyd.. for the last time, stop calling us-

"hi Floyd!! haha!"

the white hair man jumped up and join the hug! you were getting crushed between these two... you were patting their backs in a way to say "okay thank you but-- that enough..!!! im dying! let me go!"

"jamil! Kalim! its great that you made it! a bit late but- i cant say im suprised."

"tsk.. hello jade... azul..."

the dark hair man, pulled the white hair man off you. it helped but Floyd is still squeezing you like he was trying to kill you, not literally... hopefully.

"ah.. its seems that you met our new hire. Jamil, Kalim, this is (mc)."

you, trying your best with the situation youre in with floyd right now, bowed your head as jade introduced you.

"hehe. we found shrimpy when we were at the Wright's place."

"did you get the money..?"

"no~ they were being stubborn but (mc) offer to pay off the money that was owed so i cant complain too much."

azul spoke and rubbed your head like a kid. you didnt like how they were talking about you like you werent there. or rather, talking about the Wrights like they were bad.. but you held your tongue. you didnt want to get them mad... especially when floyd is still holding you.

"ohh.. poor (mc). dont worry, well protect you from those mean people. im kalim, Kalim al-asim!"

"Kalim!"

"and thats jamil, Jamil Viper."

"Kalim! dont give our names to strangers! you dont even know them-"

"Well then~ we'll just have to just spend time with them!"

Kalim.. Kalim al-asim.... an Al-Asim.. Al-Asim! This smiling ray of sunlight is an Asim??

apparently your face paled because Kalim reached for your face and held your face into his hands. he gave you a giggle and smiled as he massage your cheeks in his hands.

"hehe youre so cute. after our meeting with Azul, i want to hangout with you on your break. when is it? hmm?"

you turned to Azul, he nodded his head in approval.

"i-its.. its in 2 hours from now.. sir.."

"hehe.. no need to talk so formal. just call me Kalim. And okay, on your break, meet me by the front door of the Mostro lounge, kk?

"y-yes.. kalim.."

he gave you a smile and all the 5 men started to head to Azul VIP room..

what did you get yourself into....

~~~

You've been spending a lot of your time with kalim as of late. To the point where you felt guilty for leaving work.. but you'd feel more guilty for saying no to kalim. You tried once. It was one too many.

You initially wanted to keep some distance. But with kalim's smile and charisma, you couldn't say no. Kalim always found a way to have lots of fun and he will always include you too.

Every time you came back to the Mostro lounge, floyd gives you a stink eye and a "why wasn't i invited~?" whine. Jade gives you his creepy smile and does a weird thing by leaning in and asking "did anything exciting happened~?", whatever that means. Azul doesn't seem upset at all. It made you anxious. Is he marking down your pay when you're out with kalim..? You checked your accounts and you were still getting payed for your work but.. you didn't do any work..?

You decide to talk to azul about it. You didn't want something like this be in the air, with someone as slimy as azul.. and with money no least!!

You knocked.

"Um.. azul..? Are you busy?"

You peeked through the door of Azul's office, and they vip room.

"... no. What do you need..?

he was working on some papers and he looked.. unpleased.

"I.. ill ask later."

You tried to take your leave befor-

"You wanted to ask about your pay..?"

You slowly turn to him. His face hasn't changed from that unpleased expression.

"Y-yes sir.."

Azul sighed, lend back into his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his face as he let's out another sigh.

"Kalim is... renting you."

What..?

"And he also requested for you to still get payed because, his words.. 'they're still working.'"

He started to stare at you. You didn't think he meant it to look intimidating, because he can't see you, he doesnt have his glasses on. But it still was very unpleasant.

You were at lost of words. Kalim al-asim... is renting you..? You weren't mad but you weren't happy too. Spending time with kalim is really fun and his personality is really refreshing. But being told you were 'rented out' feels.. dehumanizing. But with your life, you can really feel anything else..

"Is that all..?"

"Yes sir.."

"Good, you may leave."

You bowed your head and left, making sure to close the door softly behind you.

What do you do now..?

~~~

Now after every visit from kalim, the moment becomes a little sour. He's paying azul to spent time with you, but why? He's an al-asim. He could get anything he wants right? Why would he spend time with a common rat like you..?

What are you to him?

"(Mc)? You okay?"

You looked up and kalim was really close to you! You jolted and lean back

"I-im okay! Its just.. work. Heh.. work just be exhausting and im just.. I'm okay!"

You smiles, you didn't notice that kalim stopped smiling.. he was still looking at you but just not smiles. it would have scared you to your core if it wasnt for you trying to change the topic by looking at the scenery. A minute past and his smile came back, brighter.

"Why don't you come with me then?"

"huh..?"

"You could live in the al-asim estate and you don't have to lift the finger! Serverts will come to your every beckon call and you get to live.. like an Asim."

As you were staring at him, lost of words, he gently took your hand. You didnt even noticed it until he pulled your hands to his lips and kissed it.

"K-kalim! I-"

Before you could finish your sentence, he stood in front of you and got on one knee.

You felt sick

"(Mc)... "

You felt dizzy

"Will you-"

This has to be a dream!!!

"Be mine?"

He sweet innocent smile made you feel sick. How can can someone so dangerous be so naive?!? You bearly knew him! He bears knew you!!

"I.. i-i have to go!!"

You ran off, back to Mostro Lounge, back to your room, leaving a sad otter left on one knee..

~~~

You were in your room for 3 days..

You weren't payed for those days but you didnt care..

You felt sick and a little guilty. Kalim looked so sad when you left him. Maybe when you see him again... you could apologize and explain yourself..? By the seven! Would he still be mad at you? Will he order for you to be erased??

You felt nausea.

You needed to get some water.

Luckily it was night time, you wouldn't likely run into floyd, jade, or azul.. maybe?

You walked through the dark halls, only using your memories and the walls to guide you.

You were lost in thought and didn't realize a figure coming up behind you. By the time you did noticed, the figure quickly over powered you and you were imbraced into darkness.

~~~~

[Before the proposal]

"Azul!!? how much does the Wrights owe!?"

Kalim bursted into Azul's office, with a tired Jamil following behind.

"ah! K-Kalim! you know you have to make an ap-"

"i know i know! this is important though!!"

Kalim rushes up to Azul's desk, slamming his hands down on to the desk and leaned over to Azul. he was like a jumping dog..

"i want to ask (mc) to marry me!!"

everyone froze and even jade and Floyd, they were walking by, looked at Kalim like he was crazy.

"Kalim! I know your father has told you about being an Al-Asim and your responsibility to your family and making an hair but not like this!!"

"come on, Jamil~ they're perfect~ they're sweet and kind. they're responsible and hard working, like father wanted. they're just... perfect!"

Kalim goes through his phone and looks at pictures of you he took when you hanging out with him and even ones he requested from Jade and Floyd, secret cameras. They vary between you working and you when you think youre alone...

Azul rubs his face and gives a long sigh.

"look kalim. Even if your display of affection is definitely... something... (mc) is still working the Wrights' debt off. if they're not here then-"

"oh! that's another amazing thing about them! they were willing to help the Wrights without even knowing what they were getting themselves into. with the amount of debt the Wrights have, (mc) would be working until they're in their 70s. Thats why i need to protect them, do they even know about the Wrights 'situation'?"

Floyd lays on the couch in the VIP room, with candy in his mouth.

"nope! Jade thought it would help (mc) stay motivated to work. you saw how upset they got whenever we talk about the Wrights. they're so cute but so obedient that they don't even asked what they did to get in their situation, HAHA! silly shrimpy~!"

Floyd laughs and Jade chimes in.

"To be fair, we did get them out of a 'dangerous situation'. what the Wrights were doing to them was shameful.. Saying their debt was all because of their son, who has been dead for 10 years, and saying they dont have money but is found actively going to clubs spending more. the fact that they're living in the poorest town, and looking like weak old people. they're fooling everyone with the act. Everyone, including (mc)~"

Jamil turned and glared at Azul.

"wait-.. you didn't even tell them..? and you kept them working here?"

"think whatever Jamil, someone has to pay the debt off."

"i can pay it!"

Kalim looks at Azul, he was giving a determined look. Azul sighs again, why is everyone in his office. He has too much work to do.

"i know you can but you know-"

"in exchange, give me (mc)."

Jamil was about to stop Kalim but-

"(mc), yes, they work here under false pretenses but they have became a big asset to us. if you were to take them, it will take a long time to replace them."

Kalim walks closer to azul. with his serious expression, to say left everyone on edge was an understatement.

"i will pay 3x the Wrights' debt... as long as i get (mc)."

Azul looks at Kalim and a sick smile appears. He held out his hand.

"Its a Deal."

~~~~

This took so long! but i did it! i hope you guys enjoy it. if you guys like me to draw something for this, just ask, until then, back into my wips qwq

[the-kr8tor]

I'm sorry about the last one I just got way too excited to express my admiration for your works, I forgot to check!! But I've checked now and I saw The "Imagine if Hobie was prowler" that actually sounds really cool!! I was thinking if you could write something about that, maybe Reader is someone who he cares a lot for but it turns out they're also fighting against each other, (I haven't actually tackled the whole Universe of spiderman so I was genuinely just thinking of Reader as someone with powers TvT) but yeah I got a bit curious about that, I'm not sure if you wrote about that yet since I haven't went in all the master list and hopefully I don't finish it yet cause I'd be left with the deep emptiness (I love all the series so finishing it while it's ongoing would devastate medhdhx) but if you did you can discard my message or if this is too much, that's alright!!

Oh and I'm really happy I didn't make you Uncomfortable it's my first time writing something to a writer and I got anxious TvT I hope you have a great day!!

No worries! You're good! I put my own spin on it, I hope you like it! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Prowler! Hobie Brown x gn! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw blood, cw violence, cw injury, tw death, Prowler! Hobie, Venom! Reader, ANGST.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The air runs cold, and your breath staggers in your throat. The fighting around you hasn't stopped, nor all the screaming, and bleeding flesh. But everything seems to cease when you see him. The noises deafen, debris and blood stilling in the air— Hobie in all his glory, covered in metal and crimson iron. Hobie, whose face is obscured by steel plates over his familiar face, purple smoke ebbing out of his suit. And yet, despite his rough and intimidating exterior, despite his sharp claws and sharper gaze, your heart still longs for him. He still feels like home.

Home, you haven't thought of it in years, the trees that dance in the wind, soft lavender wandering through the air. And your little house in the middle of the fields you once shared with him. A house that now ceased to exist, burned to ashes, nothing left but dark soot and blackened smoke that seemed endless. Ever burning, flames still snaking along the lavender fields, forever burying your memories with him under the red hungry flames. Those memories still live with you, deep down. You hope it still lives with him. If not, you'd rip it from your heart and hand it to him in your waiting ruby drenched palms.

“H-Hobie?” You ask in a broken tone, even though your soul knows him from where you stand. In between gore soaked bodies, bodies you've ripped and chewed yourself— he stands there motionless. You wonder if he still bears the warmth you used to hold in your arms.

The metal bridge creaks and squeaks, hinges about to give up from the stress of the fighting in its steel embrace. Tethering close to devouring every soul standing on its last life. You've felt the earth collapse years ago. If the ground fell from under you, would you notice?

Hobie doesn't answer, you see his chest rise and fall, gauntlets leaking blood. You don't know if it's his or someone else's, you just know it's not yours. Not yet. Would he hurt you?

You stand there, all worn out, arms bleeding and throbbing, legs trembling from the sheer pain. And yet, your eyes never leave his own mechanical mask, as if you can see the worry behind the steel curtains.

He stands there, heart ripped out, still beating atop the bodies laid out in front of him. He stands there, but he should walk towards you, run towards you and hold you. Hold you like he once had in that lavender field he once called home, hold you as if he didn't lose you all those years ago.

To live in his delusion, to never leave from the haze of the past. He longs for it, to stay where he once held you.

But the blackened tendrils coming out of your wounds is the one that he's fighting against. It curls around you, wrapping you in its mass. White eyes in place of your own that he sees in his dreams, sharp claws and lolling tongue— he doesn't see you anymore. Can't see you underneath the obsidian flesh of his enemy. He wonders if it's still you under it.

With a gutteral screech from the large mouth of the alien mass inhabiting your body, he takes his guitar from his back to pluck its strings. The noise could kill you, or it could liberate you. So he decides, and he plays.

The sound reverberates around the bridge, the creaking pauses for a moment, replaced by the ear piercing shrieks from the venoms. Hobie sees you crumble to your knees, tentacles of black slime ripped apart at the seams.

Your face is revealed under the mass, contorted into pain, the light in your eyes slowly fading as the creature feeds on your very being. Your nails dig into the slimy flesh, desperately trying to rip it out from your body. Eyes meeting with Hobie's, you nod for him to continue despite the blood spilling from your ears.

With bated breath, he strums again. More shrieking, more screaming, flesh torn apart, teeth chattering above the sound. His eyes never leave from your suffering as tears prick from his eyes. Grief snakes along his stomach up to his chest, pressing hard on his heart.

“Again!” You yell, ripping and gnawing at the agony filled venom. He follows, another strum, and another, one by one, venoms leave their hosts, and one by one, the bridge's wires collapse. But your own demon doesn't yield, it clings to you like a babe, holding onto you like a lifeline.

“C’mon!” Hobie stalks closer, plucking his strings over and over again despite your screams that would haunt his dreams. The venom wraps around you in its cold embrace, your own screams stifled with its arm over your mouth, choking you. “No!”

The bridge crumbles, someone tries to yank him away and take him to safety. But he shrugs them off, even if it means his own death.

“Hobie!” You manage to yell, “run!” It has you in a chokehold, dark veins ebbing from its touch towards your skin. It's killing you with it. Swallowing you in darkness, drowning you.

He abandons his guitar to dig you out of the mass. He rips out a chunk but it's immediately replaced and healed. Your muffled breaths can still be heard from under, he doesn't leave you. He won't leave you to die in the arms of the thing that took you from him.

Claws cutting and tearing, he heaves, breath stuck in his lungs. Yanking his helmet off, you see his face from the last pinprick of light. You wish there was a smile on his face instead of the desperation and fear. Still, you wished for home and you got it.

He pleads, and he calls for you, and his face is the last thing you saw before you fell into the suffocating depths.

The bridge collapses from under his feet, and he falls with you, holding onto you, plunging into the icy tides below. In the water, venom dissolves into nothingness, and he could finally hold you again as he joins you on the other side.

[mrsnancywheeler]

the lakes (7) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous / next

midnight rain

2.7k words

warnings: angst, fluff, manipulation of someone's feelings, self-doubt, reader being sure she'll die, mental illness, allusions to violence/death, banter, this ones kind of short and sweet before the interviews and games start, terms of endearment, no use of Y/N, UNEDITED, reader likes peaches

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“They've been evaluating every moment in training, but this is the big moment. Show them much you've improved, how far you've come. Since you've decided not to ally with the Careers and haven't been falling under the radar, you both need to prove how much of a threat you are as a group." This was life-saving information for your Games persona, but Finnick's honey voice filled your senses.

“As an individual threat they'd want to target you sooner, but as a group you're more of a challenge.” Ondine took a drink of the shimmery blue liquid in her glass, it looked so unnatural and the sour yet sweet smell filled your nostrils from far away.

"So let's hope your District 7 friends get the memo.” Finnick’s snide remark infuriated Conway who was always being irked by his advice.

“They will, they're impressive." He said it so shortly the tension between them would be obvious to anyone.

“Hopefully the gamemakers agree." Finnick was ever smiling, taking a bite of a peach. He grabbed another one and as if he forgot himself tried offering it to you.

“No I'm okay, thanks." You shook your head and your eyes bore what you up was a very stern, what the hell to him. Maybe it would seem normal to most people, but everything seemed too risky.

“Suit yourself." Finnick tilted his head and offered it to Conway as well. He seemed unbothered, but you could tell he got the message. You looked at the fruit, your favorite. Hopefully it seemed like Finnick was just being kind to the both of you and Conway didn't recall that peaches happened to be your choice of fruit. It did make your heart flutter a little though, knowing that Finnick did.

Conway shook his head curtly. You began tapping your foot anxiously, everything was too awkward. Taking a sip of water to try and quench the dryness in your throat.

“You really both should eat, in a couple of days there could be nothing." Ondine advised, and Finnick’s hand was suddenly offering the peach back to you. His smile was so knowing and you took a second before accepting it.

“Thank you." You muttered before taking a bite, it was delicious and eating something made your anxieties less prevalent. The way Conway was looking at you made you feel like you had to defend this decision, “Their right, we need to preserve our strength and it's breakfast, the most important meal of the day." You tried to keep your tone light, airy, and carefree to cover for the internal gnawing at being found out. Messing with your hair as you averted your eyes from his to take another bite.

"Right.” Conway said gruffly and moved his head in disbelief before he started taking bites of the eggs on his plate. Suddenly you were scared, he was upset, you hadn't taken his side even if it was simply being defiant about allies and eating something else. Regardless of your tactics you still had free will and you hated being malleable to whatever he thought just so he would think you loved him, but when you didn't would that be another tick that would make him kill you quicker in the arena.

No, you were talented, well liked. He couldn't kill you without your allies turning against him too if he did it too early on. At least that's what you were trying to tell yourself as you foot kept tapping, robotically taking bites of the fruit. Glancing up for a moment, your eyes met Finnick’s, he was mouthing something at you. Probably you are okay but your mind was too preoccupied to grasp in the moment to analyze. He tilted his head downwards and tapped his fingers on the table. Shit, you thought as you instantly stopped your foot from its continual tapping. That would be an easy tell, for Conway to know you were upset now, which was a threat, and in the arena.

Conway had been looking between you too and seen the whole interaction, at least that's what you assumed when he began talking. “Hey, are you okay?" His voice oozed with genuine care that angered you further, how could he say that, but also put you in this position? No, you put yourself in this position.

“Just nervous about today, you know, making an impression." You tried to cover for yourself. His hand grabbed yours, it was just as cold as yours.

"Don't be, you're going to do great.” Conway tried to assure you, brown eyes trying to be comforting, but they weren't when your own were on pins and needles trying to sell a version of yourself that wasn't true.

You forced your muscles to relax at his touch, "Thank you.”

"We should be on our way.” Finnick abruptly interrupted the moment, chair squeaking on the floor. Ondine nodded in agreement as she stood and Conway reluctantly let go of your hand as you both followed. Leaving the peach on the table as you walked out behind Conway.

Soon enough you were both sitting in the cold, metallic room waiting for your names to be called. Thankfully you weren't from a lower numbered district so the anxious waiting didn't have to last for long. Mostly though, Conway’s hand was sitting on you knew and you were painfully aware of it, trying not to act bothered. It was uncomfortable, but you had to put yourself at ease, even putting your hand on top of his. Then your name echoed through the room, it almost brought some sick kind of relief knowing you wouldn't have to keep faking the chemistry for a few moments.

His hand squeezed your leg before he released it and you stood up, “You've got this." He encouraged you, smiling so sweetly a rational girl would be swimming in joy for it.

“You too." You smiled back before walking out of the room. Into the predatory eyes of the gamemakers. They hadn't been there long enough to be bored yet, so their attention was still laser-focused when you entered.

Charm, you still needed the charm. You hoped your aura was radiating the confidence you were pretending to have as you smiled up at the group observing you. “The floor is yours to show any talent of your choice." A voice rang out. You nodded, eyes searching for where the knives and targets would be.

Breathing heavily as you approached them, willing your body to do what it always has not to freeze up or slip. Thankfully it listened as you picked up one of the knives, lightly tossing it in the air before catching it. Reassuring you that your instincts knew exactly what they were doing as you began throwing them into the targets. Brain focused on extreme precision, this could make or break you, force you to rely on an outgoing persona rather than being a double threat. Before you knew it each knife was gone from where they previously lay.

“Thank you." Another voice pierced through the air as you turned to face the raised area where they all sat, drinking their various beverages.

“Thank you." You emphasized before making your exit, hoping a few words and your talents with knife throwing was enough. Doubting that it was as you exited to the hall where Finnick and Ondine would be waiting.

“How'd you do?" Finnick’s voice led you straight towards their direction.

You shrugged,"I don't know if it was enough.”

"So you did great.” He clicked his tongue at your self-doubt before stepping closer. “I'm sorry about earlier, I wasn't thinking." He whispered, you didn't care anymore not when his presence made the butterflies in your stomach explode.

“It's fine, I'm not sure he's buying it anyways." You leaned up against the wall, exhausted from the constant mind games and how on edge you were.

“He is." Finnick tried to assure you, “He'll probably allude to it during the interviews, which we'll start preparing for, and the sponsors will eat it up.”

"Okay, I trust you.” You whispered and you could have sworn you saw his heart breaking, no matter how hard you played of course your death was most likely inevitable.

Then Conway was done and you were all headed back to your floor, to impatiently await results. Laying on the couch, his arm draped around you. Oh how you longed for it to be Finnick's instead, who was sitting nearby, arms lazily resting on the top of it.

You held your breath as your face appeared on the screen, Conway hand tried to soothingly rub your shoulder. “With a score of 10." You exhaled gratefully.

“Told you!" Conway said excitedly, he was like a puppy dog. You couldn't help but move your eyes to Finnick who looked so proud of you it made you want to crawl into his arms right then. “From District 4, Conway Angler with a score of 10.”

"Good job!” You cheered on, hugging him. Before he had pulled you in for a kiss, your heart screamed to pull away, but your brain refused to until he did. His face was ecstatic when he finally removed his lips from yours, which were cold. It was jarring for two pairs of cold lips to try and mesh together. Soon enough it was announced that both of your district 7 allies had scored just as well, Birch with an 11 and Marlowe a 10.

“Good." Ondine sighed in relief, “Takes away the individual targets that could be on your backs."

By then you forced yourself to be snuggled into Conway's side, which would have been relaxing if you couldn't feel Finnick's eyes burning into you. A heat you craved. Thankfully the time to head to bed had soon approached.

“You both need rest, we'll prepare for your interview plans tomorrow, separately." Finnick announced, you noticed the look Ondine shot at him as if he'd gone over he head.

“Why separately?" Conway inquired as he got up from the comfy couch cushions.

“Even if you're marketed as a team, you need individual strategies." Finnick crossed his arms, “Just looking out for you both."

“Sure." Conway said, voice full of distrust. “I'll walk you to your room?" He offered as you stood up. Voice hopeful, a ploy to be let in. It would be so helpful, but you didn't want to be on edge when it was time to rest, to be worried you would mumble Finnick's name in your sleep.

“I'm alright, thank you." His eyes fell even if he didn't try to seem off put by this refusal. “I'm exhausted, not going to be much talking out of me.”

"Well that's alright, I don't mind.” Conway tried to reason, still hopeful for something, anything.

"Just get some sleep.” Ondine advised and you silently thanked her as Conway gave a small eye roll.

"Yeah, whatever, goodnight.” His smile was small and quick. So you grabbed his arm to give him a small peck on the cheek.

"Goodnight.” You looked at him slyly, smiling and could see the light in his eyes returning as he beamed. He stalked off to his room and you took small steps until he was around the corner and you were whipping around, seeing Ondine was gone too.

“Are you really exhausted?" Finnick asked, standing.

“Just emotionally."

“Do you need anything?" He asked, stepping forward. His eyes were desperate to help even if you could sense a twinge of jealousy in them that you felt guilty for.

“To be with you." Your smile was finally real, natural and it felt refreshing.

“Oh, come here, sweet girl."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"I'm sure she'll come around, Finnick, once she realizes you're genuinely kind on top of that insufferable ego.” You were sitting in between his legs as you laid on the couch, head on his stomach. Head rising with every breath he took, the sound of his heartbeat helping you relax. He was so effortlessly comforting.

Finnick scoffed, “I'm so good to you and saying stuff like that is how you repay me." He tutted as his fingers messed with strands of your hair.

“No one said married life was easy.” You sighed. Subconsciously your fingers danced on his leg, you could lay like this forever.

“Well I know that, I'm married to you, angel." He chuckled and you swatted his leg.

“Rude!" Tilting your head so he would be sure to see the glare you were sending his way and the pout adorning your face.

“No one said married life was easy." He repeated, smirking down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Don't worry, I love how difficult you can be when you're not being a perfect, caring angel."

You crossed your arms, huffing playfully, "I'm not difficult.”

He nodded, "And I'm not Finnick Odair.”

“You're the difficult one." You insisted with a shake of your head.

“Oh I am?" He smiled, fingertips brushing the side of your face.

“Mh-hmm."

“Well how so, my love, I wouldn't want to be difficult for you.”

"Number one, you're an ass, two,you're full of yourself, three, your bossy, and four, you keep telling your poor wife how difficult she is and it's only been a few days.” You removed yourself from where you slotted between his legs to face him and lay on his chest instead. Laying your chin down so you could look right back in his sea-green eyes.

"Good thing that my poor wife has been difficult long before we married, so it didn't hit me recently and I was well prepared.” You sighed dramatically at his insistence, laying your head down sideways to stare at the couch cushion.

“I'm not difficult." You reiterated, the warmth of his chest was like a blanket and it tired you even if you had to stay awake longer.

“Whatever you say, angel." The television in front of you started blaring, assaulting your ears as you turned your head towards it. Ceaser Flickerman appeared to announce the tribute scores that you couldn't care less about, you knew these people and the sponsors already knew you. Before you knew it it was your name once again, hitting you with intense deja vu of when you'd last been on the couch, in another boy’s arms, waiting for the same words. At least this boy, your Finnick, you could trust, there was no constant turning in your stomach about being found out.

“With a score of 10." Even more deja vu, Finnick's fingers traced up your spine.

“That's my girl." He whispered and if you could you would've sunk deeper into his chest, let yourself be consumed by him until you were one.

“District 4, Finnick Odair, with a score of 11."

"That's my husband!” You cheered quietly, wanting to just rest right here.

When Peeta and Katniss’ 12’s were announced Finnick shook his head,"They're trying to put targets on their backs.” He muttered bitterly as the broadcast ended. “We have to make sure they're with us, less likely to be attacked as a group early on in the games.” Thinking about the rapidly approaching date where you'd be back in the arena, protecting Katniss, trying to end it all, and waiting to die made your heart stop. It was cruel that you couldn't just be one with Finnick forever, that you'd probably die in the arena.

He felt the change in the rhythm of your heart, “It's gonna be okay, angel, we're gonna stick together and get out of this. Trust me."

“I do trust you." You whispered. It was yourself who you didn't trust. “I just wish I didn't have to savor every moment of peace with you before we’re back."

“You don't have to savor it, we're going to get out of there together." Finnick's honey voice was so reassuring even if your brain said not to listen. Someone had to die and you'd rather it be you, it didn't seem possible to live in a world without Finnick. But you nodded anyways, he didn't need to know about your internal monologue and then dedicate his time trying to convince you that wouldn't happen. You knew in your soul there was no way you were getting out of these games with him, no matter how badly you wanted to.

            𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

taglist: @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @darlingsoulbeautfulthoughts @thatonegayloser616 @kybermp3 @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @ravensinthedaylight @innercreationflower @uhnanix @aesthetic0cherryblossom @yourdailymemedelivery

thank you for reading! this one's kind of calm before I start tearing into those interviews and the games begin because I needed some softness. thank you all sm for the support you've showed me, it's really helped encourage me to keep writing! if you enjoyed feedback is always appreciated, likes, comments, reblogs and my inbox is always open for questions or thoughts which I love because I think about this all the time. love you all 💋

[purple-obsidian]

I'm back in your inbox again. Hello 👋

Been thinking about your ak jason todd and you've mentioned that his men know about her. They're intimidated by him and for good reason. But, hear me out, is Jason still working with scarecrow in your story?

Maybe Scarecrow is looking for the weakness in what seems like the arkham knights flawless armor. Maybe one of Jason's men isn't so loyal, or maybe scarecrow uses fear gas to get it out of them.

But I'm thinking how badly Jason would react if the reader was even in the slightest bit of danger or even vaugley threatened by scarecrow, even in passing. (Or slade, or even one of his men.) I think there'd be a bullet involved before the sentence is even over. Cause no matter how he treats her, she's still his person.

hello my friend! <3

in my little au, my fics 'say it back' and 'let go' happen just after the events of arkham knight, so jason is no longer working with scarecrow. i imagine that gotham is still a wreck, and jason hasn't yet transitioned to being red hood. so he's 'found' himself enough to have helped bruce in the end, but he's still harbors a crap ton of resentment and anger towards him and the others, and is still not above using lethal violence against those he thinks deserve it.

in my mind, this time period here is extremely tumultuous for him as he struggles to redefine and analyze what his goals and plans are now. like, if you're familiar with ATLA, i liken it to prince zuko getting physically ill after letting appa free. a sort of crisis of his self image. joker spent so much time convincing jason over and over how batman left him, abandoned him, telling him that bats was the enemy. and jason believed it, but when push came to shove, jason didn't exact his revenge. this turmoil inside of him, along with the unprocessed trauma of jokers multitude of atrocities, is what fuels a lot of his anger and unpredictability. his hired men are left over from his militia, he kept a handful of his most trusted guys on his payroll to help solidify his authority in gothams underworld. however, in my version of events, jason and reader were reunited back when he and scarecrow were still working together.

so, back to the original question. if earlier on, scarecrow had found out about reader, [and you're right, he had to trust some of his men to help keep her safe, so they could of had the info squeezed out of them. or maybe they were loose-lipped and talking shit, who knows.] no way crane could've resisted the temptation.

i think we can all agree that jason would use lethal force to protect reader. his own sins against her be damned, just because he's treated her like shit doesn't mean he will allow anyone else to threaten her or even touch her.

if it were dr. crane trying to use his fear gas on reader, jason would kill him on sight. no questions asked.

if it were someone less dangerous, like one of his militia getting too comfortable with reader, i see a possibility of him taking his time. we saw in 'let go' that he has some dark urges inside of him to hurt others the way he's been hurt. don't know if he'd actually have it in him to brutally torture someone, but if reader was injured, assaulted, or seriously harmed, who knows.

an important thing, though, is that i think jason would feel guilty after. not for killing them, not if they hurt his person. he'll be able to live with that just fine. but anything that prolongs their suffering i think he would feel remorse for, later on, when he's had more time to heal. more than anything, it will scare him to look back on it and know he's capable of such evil.

there would be a rare moment of vulnerability between jason and reader after he's eliminated the threat and can check and make sure readers okay.

if reader were suffering from fear gas, he would take her somewhere private and hold her close, not letting go until the toxin is out of her system, even if it's hours. most likely blaming himself the whole time and triggering him to spiral further down his path of self-hatred.

in the case of his militia men, they would be knocked out, and jason would get reader to safety asap. if reader has severe injuries, he may chance setting foot in a hospital, even though it reminds him of arkham. if the injuries are less severe, he would probably lock her up somewhere safe while he 'takes care' of the perpetrator, later returning to reader with bloody hands and eyes full of fear.

no matter the outcome, poor jay would be extra protective over reader for a while, second guessing who he trusts to leave her with and who is vetted enough to guard his safehouse when she's inside.

gahhhhh you're making me want to replay the games to brush up on the lore. its so tragic, jasons story. my heart hurts for him.

i would apologize for such a long-winded, unorganized response to a simple question, but i know you're just as obsessed as i am 😈

xoxo sid

[semisolidmind]

i dunno if this has been asked before, but i kinda wanted to splurge a little bit.

how and where does azure lion and the other animal celestials play a part in the BEW au? or even TAB AU. my personal idea on it could be that azure uses reader kind of as leverage against wukong, while as in TAB maybe reader is used to cause a rift between the brothers so that azure has an easier time murking wukong.

alright, so. the big bad brotherhood. they mostly just play the part of extra soldiers and sovereigns in wukongs conquests, his own little war council. im gonna go with the idea that the betrayal hasn't happened, since wukong doesn't get recruited by heaven in the base versions of these aus

(ive said before that, at least in bad end, the brotherhood wouldn't bother with reader too much. buuuut i don't think i specified what they're like in TAB and their reaction to their comrades marrying reader.)

peng (the bitch) doesn't much care for reader. they wonder why the all-powerful wukong is bothering with a human. they likely make a snide comment or two when wukong first introduces her to them at a meeting, which wukong (and macaque) immediately shut down with threats of violence. mac especially doesn't tolerate peng being an ass to his wife; his hatred for the winged menace is potent. luckily the bird demon is catty, not stupid; and surprisingly, they learn to keep their beak shut about their leader's wife. this leads to them largely ignoring her. reader doesn't like them much either, but tries to be polite.

yellowtusk feels pity for reader. he knows she didn't exactly become queen of flower fruit mountain willingly, and believes that she would be happier with other humans. but he's not called "wise" for nothing; he won't be lifting a finger to help her. even as strong as he is, he knows he stands no chance against the two simian warlords. regardless, he's polite to reader and will speak with her about the various topics that she's read about. he's a surprisingly good conversationalist.

demon bull king is ambivalent towards reader. he knows what it's like to want someone outside your station, so he doesn't say anything negative to wukong about it. he'll speak to reader if she speaks to him, and is overall polite (seeing as she is technically a queen and he has a lot of respect for wukong), if not very gruff when doing so.

azure lion is the only one who would be actively kind to reader, the only one who would speak with her like a true equal. despite his status as a once-celestial soldier, demonic sovereign, and a general of the infamous monkey kings' demon army...he still has a soft spot for mortal civilians. if a platoon of the monkey king's army is passing through, one would hope that he's leading it. less innocent blood is spilt when the lion general is at the helm.

its because of this that he was concerned when wukong introduced reader to him. what was a human doing on flower fruit mountain? she's married to the monkey king? she seemed...very uncomfortable in the presence of her husband. the lion demon knows that she was likely frightened by the two monkey warlords' use of "demonic courting tactics" and introduced himself gently. the fact that she responded to him (considering his size and appearance) without too much hesitancy, was able to bow politely and look him in the eyes despite all she'd likely been through at the hands of his brothers–he couldn't help but admire her bravery.

azure is aware that his sworn simian brothers are unconventional in many aspects of their life, so the fact that the two of them would marry a human (the same human, no less) isn't too surprising. the two are of one mind, and azure has made a tentative peace with the ruthless way his brothers conduct their business.

...but he can't help but feel sympathy for reader. she didn't choose this life for herself, though he can see the lingering affection she has for wukong and macaque. and once he gets to know her (an occasional talk outside the council room while the warlords are busy discussing strategy, a close seating at a banquet, or during a party on the mountain), azure begins to understand why they chose this woman. a fondness grows in his heart for the quiet human who is kind to him despite knowing what he's done.

he won't say it aloud, but...had it been him who'd been found and tended to by reader, azure couldn't be sure he wouldn't have made the same choice as his brothers.

[modelbus]

I've been in the worst writing slump... so I've defaulted to Kaz Brekker (oops). This didn't get as far as I wanted it to, but it's about 2k words!

Be warned: This contains death (murder), kidnapping, violence, skin trading, mentioned sex work, human trafficking (called "the skin trade" in here), weaponry, and I think that's it!

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Gn!Reader

Tricked Target

Time is as good as the kruge in your pockets in the Barrel. You know this well, considering you have little of both; money and time. Or perhaps you have too much time. It simply depends on how one sees it, you suppose.

Someone might take you pouring over papers on a desk as a waste of time. See the mahogany wood, stained dark, and curl their lips as the sheer money it must've taken to buy.

Someone else might realize this isn't your office, isn't your desk, and keep their mouth shut.

Tonight, that happens to be an unfortunate man named Zade Oren. Tied in his leather chair, black ropes expertly woven, a gag stuffed in his mouth, and both Achilles slashed for good measure, he learned his lesson.

Don't piss you off.

And although he isn't technically keeping his mouth shut of his own free will, it still technically counts. You give him the slightest of glances, just enough to monitor the tears dripping down his face from wide eyes, before returning to the papers you're rifling through.

"This would be easier if you had just cooperated." You muse aloud, flicking through a ledger before abandoning it. "But you guys never do."

He makes a pathetic sort of whimpering that makes you grin.

You aren't a bad person. After all, you only enjoy the blood on your hands when it's from the right person. The type of person you have at your mercy right now, for example. If anything, you're as close to good as it gets in the barrel. A type of vigilante, rather than one of the profit-seeking groups.

Dime Lions, Black Tips, Razorgulls, The Liddies, Harley's Pointers. Now those are some bad organizations. You're still on the fence about The Dregs; you've seen them do as much good as they have bad. Mostly due to the smaller organization within them. Or maybe the Crows aren't part of the Dregs anymore; you don't care. They're not of interest to you.

"Ah. Here we go." You hum, finding a record of a transaction. Zade gives a feeble cry. Useless, these men who beg for their lives. As if you'll ever give them back.

The transaction seems harmless enough. Four pearls for a sum of money. A sum far too large to be worth even some really fucking nice pearls. And, most importantly, names of the buyer and seller. Your eyes ghost over Zade's name as the buyer, focusing on the seller's name instead.

Then, you crumple up the paper and stuffs it in your pocket.

Pearls. What a stupid code name. The sellers determine it, and they're never very creative with code names. Always something valuable, never something believable.

All it takes is one person (you, in this case) to see what it really means.

Kids.

"I should be going, I think." You finally say, straightening. "Don't worry, don't worry. No more people need to get hurt anymore."

Zade slumps in relief, and you let a wicked grin stretch over your face.

"Oh, no, you've misunderstood. No people will be harmed by me tonight. But you're not really a person, are you?" Your head tilts, watching the panic wash over his features.

Like a cat toying with a mouse, you are. It's just so amusing though, to witness the fear. To let them experience what they've instilled in so many others. That despair? It's precious.

Your knife is sinking into his chest before he can protest any more. Pushing past the hard bone, sinking into his heart with a sick squelch. By the time you pull it out, he's already dead.

"Fool." You sigh, leaving him there and striding over to the window. Let his guards find him later, you don't care.

And when you hoist yourself out the window, scaling onto the roof, the office is almost as you found it. Only his dead body and a note to proclaim the kill as justified.

It reads the same as always: Hurt a kid and I'll hurt you next.

The Avenger is the name people like to call you. Or the rumors of you. Most of Ketterdam has the wrong ideas about you, but you aren't fixing to correct them. False assumptions only make your job far easier.

Honestly, you'd rather be called a protector. But avenger works just as fine. It gets the point across.

A shiver runs up your spine when you're standing on the rooftop, but a cursory glance around shows nobody. You didn't expect it to, but still. The feeling of eyes following you has only gotten stronger recently, but seeing as nobody has attempted to kill you yet you assume it's fine.

Some people are just too curious for their own good and like being spies. As long as they aren't fucking up your plans, you really don't care. Honestly. The feeling of eyes is perfectly fine with you.

"You could say hi. I don't bite." You murmur into the still air, but to no avail.

The feeling doesn't leave as you head back to your home, a dingy apartment near a lot of the gambling dens. It's rented from a landlord who couldn't give less of a shit—she's never met the guy—which was perfect for you. And the place was cheap, which was a big bonus. Not that you were hurting for money, because you had no problems about stealing from those you killed, but you preferred to use it for better things.

Like buying new knives.

Dropping back down to the alleys, your feet hit the cobbles without a single sound. Subtlety was an art form, one everyone had to perfect in the barrel. Unless they were rich enough to get away without it, but you were not. Sadly.

There's footsteps behind her, and you turn to glare at the stranger. Give them a silent warning to mind their own fucking business.

Luck is not on your side today though, because they lunge at you with outstretched hands and a knife. You dodge, slamming your body into a wall to avoid the attack, hands scrambling for your own daggers.

The attacker is big, an ugly snarl stretched out across his mug, a beard covering half his face. Professional, if you had to guess, and definitely after you. Oh, joy.

This time, you don't give him the opening he wants. You dart forward, metal gleaming, knowing that the only way to walk away is to remove the obstacle in your path. In other words: kill him.

You both scramble, your knife digging into his forearm due to a nicely executed move on his part, but you abandon it in his arm to stab at him with another. A hand on your arm, metal meeting metal, it's a raw fight. Evenly matched.

But you must be off, must be mentally occupied, because you don't hear the footsteps behind you until it's too late. It's not until something slams into your head, sending you staggering with black spots, do you realize someone else is here.

"And that's meant to be the Avenger?" The person behind you scoffs.

"They put up a pretty good fight before you came in." Burly guy answers, stepping toward you.

His shoes are the last thing you see before your eyes roll back.

-

There's a hood over your head.

When you blinks your eyes open, you're met with complete and utter darkness. Although you want to panic—desperately—you don't. You can feel the ropes tying you to some type of chair, your wrists pulled together behind the back of it and your ankles tied to the legs of the chair.

Panicking now wouldn't do anything for you, so you just sit in silence.

But you're frustrated. So frustrated that you let your guard drop, that you've gotten yourself into this situation. You refuse to be another Mar, refuses to be the second Avenger that befalls the fate they tried to prevent.

"Makes sense now why he's wanting 'em." Someone is saying, and you try to subtly tilt your head to listen in. "He's always collecting 'em dangerous skinny ones."

"Putting together his own little menagerie." A second voice joins in, laughing.

The words have you tensing, against all instincts. Are they selling you to the menagerie?

Everyone knows what the menagerie is. Girls, tricked into sex work—and sometimes men—and people all too willing to take advantage of them. One of the things you worked against, and, subsequently, one of your worst nightmares.

"Serves this one right. Sardonic, isn't it?"

"You mean ironic?"

"What the difference?"

Oh, saints. You haven't just been kidnapped, but you've been kidnapped by idiots.

"Both of you stop. He'll be here soon." And that's a third voice. Only two people grabbed you, and you're willing to bet this third is the boss.

You don't recognize the voice, but you haven't exactly heard the voices of many people that are high in the chain in the Barrel. Not unless it's them begging for life, and you never hear from them again after.

But now you know for certain that they won't be sending you to the actual menagerie at least. The double confirmation is nice, even if the unknown is a whole other worry.

A door opens somewhere, and there's an abrupt rush of footsteps.

"You're early!" Probably boss guy shouts way too loudly. "The Avenger is all ready for you, but still knocked out."

"How long ago did you grab them?" Oh, that's a new voice. Faintly familiar, although you can't tell from where.

It's been a long time since you've felt so helpless. Like things were out of your carefully measured control. Not since you came home to an empty apartment, a person missing from it.

"A few hours." Probably boss answers. You don't need your eyes to know he's leering at you.

"...and how hard did you hit? Saints."

"They're alive, ain't they? Pay up."

"How much did we agree on again?" A cool voice asks, and your head jerks up. You know that voice, you've stalked the owner of that voice.

Kaz Brekker.

"Oh, look at that. It lives." Probably boss laughs cruelly, and you attempt a glare at him through the hood. "And you know how much we agreed on. Hand it over, Brekker."

And there's your confirmation. Your didn't just imagine it; Kaz Brekker is buying you. Why? You've never interfered with his dealings. In fact, after confirming he isn't into the skin deal, you actively stayed out of his business. You definitely didn't need more enemies than you already have.

The sound of Kruge being exchanged, followed by gleeful exclamations, makes you grit your teeth. If Brekker wants a shot at you, he'll have to do a lot more than pay some money.

"Get out." Brekker says after a moment, cutting the guys who kidnapped you off.

"This is our-"

"Get. Out."

Nobody makes him repeat it a third time, as is evidenced by the sound of footsteps fading away.

He's bossy, but he has the power to be. The cool indifference in his tone, the brilliant business plays he's made. Scrappy, like you, but far more powerful. There's a raw hunger in him you don't have; that nobody but him has.

It's scary as hell.

"Untie them."

There's movement around you, and then the hood is yanked off. You squint, blinking a few times, before focusing on the irritatingly put-together man in front of you. Although looking roughly the same age as you, the Barrel makes anyone be adults far too fast.

Brekker stares down at you, gloved hands clasped onto his cane. Behind him, a Suli girl hovers. Inej, his wraith. A spy, as far as anyone knows. Not an assassin. So that means whoever is working on untying you is Jesper.

"You're in quite the situation." He notes dully, but there's a wicked gleam in his eyes.

It only makes you glare harder. "Thanks, I'm aware."

The rope around your wrists falls away and you bring your hands to your lap, but don't move to untie your ankles. There's a sharpshooter behind you and a girl with knives in front of you; You aren't completely stupid. And that's not to mention the damage you know Brekker can do too.

"I have a deal for you." Brekker says after a moment, taking a step forward. He switches his crow-headed cane to his left hand, holding out his right for a handshake.

You don't take it. "What's the deal?"

"I don't think you're in a position to be asking questions."

"What's. The. Deal?"

"Perhaps I didn't make it clear. Take the deal right now, or we'll dump your body in the harbor to drown."

Well. That's not a lot of options. Everyone knows to negotiate all terms of a deal before accepting, but what choice do you have? He's brilliant for this move, and you hate him for it. Saving your life, buying you, just to force you into a deal to live.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, reason why this is such a horrible idea, you're shaking his hand. 

"Screw you." You spit out, life-saving be damned. Your grip tightens, just to spite him. Although his lips tug down, he doesn't pull away.

His reply is passive.

"Welcome to the crows."

[crusty-chronicles]

sorry if this is a bad time to request and feel free to put this off till whenever or even delete it if you're sick of airheaded stronk s/o asks

I was wondering, could you do short headcanons about how hiei and/or kurama with a stronk/airhead s/o would react to someone random or even a minor antagonist actively being rude their s/o while they're in earshot

[for a more specfic example maybe that eyeball at the gate of betrayal calls their attempted sacrifice foolish or the pretty boy purple guy from the dark tournment says smth like "it's a shame such a pretty face is wasted on such a brainless oaf" which has the added bonus(?) of sounding underhandedly flirtatious.]

again no pressure to write this quickly or at all. i just figured i'd throw it in your ask box incase it interested you at all.

Also entirley seperate question but would you be willing to cover roroanora zoro in your stronk/airhead s/o series?

BONUS AIRHEADED S/O DRABBLES: How they react to someone insulting their S/O

An: Of course I don't mind! Never be afraid to request things, it just might take me a little bit to get to them but really I enjoy doing them!

--------------------

Kurama:

More than likely it would be a comment from Yomi or Kaito that would make him lose his cool. For this instance though, we'll go with the latter.

🦊🦊🦊🦊

It was a little after Botan got her soul stolen that Kaito decided to run his mouth. You having been kidnapped with Yusuke because where one went, the other followed. Much to Kurama's dismay.

"You've got me curious, playing house with a human I'd figure would be so far below you. Do you find them amusing? Maybe think of them as some sort of plaything? A way to keep yourself entertained?"

The taunt was an attempt to make the fox demon slip up. And it seemed to be working judging by his glare and increase in spirit energy.

"Did I strike a nerve? Don't tell me the great Yoko Kurama is actually infatuated with a human. And not a very bright one at that." There was a smirk on his face that only grew seeing Kurama manipulate the plants around him. Knowing he couldn't physically hurt him at the moment.

"You should have seen them. Getting all worked up over Urameshi being immobilized, only to fall for the exact same trap. It was almost too easy. Even when being told moving was useless, they still struggled. Yelling out curses and promises to...what was it? Oh yes, 'kick out asses' I believe. I never would have pegged you as the type to go after a stupid brute."

His cackling was soon disrupted by the sound of Kurama's voice. Speaking up at last with a tone so cruel, it temporarily frightened Kaito.

"You should hope I don't find a loophole around your no violence rule. Because if I do, you'll regret every last word." Eyes glowing an eerie golden.

When he finally bested the snarky human, he half thought to just crush his soul. No only because he put his friends in harm's way, but he also insulted you.

Insulted his relationship with you.

Buuuut, Kurama wasn't exactly allowed to end a human's life. And he refused to stoop that low anyways.

No, he'd just leave Kaito the way he was and focus instead on getting you and Yusuke back safely.

Overall he's petty about it, but not angry enough to lash out. He'll let it go for now....But if it happens again all bets are off.

----------------------

Hiei:

For Hiei it is most definitely Shishi that gets to him. I feel like maze castle is a little too early for him to get mad at someone making fun of you. Maybe a comment of 'A foolish sacrifice and yet you're the one who's dead'. But if it's during the dark tournament on the other hand 👀👀👀

⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️

Kuwabara had just gotten teleported to who knows where. Leaving you, Hiei, and Kurama left to fight. It was just your luck that the die landed on your name. The other once again on Shishi's.

"Oh great, another bumbling idiot. At least this one is easier on the eyes." The demon commented as you made your way onto the arena.

Already Hiei could feel his blood start to boil. Disliking the way Shishi seemed to look you up and down.

"Perhaps defeating you will boost my popularity. Just don't die so quickly. I want to be able to entertain my fans."

You were already getting tired of this guy yapping. And it didn't help that he made your best friend vanish into thin air.

"I wouldn't be so sure about you beating me."

But at your comment, he only grew angry and snapped.

"Are you delusional or just that stupid? You think I would let a mere human beat me? Especially one as klutzy as you."

You were not a fighter to be underestimated. Hiei knew that firsthand. Yet you continued to let that cretin berate you as you fought.

For some reason that made him furious. Wanting to both put him in his place and let you teach that bastard a lesson. He took a step forward. Already deciding that if you did indeed lose this fight, he'd be the one to beat that egotistical demon.

A firm grip on his wrist stopped him from taking another step forward.

"Refrain from doing anything foolish. I know you care for them, but you'd only be damaging their pride more by stepping in." Kurama scolded.

The words temporarily snapping Hiei out of his protective thoughts.

"Tch, I don't care for them."

Hiei is absolutely ready to throw hands on your behalf. Yes you're foolish, but you're his foolish human. The only one allowed to insult you is him.

------------------

MASTERLIST

[blushblushbear]

The Kitsune’s if they were Yandere’s?😃

who says they aren't >;3

okay but no seriously--

TRIGGER WARNING FOR YANDERE SHIT--- manipulative, violent, toxic as hell, you guys know the drill

Aki

really brings the dere into yandere

he seems so cute and sweet and harmless

and he is!

mostly...

he tries not to show it

and when he does show it he plays it off as haha cutesy I'm just a little guy

but he's got a jealous streak a mile wide

he jokes around about 'the great Aki saw you first'

but you do not understand the depths of his dibs...

has a lot of animalistic tendencies

and he plays it either as innocent or kinky

sorry I bit you, I just couldn't control myself <:c

but don't fall for it

he's marking you

also it's funny how the people he pranks for revenge involving you seem to have their pranks go 'horrible wrong'

oops

welp, guess that guy only has one eye now but serves him right for talking like that to you

plays like he's joking when he acts a little possessive

'hey bud, they're spoken for >:T'

but the moment your back is turned he is giving them a look that they will see in their nightmares

likes to used pranks to remind people he's 'always watching'

and maybe he is maybe he isn't

it's hard to tell

always super sweet and loving with you

and maybe a little insecure

you love him don't you?? <:c

you'll stay with him forever right?? <:c

you're all his right??? <:c

he puppy eyes it but he's ready to take matters into his own hands if any of that ever changes...

don't buy those puppy eyes

Haru

WOOF POSSESSIVE

I mean, all of them are but HIM ESPECIALLY

also SUPER jealous

is hyper aware of the way people might try and get into your pants

mostly cause he does the same thing lol

also a big fan of marking you and isn't even shy about making that known

what?? gotta give you a few bite marks to let them know you're mine

loves to put his scent on you, more marking

is usually constantly hovering

another king of the haha yeah totally :) then once your back is turned HE'S GLARING DAGGERS >8l

likes to have you wear his stuff so people know your taken

if someone is rude to you he'll pull them off to the side for 'a quick chat'

and they are never heard from again

very much standing behind you with his hand on his sword daring a motherfucker to try him

but he's super sweet to you always

constant love bombing

lots of gifts

lots of spoiling you

declarations of love and devotion as he kisses your hand

and you think he's flirting or just being a little romantic

but no he's so dead serious you don't even know

will kidnap you if it comes to that

worried about you being safe

also don't bring up the idea of you dying, either by natural causes or other means, cause it will trigger a melt down

tears and a little bit of violence and a whole lot of not letting you leave for anything

also is about ready to restart the clan wars if he sees the other kitsune touch you for even a second

violently or romantically

your his precious mate and no one else can have you

Fuyu

WELP

this dude is already lonely and violent at the start of his route so

surprising no one he can and will get that way again at the drop of a hat if it involves you

he is actually the most reluctant to backhand a bitch since he did all this growing for you

but don't get it twisted he did all this growing FOR YOU

without you he's not actually grown (at least in yandere form)

he will kill someone very quickly if he thinks even for a second that they'll hurt you

also another dude who will restart these clan wars over you

will rip out the other kitsune's throats if he sees them near you

also more marking here

he's actually very gentle with his marking

until he's feeling insecure

then he bites a little too hard

and is very tearful and apologetic afterwards

he feels like a monster

but he will do it again if jealousy takes hold of him

another one whose easily triggered to dramatics but his aren't always violent

well they ARE just not VIOLENCE you see

violent break downs

violent sobbing

may border on threats of harming himself if you leave

very manipulative but he gets away with it cause it all comes from a place of pain and you're a bleeding heart

will kidnap you and then swan about on how he's such a monster but he can not let you go but he hates himself for it

true drama llama

but when he's sweet or romantic it's like a poem

everything he does he does out of love

you just kinda wish cha boy was more fucking stable about it.....

[joyburble]

So, we see Donfang Qingcang reading on screen several times, and I think it's an important character message.

On encountering a problem, in episode 4, that can't be addressd by violence, what is the first thing our character does? He RTFMs. He sends Shanque to fetch the Fucking Manual, and he Reads It. What. In fact, they both read it, at least until they find the right bit.

Iconic. And adorable.

Definitely much less surprising in a Chinese genre than it would be in any English-language genre. But this section is so spectacular I want to give it a lot of weight.

The scroll is extremely long. He baulks, for a second, at the length,

but this, his face says, cannot possibly defeat him: he backs himself (I love it) and gets down to work.

It's illustrated. I'd love to hear from someone who can read any part of the text. He engages in detail with the content.

He continues in episode 5, having made some progress, and still backing himself to work out what it all means.

He takes it out on the balcony to study it by daylight. When his plans don't succeed at first, he doesn't reject the information, he thinks about it harder and compares it with the data.

Then something interesting happens: after making Orchid's tummyache better, he sits down, and without any stated reason tries to read something else, which looks like a completely normal book:

He can't focus because she's so sad, but we get a glimpse of the corner of a title label. When he puts it down, we can see it's a paperback stitched in the traditional Chinese manner.

It could be anything, but looks a reasonable size for a novel. There are also some other books on the table. Maybe they're technical works from Xiao Lanhua's library, and he's just bored and curious?

This wouldn't be as clear if it was the only example, or if we saw other characters repeatedly reading. But I don't think we do.

In episode 18 post-whump we learn again that what he does to relax and distract himself, when in pain and/or wanting attention, is read a book. It's a slim volume with a vertical format and a pretty, embellished cover. Perhaps a book of poems?

In Episode 26, now knowing he is loved, he is reading for fun again, with no explanation asked or given. Another sewn book, but in this case it has a hard cover with a shiny and colourful design. What could it be? Who knows? It seems to be making him smile a little.

The message we are getting, here, is that what he does when he wants to relax and enjoy life, is read. We’re supposed to understand that in his natural disposition, minus his father’s crimes and his profession of violence, he is a gentleman and a scholar. He is curious. He is capable of handling new information. He has brains and capabilities and ingenuity. He has a big ego, but he can put it in the engine room, not the driving seat. It's a gently-delivered message, but I think it contributes a lot to our perception of the character.

In dream-world episode 31, he is reading a scroll with Xiao Lanhua. Are they reading a story to each other? Doing the voices?

So apparently in his imagination it's a bonding activity too: you can read together with a person you love and share your reactions. A bit like you and I are doing now.

Finally, I think they published this behind-the-scenes shot for a reason (thank you @moonsupremesblog, and I'm sorry this probably should have been a reblog of this post but I got too far in before I remembered)

We can see it's Dylan Wang referring to a script, but we do a double-take because it's totally in character, the lighting, composition, and depth-of-field intentionally reinforce that effect, and we have to look at the plastic cover and the little place-tags to realise it isn't.

[deathsbestgirl]

So Never Again. Just saw this post and the way she looks up at him there is on a level with Mulder’s famous Fallen Angel eyes and his reaction to her? He doesn't melt? He chooses violence and being a dick? Please tell me why.

i LOVE this question because it is so easy to see it from scully's perspective. it's her episode. but you really have to think about mulder's perspective.

for mulder, this seems out of nowhere, and in his mind she was extremely inattentive with his informant on a case he's taking seriously. he doesn't understand what she's really asking or what the problem is, and a big part of that is she doesn't exactly either. it's almost like she's blaming him for the stand still in her life, but at the same time wants to be seen & appreciated (in a way that she understands, can feel, can see). and i don't think she could have figured it out the way she needed to with mulder. she needed the safety of talking to a stranger, someone inconsequential to her life. (like there's no way she could have that "other fathers" conversation with him lol) so ed jerse is the one to give her that. (she does with ed what she can't yet do with mulder. something neither of them are ready for and she isn't brave enough to do yet. and like. idk i just think she needed this! regardless of mulder lol)

like: "this isn't about you. or maybe it is, indirectly. i don't know." the one thing she got right is "i don't know" lol so of course mulder is confused!!

if you place leonard betts first, she's contemplating what she's leaving behind. has she had any impact working on the x files? on mulder? who is going to remember her? what evidence of her life will be left? in that office...it looks like she's had very little effect. (but i do not subscribe to this one.)

if never again is first, which i like better lollll (it makes more sense to me. i understand why people like lb first, it's more clear cut. it puts a reason behind her behavior. but i just don't think it quite fits. scully literally doesn't know what's wrong. if she was already worried about cancer, i think it would come across differently. but she's frustrated & confused and she wants for something she can't admit, express, pinpoint, articulate? idk what word i'm looking for lol) scully's just hit that point in her pattern again, her cycle...it took her four years, and after some rough cases (paper hearts – she couldn't help mulder despite how she tried, el mundo gira – a dead end. and idk, so many of their cases. and she's always wrong, he always does the crazy thing, he's always hurt)...well anyway, at the end he's still asking "all because i didn't get you a desk?" he still isn't quite understanding, until she says it's her life and he almost says "yes but it's become mine." he doesn't say it, they sit in silence, and in leonard betts, he tells her she did a good job & should be proud. all his little jokes like he's trying to make her laugh, to get back to their usual banter. because he wants to make her smile. so he understood at least a little by leonard betts. but they also come to a silent understanding. i just love the way kae talks about it. and i think the end is kind of the explanation for the beginning. the end is the real answer to the whole episode, and what it took to get there...and this post here, kae just understands him and talks about him in a way that i feel. it's exactly what i see in a way i could never articulate. (and she does my favorite thing!!! connects different moments. the characterization is so good.) and she has such a special insight to both of them, different patterns, but to me two sides of the same coin.

and so, either way, at the beginning of never again, he's completely thrown because he doesn't know. this is when their bad verbal communication and personal issues/insecurities/fears take hold. they're both so good at taking too much responsibility.

we're seeing into scully's mind a bit, but we aren't really seeing into his. but he's afraid, he doesn't want her to leave (something he's feared for a long time), he thinks space is the answer to whatever's going on. but he's also kinda needy and he can't just say that. so he calls her and they misunderstand each other again and she makes a date. he isn't trying to be an ass but he's scared & defensive, and he gets like that when she makes him nervous. like whenever she believes (beyond the sea, revelations, all souls, en ami). it feels like that to me. he's afraid, but this time he thinks he's the problem, their work is the problem. and he kinda said the worst thing he could say to her at that moment. "you were just assigned" — he has no idea how she understood that, how it hurts her. (and she's not thinking about how he means it, what he thinks/feels/fears.) and really, it's because she sucks at just saying the thing as much as he does. it takes them a long time to work out their direct communication. their unspoken communication, the way they work on their cases doesn't translate to their personal relationship. as intimate as their partnership is, working through their own issues takes time and it's those things that hinder them moving forward for so long. ya know?

i think @randomfoggytiger talks about it beautifully here — in depth essay on never again. here they touch on mulder's fear/walls & scully's insecurities/needs. it's a journey!! which they talk about here. and i forget what this one was (lol) but i'm sure i saved it for a reason: a little master post. i love the way foggy breaks things down, especially visually. it's something i could never do.

i also reblogged some other never again posts. not completely on topic but it's all connected!! (you can definitely go through my never again tag to see more probably too!)

[spacexseven]

oooo a demon au! I like it! question, do you think demon chu and daz would be content with just tormenting darling for the rest of their days and leaving it at that, or would they want the relationship to... progress, at some point? like I feel like this can go one of two ways 1) demon yan just wants to torment their little human until they break and then move on or 2) demon yans possessive feelings take a more romantic, softer (soft used VERY generously here) note and they move onto courting practices. of course demonic courting is objectively terrifying and you probably won't realize that's what they're even trying to do but, you know. modern dating, amirite? I could see dazai specifically learning about what marriage is from watching your TV unsupervised and becoming VERY taken with the idea. chuuya would probably think it was stupid, he doesn't need a RING or a damned PRIEST to stake his claim on you! (though, maybe you'd appreciate the effort? hm... much to consider)

or maybe it'd be a mix of both, or a secret third thing I haven't thought of yet!

also what kind of demons do u think the boys are? dazai is giving me incubus vibes from the way you've written him so far but I can also see him being very torture-oriented, maybe even some kind of eldritch monstrosity entirely in his own league. demon!dazai saying he wants to lock you up in his little torture hell dimension for all eternity and thinks he's VERY romantic for saying it too! mmmm chuuya would definitely be a much more powerful sort than one might intitally assume. has a very large sphere of influence, possibly even his own cult (that might cause issues for you down the road). who knows!

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cw: yandere characters + themes, implied imprisonment, mentioned murder and violence, chuuya has a cult

i like the sound of chuuya having a cult of fervent worshippers; since he's so well known and revered for his strength and his power, it would make sense as to why someone decided to curse you by tacking him onto you. it was obvious that under normal circumstances, you'd have been devoured by the demon by now.

speaking of cults, you're shocked at first to know that he has one. chuuya tells you he doesn't care for his human worshippers (does that mean he has demon worshippers, too?) but it's somewhat true that fear is power for him. he doesn't care about their antics, but he was pleasantly surprised to see them offer sacrifices and relics to him (though he doesn't mention the first to you, knowing how...weak human hearts are)

he doesn't take you to see it, of course, unsure of whether his worshippers would be happy to see you by his side, or feel offended that he had to be tied down to a human. of course, he was ready to slaughter them all at a moment's notice if you would feel better about it, but you seemed appalled by the suggestion.

for the most part, he's definitely a lot softer than dazai. sure, he has a better understanding of human relationships, having mingled more with people than dazai, but it doesn't mean his understanding isn't skewed. chuuya thinks that kidnapping a priest will mean that your wedding will be recognized by the divine law, and he doesn't know why you'd be upset when he offers you the corpses of every person who's ever slighted you as a wedding gift.

putting dazai with a human is the worst thing to ever happen because he has no understanding of how humans work. why are they so weak, and small? why are they so frightened by everything? why are they so preoccupied by that strange box with flashing lights??

initially, he's all about making your life a literal living hell. he almost felt embarrassed that you of all people summoned him, to be honest, and he takes it out on you. since you were able to bring him here, stupid human, you should be able to keep him as well! but as we've discussed, his torment turns into something strange. it's thanks to human technology that dazai learns that humans like when a potential partner brings them gifts and helps them out, so when he sees you suffering trying to finish all your work, he happily burns down the pile of paper and brings you the ashes in a little jar he made the other day. oh, and they like verbal assurances and physical affection? dazai is always cooing at you about how smart you are for a human, and then proceeds to literally wrap himself around you and pet your hair.

god forbid he decides to surprise you with a visit to his home. while he promises you that you'll just love his majestic castle, you don't expect to be shown a very...in-depth tour of his torture chamber as well. and then he grins at you and says that he'll love for you to stay with him longer, all the while holding his one-of-a-kind, custom made blade in one hand.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

big hc request: m6 with a hothead mc that gets angry really easy but also doesn't back down from fights

The Arcana HCs: M6 with a hothead MC

~ @elysian-chaos hope you like these little sis! - brainrot ~

Julian

He is conflicted

He thinks that someone who knows what they want and pursues it with aggressive passion is attractive as hell

However, he also loves you and has committed himself to you and that means that he feels responsible for keeping you safe - especially when that involves you putting yourself in danger

And yeah, you purposefully ticking off a bar patron three times your size and then goading them into a fight unfortunately counts

Is he willing to take the hits for you? Yes. Does that mean he wants to? Not really, no. Which means he should probably try to stop you

Except that you're so hot when you're angry and he doesn't want to lose this opportunity to watch you really let loose!

His ideal solution is to get you to walk away from the conflict and find another way to blow off steam. (especially if that involves you and him and some loving aggression)

There is one situation in which he will bluescreen completely, and that is if you are angry on his behalf and seeking to defend his honor. He won't know what to do in that scenario

Asra

They get angry, sure, but they're not quick to lose their temper. Even when they do, they're more likely to resort to scheming and trickery than to violence. Your habits are entirely foreign to them

That said, his "go with the flow" approach to life means that he's maybe a little too chillaxed about this

No, this is interesting. Give them a quick sec to teach you some decent self-defense moves and make sure your moral compass is in working order. No they're not grabbing popcorn, not at all

He loves watching you in your element. And hey, if that element is in a fight, then he'll just make sure it's a good one

They will step in if it isn't looking like a good idea - maybe you'd actually be in the wrong for reacting, or the person you're mad at wouldn't play fair

He'll try to deescalate if he can, but if push comes to shove he'll hop in and be whatever backup or support you need to win

Pshhh no they're not enabling you too much, not at all ...

It doesn't help that Faust is more likely to supply you with insults for your opponent than she is to remind you to take a breath before acting

Nadia

Ah - this is tricky for her

She doesn't want to tell you what to do. You are your own person and she has no interest in controlling you or making your decisions for you

She also loves you for who you are, and who you are is a passionate magician with an extra helping of anger and stubbornness

Those are good attributes to have! Just not when you seem so quick to escalate things, and especially not when she's aiming for diplomacy in a delicate situation

She'll focus on helping you become who you want to be more than anything else. She's happy to talk with you about your struggles and explore different ways to help you manage your temper

If you look like you're about to lose it, she'll nudge you to walk away and take all the time you need to cool off before you come back

Of course, there are always exceptions to every case

Perhaps you're out and about, and she doesn't want to break cover, and the guy in front of you was not behaving appropriately to that vendor, and actions might get through to him better than words ...

Well, it's be a shame to hold you back

Muriel

He's an anxious guy, so really, he guesses he should be used to the constant low-level heart attack he has going on around you

He doesn't like conflict. At all

He doesn't like being in it, he doesn't like being near it, he doesn't like watching it, he doesn't like hearing about it, he doesn't like thinking about it, he does not like conflict

And yet you seem to be hellbent on finding trouble wherever you go

At first it was one of his reasons to be slower to approach you. Now it's one of the inexplicable reasons he finds you attractive

As he becomes comfortable with you, he loses a lot of his hesitation to try to stop a situation from escalating. Often his obviously growing impatience is all it takes for everyone to back off

However, if you're not calming down, and your opponent is not calming down, Muriel is not above slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and walking off

He doesn't mind too much if it's him you're angry at

Because, thanks to your temperament, he knows exactly why you're angry and can take steps to address it instead of guessing

It also speaks volumes to him that you'd rather stay and talk than give up and leave

Portia

Oh boy. Her too

She's never been afraid to use her fists when her words aren't working, and don't even get her started on how stubborn she is

At first it's fantastic. When you two go out together and meet some jerk who's just begging to be taken down a notch or two, it's only a matter of five minutes or ten before the dust settles

It gets easier and easier to enable each other until you stop thinking too much about whether a fight is the best way to respond until it ends up costing Vesuvia an important trade deal

Nadia's able to run damage control, but it does give you pause when you both know that there was a better way to handle that snobby nobleman than to knock his wine into his lap and shout insults at him

Now you help each other regulate your big emotions instead of bottling them up, and take turns being each other's calm voice and accountability

Unless Julian mentions an unusually nasty customer at the Rowdy Raven who's been making all the regulars miserable and giving Barth a hard time and, clearly, needs to be put in their place. Then it's go time

Lucio

This is one of his favorite things about you

He's learned the value of not starting a fight just for a fight's sake, but if you're the one starting it, well then

That means you're the one responsible for the oopsie

He's happy both to sit and watch you enjoy yourself and to get involved. Either way he's having a great time cheering you on

However, Lucio has plenty of combat experience under his belt and he knows the value of a well timed retreat

You, it seems, do not

And oh no, you just picked a fight with that massive grouchy person in the corner who was making the server uncomfortable and yes it was for a good cause but he already knows he's going to get his butt kicked

Because yeah he wouldn't have done that but there's also no way he's leaving you without someone to watch your back

In the end it becomes one of those areas where he actually gets to help you improve yourself a little bit

He gets what it's like to be so angry and aggressive but he's also an expert at focusing on the pleasures of life instead. Let him give you a few fighting pointers at least