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wendimydarling · 4 years ago

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Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112 gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira for betaing!

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death.

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.”

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already.

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet.

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me.

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls.

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,�� she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

#august walker #august walker fanfic #august walker fan fiction #august walker fanfiction #august walker fan fic #august walker smut #vampire!august #non-con tw

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star-killer-md · 4 years ago

Text

Happy Hunting 2: Large Game

Part One Here//AO3

Request: From @clumsycopy: Charlie Barber + any of the kinks from October 17th in Kinktober list? 💕

Knife-play | 69 | Bondage

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: mentions of drug use, Kinfe-play, blood kink, blood as lube, knife fighting, violence against both the reader and Charlie, foreign object insertion, oral sex f receiving, afab reader but no pronouns used, dead dove do not eat, dark fic, it’s about to get bloody y’all

Ship: Serial killer!Charlie x Reader

Summary: Charlie Barber is not a man who is easily swayed by failure.

You were dancing again.

He could just make out the familiar movement of your hips, the way they swayed to a song he couldn’t hear. It was the same half-salsa feet-forward, hands beckoning him further into your coils—ready to wind him up in a vice grip and strike.

Charlie hadn’t been back to the bar—your bar, as you’d said. Your bar, your territory. No, he had been good, stayed off your hunting grounds ever since he woke up nearly frozen to a concerned police officer prodding him with a nightstick. So, he kept his distance from that section of the city, but he couldn’t quite manage to keep his distance from you.

It was even colder now with winter in full swing, and the harsh wind, tunneled by the city grids, beat at his back. Your street was small—quiet but not enough that he’d seem out of place leaning on the corner just out of range of the streetlights. Through your third story window he watched as you moved, staying just within the frame like it was a spotlight. Like this was just another performance and the stage notes placed you front and center for the whole of New York to see.

Well, maybe not the whole city, he thought when you pushed the curtains open.

He followed the movement of your hands, cracking the window despite the chill and letting some of the music drift down to him. It was soft, but familiar with a good beat. None of the crap that played when he drank and watched you stalk the small, neon lit dance floor for fresh meat.

“Did you know that prey animals never have forward facing eyes?”

He recalled more of that night than he expected too. And in particularly vivid detail, he remembered your voice. The growl of it, the power, the ‘I’d rip your throat out with my teeth and love every second of it’ snarl in his ear.

God what he wouldn’t give to hear it lilted and pitched high, whining with your hands clawing at his—

Charlie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

It was familiar by now. You usually caught him—or at the very least he usually noticed when you did. A shiver ran through him every time you picked him out of the surroundings and pinned him with that predatory gaze that said ‘I see you.’

And you did.

You did see him, not just lurking in the dark on your corner, but you saw him. Saw the creature that lurked and festered behind his mask and understood it. That is why he had to keep coming back. Had to keep watching you dance from your bedroom window like a one person stage play, and he was the only one in the audience that got it. But really, who could blame him?

It wasn’t often one meets another of their kind and lives through it.

So Charlie came every night he could manage it, ever since you left him drugged and cold in that park with its circle path like a black hole. And he knew you watched him too.

He was your type after all.

It was so obvious once he thought it over, he almost kicked himself for missing it. You’d just been so distracting. All those men, tall with their dark hair and dark eyes and not nearly as handsome as him but close enough. None of them had ever walked away. But you took him to your graveyard, pressed him into the killing floor and…let him go.

There was desire in the way you’d ground yourself against him—a craving he knew all too well would not be shaken.

You slipped once, and you would do it again. He could feel it. And when you did...

The fallout would be delicious.

***

Slipping in was easy enough. Your lovely elderly neighbor was more than willing to buzz in ‘such a nice young man’ as it were, and your name was printed clearly along the mail slots with your unit number conveniently displayed adjacent.

That was quite the oversight.

You were at work, he’d taken off a day last week to trail you into the city center. The office building you worked in was a few train rides away and Charlie knew you wouldn’t be back until late that evening. Which left him plenty of time to get to know you a bit better.

Now, Charlie liked to think of himself as a man of skill. Maybe he’d underestimated you at the start, allowed his judgment to be clouded by fantasies of you, restrained and begging, gushing wet and ready to take him like no one else ever could. But after his last encounter, he’d grown sharper.

Anyway, he’d been right all along.

You would be so much more than a trophy.

But there was only so much he could learn from the few hours between rehearsals, hopping from train to train, and following you like a lost dog. He needed more than that, more than sitting outside your workplace or cafés. He needed you, all of you, and he suspected you needed him as well.

Why else would you have left him breathing?

Gaining back a bit of high ground would be necessary, though. You knew he was watching, and seemed to like it a little too much. All of this was a show to you, a character, a role, but Charlie needed to know about the actor. The hunter. And what better way to do that than to learn how you lived when no one was watching.

Or, when you thought no one was watching.

He climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor and found your door at the end of the hall. The lock was easy enough to pick and these older buildings never had security cameras. So when the door clicked open, he stepped in and shut it behind him without an eye batted in his direction.

Your apartment was neat, but in a lived-in sort of way. There were dishes in the sink and some clothes strewn about the floor of the hall and piled on the small sofa, but overall it looked exceedingly...normal.

To be fair, Charlie’s place was just as unassuming and far less homely than this, so his shock was probably unwarranted.

He wandered through your kitchen first. A mug sat on the counter, still lukewarm and half full from your breakfast he supposed. So you left in a rush. That seemed to suit you, always moving, The clothes on the sofa were separated into piles, lights and darks ready to be laundered.

His hands sifted through the mounds of soft fabric, lifting shirts and such to his face every so often to catch your scent. But it was mostly overpowered by perfume or soap until his hands felt strapy lace and pulled and that oh, that was what you smelled like. Tangy and sweet and making his mouth water. His jeans grew tight as he thought briefly about laying amongst your laundry, enveloped by the heady scent of you.

He could push the lace of your panties between his lips and suck hard, taste the remnants of your slick on his tongue, imagine your thighs were pressed against his ears. Conjure up the feeling of your knees at his back again and let the adrenaline course through him while he stroked himself.

While equal parts enraging, that night was the closest to ecstasy Charlie could recall. The weight of you, settled in his lap and grinding on his cock, while he could barely lift a finger was a rush unlike any other.

Suddenly he understood the allure of big game hunting.

You were his bear, his wolf, his lion, every dangerous thing that could rip him apart and fuck. Even getting close enough to land a shot now was invigorating.

That meant he had to be especially cautious, though. There could be no more mistakes this time. No more strings left untied or your claws would be at his throat again and he doubted his chances of survival the second time around. But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t reward himself just a bit. Just getting this far was quite the accomplishment. So, he tucked the underwear into his back pocket and moved swiftly through the rest of your home.

The bathroom was uneventful and your hall closet held nothing but sheets and towels. There was nothing left then but your bedroom at the end of the hall. He let the door creak open slowly, revealing a sizable bed graced by natural light from the window. The very same one he’d watched you through for weeks. It felt odd to be on the other side of it.

Your drawers yielded nothing of particular interest, though the closet was much less disappointing. On a shelf sat a bin peeking out from in between spare blankets. He tugged it down and cracked the lid, grinning when it finally dawned on him what exactly he’d discovered.

In his hand Charlie held one familiar, hideously neon green sneaker. So that’s what had become of your unfortunate first dance partner. It was intermixed with multitudes of other innocuous items. Some wallets, car keys, rings, and gloves were all folded and stacked with precision. Most were clearly men’s, and all were meticulously organized.

He chuckled, looking down at your trophy case. Keepsakes, he guessed, from all your former conquests. He wondered if you took them all to that park, or if it was new. Wondered if you left them all to freeze and be found by unsuspecting passersby.

Charlie was so entranced by this new information, that he failed to hear the front door drift slowly open. Never heard the soft steps of your feet on the hardwood, nor the drag of the knife from it’s butcher block. In fact, it wasn’t until the chill ran down his spine, gooseflesh erupting across his arms in a wave, did he pause.

“Hello, Charlie,” you mused from behind him.

The sound of your voice was like a cracking stick in the woods at night. A pair of glowing eyes in the glare of a flashlight. Ominous and growing closer. His breath froze in his chest as he rose carefully up from the floor and turned.

***

It was quite the sight:

You—shoulders relaxed and leaned against the doorframe, lips pulled into that mixed drink expression he’d grown to crave. One part grin, three parts wolfish snarl. Your finger was placed gently at the tip of a sizable carving knife, the other hand gripped tightly just below the bolster.

Charlie towered over you, but in that moment he felt dwarfed standing in your bedroom and staring at you down his nose.

He said nothing and you dropped the blade to your side.

“I thought we talked about this,” your voice echoed. “Seems like you did a piss poor job of listening.”

Slowly you took one step then another, until you stood only a foot or so away and your chin was tipped up to maintain your gaze. Charlie’s hands were curled into fists at his sides. You were supposed to be on your way to work, boarding the E train by now seated or standing next to the door so you could make it onto the platform before the incoming crowd. You shouldn’t have returned until late tonight.

Late tonight when you would have undressed and he could have seen the silhouette of your body through the sheer curtains. Could have locked the memory away for later and stroked himself off into the new panties in his pocket.

That was your pattern. Those were your rules.

Why would you break them now?

“Then again, I suppose the stereotypes ring true,” you said and grinned up at him. “Directors aren’t very good at taking orders.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and your smile grew.

“Did you think you were the only one doing research?”

“I’m impressed you found the time,” he mumbled into the closing space between your chests.

“It comes with experience,” you breathed across his lips.

His gaze was locked on you, but he made sure to keep the knife in your hand within view. Charlie was larger and he guessed he’d have little problem restraining you, but now was not the time to be taking chances.

You lifted the weapon slowly, trailing it up his chest and letting it catch on the buttons of his shirt. His hand was fast, moving on instinct and engulfing your wrist so that the tip of the blade rested right in the dip of his collarbone. The cool metal left a trail of tingling skin behind. His cock throbbed in his pants as your tongue flicked out to wet your lips.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Barber,” you brought your empty hand up to pat his cheek once again. “You can always learn from your mistakes.”

He grunted when you wound back suddenly and landed a sharp kick to his shin. In the scrabble you wrenched your wrist from his grip, slicing into his forearm before he could regain his balance.

“Fuck!” he hissed, pressing a hand to the wound. “You—god— you bitch.”

From the corner of his eye Charlie watched your circle to the left, “Now now, I don’t think your son would appreciate that kind of language.”

A sharp, stinging pain was radiating from his arm and his hands shook with the adrenaline and its accompanying rage.

“You need to shut your fucking mouth,” Charlie growled and pounced at you, catching your hand as it brought the knife down in an arch towards his chest.

“What, are you gonna make me?” you jeered and tried to twist your hand away but his thumb dug into the pounding veins just below the skin of your wrist. You cried out and he caught the movement before you could land another kick.

You let out a muffled yell when he gripped your thigh and yanked you off your feet. The blade clattered from your hand as you crashed to the floor as Charlie felt a familiar rush at seeing you, dazed and limp below him. Quickly he snatched the knife and pulled you up by your arm. Your hands were clutching at the back of your head where it had smashed against the hardwood and your eyes were unfocused. He shoved you towards the bed even as you tried to blindly scratch at his face.

His hand wound around your throat as your back hit the mattress and you clawed at his fingers.

“Not so talkative now are you?” he snarled against your lips, bringing the blade up to rest at your throat. “Little whore needs her prey drugged up and half dead before she can strike? Some fucking hunter you are.”

You squirmed as Charlie squeezed just enough to stop the blood flowing in your neck, watching your face contort with the pain and the loss of breath.

“Kiss. My. Ass,” you spat with what little air you could gasp.

He straddled your body easily, so much smaller now that you were pinned under his fist. The knife bit into you, sending pretty beads of scarlet down your bare chest. The tip dug just past the skin. He loved that sight, the way your skin yielded to the metal and parted at just the lightest pressure. The noise that left you when he first breached your flesh was almost as delicious as what he imagined you’d sound like when he sunk his cock into you.

Very nearly moaning at the sight, dragging the blade down leaving a shallow stripe that stopped just between your breasts. You stilled, wincing but licking your lips once again as his eyes trailed up the cut and met yours. The deeper slice on his forearm was dripping a slow, steady stream into the hollow of your throat that spilled out around his fingers and ran down your chest.

Charlie watched, entranced as your blood mingled and his pants tented. He dragged the hand at your neck through the mess. The smell of iron was thick in the air, and his own blood rushed. His ears were ringing, your bedroom fading out until all he could focus on was the pounding of your pulse under his palm and the heaving of your breasts as you gasped for breath.

His grip on your throat loosened. There was something happening, something coming over him as your eyes roamed his face, stuttering at his lips and traveling back to meet his stare. Time had stopped, and he was reminded again of how alluring you were.

How had he forgotten?

The same grace that he’d been drawn to was evident in the slow movement of your arm, moving to softly grip the knife in his hand and gently push it to the side. Charlie let you move the blade from your throat.

It was hours maybe, or just seconds that you both stared, bleeding, at one another. It was a standoff, the tension growing with each passing moment. The rolls had finally been reversed. You were right where he had fantasized you would be for so long, but there was still something in the way you gazed at him.

Head on, eyes forward.

Predator eyes.

And that had to be what all the others were missing.

That spark. That fight. The sharp teeth, eyes locked, ready to tear into his neck stare that made the catch so much more exciting.

The others were nothing compared to this.

This is why he needed you alive, wanted you kicking. Wanted you screaming and crying and moaning for him. On his fingers, on his cock, on his blade. Fuck, he wanted to be buried in you and it didn’t matter which way.

He needed to taste his victory, and it seemed so did you.

“Shit,” he breathed as you lifted the knife from his hand and placed the tip just above his belt, slashing his shirt open by the buttons one at a time until it hung loose around his shoulders.

“You want to hunt, Charlie Barber?” you asked slowly, and—fucking christ—that voice did something to him. His breathing came in pants as you pulled his hand from your throat and wrapped it around the knife handle, placing the tip at the hem of your top. “Let’s hunt.”

Charlie growled, really truly growled as your shirt tore easily in the path of the blade. It fell open, exposing your skin to the cool air as a new trickle of blood leaked down the valley of your breasts and rolled in rivulets down your ribs.

His mouth watered.

Placing his hands on either side of your head, he lowered his head and followed the trail of blood with his tongue. Groaning as the sharp, iron tang of it coated his mouth but the sound caught in his throat as you surged forward. Your teeth dug into the meat of his shoulder, very nearly breaking the skin and laving over the angry red mark you left behind.

“Do you always taste yours?” you asked, nudging his nose with yours.

Charlie leaned back on his heels as you sat up. He rested half his weight in your lap as you tugged the remains of his shirt off and trailed your fingers along the edge of the slice you’d left in him. The sting of it awoke something, some ache, an itch that was never quite satisfied with any of his other prey.

“I asked you a question,” you lifted your hand, two fingers coated red and pressed them to his lips.

When he opened his mouth to answer, your fingers slipped inside and dragged along his tongue.

“Yes,” he muttered

“Hm,” you bit your lip bottom lip and he wanted to replace your teeth with his. “Well then, how do I compare?”

He let you pull him down by his jaw, “I don’t think I’ve had quite enough to tell you.”

The mattress dipped when he pulled away and stood. You watched carefully—eyes flicking between his hands, his face, and the obvious bulge of his arousal—as Charlie brought the knife up and trailed the point along the fabric covering your pussy. The quick breath that left you made him shutter.

He glanced back up at you, and nodded his head to the buckle of your pants. A few seconds past in which the two of you stood your ground—a stalemate between alpha’s—until, shockingly, you relented with a huff.

Charlie kept his eyes on your face until the last of your clothing thumped softly on the floor. Bare and decorated with drying trails of blood, you laid back and let your legs fall open slowly, giving him a full view of your glistening lips.

It was unlike anything he’d seen before or even dared to imagine.

His mind raced through dozens of images just like the scene before him. But when he thought of all those before you, looking down on them was more akin to staring at a piece of meat. They were no more entertaining than a chuck roast, flopping about and whimpering. Even when they begged or screamed it felt nothing like this.

You were a cut steak in the same way that a dream was reality. He could treat it as such, but it would never be true.

It occurred to him then that until now, he had been much like a beast in an empty cage—pacing and yearning for some kind of challenge, something more stimulating than prey that couldn’t bite back. And you were exactly what he’d been waiting for all this time.

Slowly, you drew your fingers through the mess pooling between your breasts and brought them, dripping, down to draw bloody circles over your clit.

“Well, why don’t you taste a little more?”

***

Charlie was uncertain how long he’d been on his knees, your ass sat on the edge of the bed as he sucked and nipped at your clit, drinking down the slick that gushed from you. Regardless, it was long enough to have reduced you to what he assumed was the closest you would ever come to a writhing mess on the mattress above him.

“Fucking Christ,” you groaned and raked your nails harshly against his scalp.

He hummed as the sting intensified with your fingers knotting themselves in his hair and tugging. Your thighs tensed, slamming shut around his ears until he wrenched them open again and continued to run his tongue in slow circles over the nub, pulling it between his teeth every so often just to hear the catch in your breath when he did. Charlie had yet to even delve his fingers inside of you, and he could sense your growing impatience.

But every new gushing of your cunt flooded his mouth mixing with the blood on his tongue and clouding his thoughts in a tangy, metallic haze.

Shit, he’d decided the second he licked his first, long stripe up your pussy that he would never taste anything more delectable. If he ever got caught—which was incredibly unlikely—but if he was, his last meal would be to bury himself between your legs and drink until they took him away.

The only thing that dragged him back into the world outside of his mouth on your lips was the sharp smack of your hand against his temple. You yanked his head back and growled down at him.

“Don’t forget who you’re toying with, Mr. Barber,” you hissed.

Charlie couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his cheeks, “Trust me, I’m well versed in dealing with desperate whores.”

He caught the beginning of your lunge before your back left the bed. His passive palm slammed down onto your chest, smearing a handprint on the bloody skin and effectively pinning you on the bed. God, he had come close to cumming in his pants a few times since the start of your little game, but the sight of his hand encompassing the swell of flesh at the top of your breasts nearly brought him to his breaking point.

“Well,” you gasped and hooked your legs around his waist, rocking his aching cock between your folds, “luckily, so am I.”

Charlie grunted and felt himself start to boil over. Even through the rough fabric of his pants, your pussy was so incredibly warm and wet he had to wrench himself away. And then you were laughing, the chuckle building low in your gut and working its way out to grate his ears, make his face burn and his hands curl into fists.

“I think you would do well not to forget who you’re toying with, either,” he snapped, dragging you again to the edge of the bed and retrieving the knife he’d discarded on the floor.

“What do you think you’re—”

He cut you off, as he flipped the blade into palm and ran the pommel against your entrance, nudging your clit again, “You want something inside this fucking cunt so bad, I’m going to give it to you.”

The sharp metal bit into his hand as he plunged its hilt all the way into the bolster. The cry that left you, half sob, half choked relief at finally being filled seeped into his veins and spread like venom.

“You, son—fuck—son of a bitch,” you moaned as he pumped the knife handle harshly into your soaking cunt.

He couldn’t help himself.

Charlie’s hand dropped to the zipper of his pants, hastily unfastening the clasps and pulling his dick, raging hard and flushed red from the confines of his underwear. It slapped against the skin of his stomach and left a trail of precum behind. As he fucked you on the knife, angling the hooked end so that it stroked your upper walls, he roughly fisted his length. His hips bucked up into his dry palm but the friction was nowhere close to what he needed.

He wanted your hot, wet, pussy to clench around him so he could mark you with his cum and his teeth and make you his.

But he couldn’t give in so quickly.

The second he relented to those base instincts, you would have won, and Charlie couldn’t have you gaining any more leverage than you already had.

So instead, he let his cock go excruciatingly untouched and reached up to knead your breasts. Your nipples peaked under his fingers and he rolled one between them, listening to the whining in your throat as he pinched the stiff flesh. He almost lost himself entirely in the wonder of your softness, the way you yielded and shaped to fit in his palm.

Without much thought he arched up, mouthing across your tits and sucking hungrily at the nipple. When Charlie drew back, your skin was shiny with his spit and the blood still oozing out and collecting in the dip of your chest. Entranced, smeared his palm through the sticky, warm pool and coated his palm. He brought it down, jerking his cock once again and the sweet, hot slide of his blood covered hand was enough.

“You like it?” he mumbled, growing more incoherent by the minute. “Such a fucking slut, I’m going to ruin this pussy, you know that right?”

You kept your mouth shut, but through the haze of pleasure and pain, you managed to fix him with another bone-shattering stare.

“You’re going to take my cock and no one else will ever be good enough when I’m done with you,” he was rambling now, fucking his hand and your cunt with his face in your tits.

Charlie didn’t believe in a god, but right now—he certainly felt like one.

“Admit it,” he snarled, “we’re the same.”

His hips came to a stuttering halt, thumb teasing at his cockhead before letting go completely to press hard at your clit again. “None of those assholes you picked up ever satisfied you, I know they didn’t.”

“You’re right,” your words were so quiet he almost missed them entirely.

He never relented on your clit of the hand driving the knife’s hilt impossibly deep into your cunt, but he did raise his head from your breasts to hover over your face.

“What was that,” he asked in a whisper.

It suddenly felt incredibly wrong to speak any louder.

Your face was twisted in pain of admittance and the release that he’d kept you on the brink of for so long, “You’re right, nothing was ever enough.”

Until him.

You didn’t say it, but he knew that was what you meant.

And then Charlie Barber was kissing you. His lips were on yours in an instant and it was all teeth and tongue and battling for dominance which developed quickly into a truce of sorts.

Neither of you were better than the other.

Just two sides of the same monster.

You moaned, deep and low into his mouth, licking past his lips to trace the crooked edges of his teeth. He hoped you could taste yourself on his tongue.

Below, you were rocking your hips now, meeting each thrust of the knife. He could feel the tension on every backstroke as your walls clenched tighter against the hilt.

He wanted to see you cum so desperately. He needed to know what you looked like in the throes of bliss that only he could bring you. So, he tore his lips from yours and watched as your back arched into his chest and you threw your head back choking as your pussy clamped around the unforgiving handle while the orgasm washed over you.

There was a moment of silence as you both panted and twitched and revealed in the incredible satisfaction of finally, finally finding your equal—your match. But then your eyes were locking onto his face again and he felt the familiar predatory urge to bitesuckpouncepound once more.

The following seconds were a flurry of movement.

Charlie ripped the knife from your cunt and let it clatter to the floor as you latched onto his neck and sucked hard. In the midst of the tangle of arms and limbs his pants were fully abandoned and he crawled over your body, sitting back against the headboard and dragging you into his lap.

You pulled back, foreheads resting together and both looking down to his cock. Coated in a slick of blood and precum that leaked steadily from the tip, it was nestled between your bodies and twitched with every rapid beat of his heart.

Ever so slowly, your eyes drifted back to meet and he swallowed thickly before your mouths were crashing together again. Time was irrelevant as your bodies moved incomprehensibly fast, aching to be joined and satisfied.

“Take me,” he groaned into your mouth, sucking on your tongue and releasing it with a pop.

Thankfully, you just nodded. No smartass quip, no talking back.

The knowledge that you needed this just as much only spurred him forward.

Swiftly, you lifted your hips, guiding Charlie’s length between your folds and sinking down in one sharp thrust that seated your ass comfortably against his thighs. The blood and your first orgasm eased the slide of his dick. Almost immediately you started bouncing in his lap, and he gripped your hips, bursting vessels under the skin.

One hand traveled up to your back, holding your chests together as the other guided you down, spearing you on his dick and you both moaned at the feel of completeness.

Your nipples dragged across his as your bodies frantically moved together and the sweet sensation stung his fraying nerves.

“Charlie,” you sounded just as wrecked as he felt, “Fuck.”

“I know,” he whispered your name in between the sloppy meeting of your lips, “I know.”

The room was filled with the most base of animalistic sounds and the wet slap of your cunt on his cock. You were tightening around him and he felt your fingers bury themselves in his hair, tugging his mouth from yours so he was looking you in the eye. The hand on your hip was digging dark bruises into the pliant flesh as you ground against him, breath fanning over his face.

And this was it.

This was what it had all been leading up to.

The rest had just been practice.

And this was the culmination of everything he’d learned.

So when you came with a shout of his name, looking him straight in both eyes, he knew you really would be his last.

There would be no others after this. As much as he had claimed your cunt, your body, you for himself, you owned this pleasure—his pleasure—just as completely. And that alone had him pulsing, coating your walls in thick, hot ropes of him that mixed with the bloody mess coating your bodies and dripped out around the base of his cock.

The whole time, your eyes never left his for a moment.

Perpetually looking forward.

***

Charlie’s arm throbbed from under the packs of gauze and ace bandages. It was raining again and the train platform was particularly packed considering it was well past midnight.

Performances were set to start next weekend and rehearsals had him working till the early hours of the morning, catching trains at ungodly times and stumbling into bed only to rinse and repeat the next day.

He missed you.

It felt good to admit that. Not shameful or weak. He’d come to terms with the feelings of loss that had formed like a rock in his gut when he slunk from your apartment two weeks ago. Still marked in your blood and tasting you on his lips, Charlie had left you sleeping and stumbled back to his place to shower and make it to the start of dress rehearsals.

And since then, he hadn’t had a free minute to sneak away.

It’s not as though he could just shoot you a text the way his intern did constantly at even the simplest of tasks. But the closing wound concealed behind his cardigan and trench coat was a pleasant, if painful reminder of his final hunt.

He was right, after all.

If the others were lackluster before he met you, he was entirely disinterested now.

So he comforted himself by reliving the events that transpired in your room—your voice that he felt more than heard, the cut of the blade, his name caught between your teeth. He took a calming breath, glancing around to clear his head lest he miss the train while caught up in the fantasy of your bare skin on his.

As the tunnel vibrated and shook with the force of the approaching subway, Charlie gazed across the tracks to the adjacent platform. It was less crowded, not many people taking the southbound lines from this part of the city. He was certain he caught a familiar glimpse of a coat, a wolf’s snarl, two eyes locked on him. But the train blocked his view before he could get a better look.

Frantically, he boarded the compartment and shouldered his way to the opposite doors and looked out the smudged window.

His heart stuttered in his chest when he saw you.

Standing relaxed on the filthy green tile, you grinned at him and very suddenly Charlie was no longer bending under the weight of his work. As the train started up again, rushing faster and faster away, he looked for as long as he could at your figure growing smaller until it was swallowed up by the maze of pitch black tunnels.

With a sigh, Charlie sunk down onto the vacant bench and laid his head in his hands. Though just to hide the sinful smile that graced his lips from any prying eyes.

You really were a perfect trophy.

This hunt might be his last, but something told him it would not be ending anytime soon.

And that was more than enough.

#charlie barber x reader #serial killer!charlie #charlie barber smut #marriage story #serial killer!au #dead dove do not eat #dark fic #blood kink #kinfe play #kinktober #adcu fanfic #mind the tags #dr. b writes

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re-diesirae · 3 years ago

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11. Leon

Leon had been half asleep and ready to get up at the slight sign of danger; his years of service had taught him to be always on his toes, and so he had become a very light sleeper. He was used to being awakened by random unpleasant surprises. However, the way he had woken this time made him lose a few years of life-spawn.

There was a loud crack, followed by a soft female groan, and then the cave began shaking like an earthquake. His eyes snapped open, and he was immediately on his fit with his handgun in hand. His eyes quickly scanned the cave. Claire was gone, the cavern entrance's cover laid broken on the ground, and he could hear gunshots coming from outside.

"Shit…" he mumbled, getting his gun and making his way outside.

He expected the usual groans and screams that usually came with Plagas, but instead, the roar he heard chilled his blood.

"Leon S. Kennedy! Don't you dare come out now!" he heard Claire shout at him.

Don't come out? Was she insane? He wasn't going to let her fight whatever that thing was on her own.

Leon reached the entrance and saw the youngest Redfield standing a few meters away from him. Her dark hair was messy and filled with leaves and branches that had gotten stuck after she had rolled on the ground. She had her rifle aimed in his direction, and her expression was a mix of horror and shock.

"Leon, that thing is right over you. If you come out to know, it won't be good..." Claire shouted again, "I'll lure it away! As soon as the path is clear, you can come to give me a hand!"

Like hell, he would. Claire had moved further away, and he waited a couple of minutes for Claire's sign, but as it never came, he gripped his handguns and ran out of the cave as fast he could. What he saw outside was worse than what he'd imagined. The creature wasn't the same they had seen earlier. It was bigger, uglier, and even more threatening. It moved like a human-spider crawling over the surface; just like the others they'd seen so far, the creatures had no features in its face except an over-sized mouth filled with fangs. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of red that he recognized as Claire, running right to him.

"Leon! Thank god, you're outside safely," she gasped.

"Are you okay?" He asked as he examined her under the dim moonlight. She didn't look hurt, and That sent a wave of relief over him.

"I'm fine, but we don't have time for that, Mr. agent. We have an issue here..."

"I noticed...a new friend?"

"Sure...and the bastard isn't leaving me alone without a fight. Want to be a nice friend and help me?"

" What are friends for?"

The fight against the thing was hard, they wasted a lot of ammo, and the beast didn't seem to flinch. The silence of the night got broken with the sound of gunshots, roars, and screams. The creature was strong, and after a few minutes of the fruitless fight, Leon knew that they had little chances to defeat it. They were wasting themselves and precious ammo.

"Shit…" he groaned, putting more ammo in his gun, "This one is no joke. "

"Any plan, Mr. Agent?" Claire gasped, covering him.

Run, that was all he could think at the time. With some luck, they could use the trees and the terrain to their advantage and lose it. Maybe they'd stumble with some of the locals, and that would distract the horrendous thing. It was a high bet, but it was better than wasting ammo and having the thing kill them eventually.

"Let's run. Save the ammo unless it is necessary…"

Claire nodded at him, and both turned around and began running as fast as they could through the woods. They could hear the groans and steps of the monster chasing them, but either of them wanted to stop and see how far it was. Their race came to an abrupt end when they found themselves in front of a high cliff. The only way across was an old hanging bridge that wagged too much for his comfort.

Fuck comfort, Leon thought as he and Claire ran through. The damn thing kept moving and moving, making it hard to advance without tripping and falling into certain death. Either they were caught and killed, or they fell off the cliff and died. None of the options were appealing.

The creature had already caught with them; it seemed to hesitate with the bridge, but Leon knew that its hesitation wouldn't last for long.

"We are almost there, Claire. Hurry."

The woman didn't answer. She was almost breathless when they reached the end of the bridge. The monster was half of it, and without hesitation, Leon pulled out his knife and cut off the ropes. The effect was instantaneous, the bridge broke down under the weight of its horrible body, and they saw, with some relief, how it vanished into the darkness of the cliff.

Well, at least that worked.

Leon checked himself. His wounds were numerous, but all of them were mostly scratches and not life-threatening. He was relieved to see that Claire was in a similar condition. Her clothes had gotten torn in many parts during the struggle. He saw blood on them and several injuries, but, like his, they seemed to be small scratches. However, there was something that still worried Leon. Claire's concussion was already an issue, and he didn't know if the new hits had added more damage.

"Claire…"

She didn't answer as she was catching up her breath with her look completely distant.

"Claire, talk to me," Leon insisted. He needed to evaluate her condition, and talking was one of the simplest ways.

"I'm all right," she replied in a shaky voice that made him frown, "Just a little shocked and breathless. Give me a minute…"

Leon nodded. Her reply seemed reasonable. While Claire was recovering, he decided to scout around for a bit. It was too dark to make out anything, but they needed to find a safe spot for the rest of the night. After that thing's attack, he wasn't in the mood to cross paths with another unfriendly monster. He found a small building a few steps from them that seemed like a storage shack. The door was locked with a chain, but Leon broke them without effort and pushed the door open. The place was small, dusty, and filled with boxes with undistinguishable contents in the darkness. It wasn't pretty nor comfortable, but it looked safe enough, at least until dawn.

The young agent made sure to lock the door before letting himself fall to the cold floor next to Claire; he rested his back against the wall and looked at the redhead on his side. She seemed to be recovering her breath slowly and was busy trying to fix her reddish locks; he could see her shoulders move as she tried to ease the rhythm of her breathing.

"Nice look..." he whispered in a teasing way as he pulled a stick out of the mess of dark locks.

"Haha..." Claire said sarcastically, "I think I lost my hair tie. Just great..."

"I find it nice. You should wear it down more often..."

"You gotta be kidding me..." Claire blurted out. She shook her head and laughed, "We're in a crisis here, and you can still flirt?"

"I am not flirting," Leon chuckled, "Just being honest here..."

Claire shook her hair a little, throwing a bunch of leaves over his lap.

"Don't mock my hair, Mr. Perfect-hair-all-the-time," she snorted while she rubbed her arms, an action that didn't pass unnoticed by his sharp eyes.

Of course, she's cold.

Unlike him, Claire had failed to bring a jacket, and her current outfit wasn't exactly warm. Hughesville had been in the middle of summer, and naturally, Claire had been wearing a casual and fresher attire that didn't suit the cooler weather of their current location.

Claire bent over in a sudden coughing fit, but he could do anything more than rubbing her back in a comforting way.

"Thanks," she said, "I don't know what was that for."

"You're cold…" he commented.

"A little, blame Hughesville for being in summer. I regret leaving my jacket in my office."

"You can have mine then…" he replied, taking off the piece of clothing and putting it over her shoulders.

"You'll be cold now…" she complained, but he noticed the soft hint of gratitude in her voice.

"I'll bear with it."

"You're going to make me feel guilty. At least stay close. We can warm each other."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Don't push it, Kennedy, Chris isn't the only one with a good hook."

Leon laughed. He'd never doubted Claire being a dangerous woman to mess with, but somehow, he felt like teasing Claire was a way to relax, considering their current predicament. Even if she had made herself sound angry, he could feel her body relax by his side.

"Are you okay? You didn't hit your head again when I wasn't looking, did you?"

"I don't think so…" she replied, " Not that hard, at least."

She had laughed at the last statement, but he wasn't weren't dangerous, but if she kept getting hits, that concussion could grow into something worse. Leon felt Claire's head fall on his shoulder, but he was aware that she was still awake.

"Sorry...my headache is killing me. I am starting to feel dizzy again."

"That's fine. You can pay me back with your lap next time."

She laughed, and the sound of her laugh was sort of comforting.

"How long will it take Chris to come? Don't get me wrong, I am enjoying my time with you, but I'd rather do this somewhere without B.O.W's and without a killer migraine piercing my skull."

"I have to admit I'd love that, too. We still need to meet up in normal conditions, Claire."

"I am starting to suspect that the meeting will never happen."

"We will make it happen. Maybe we can grab a bite when we are out of here?"

"That sounds splendid…" she chuckled, but he soon heard her laugh die away. "I am sorry, Leon."

"What are you apologizing for?"

"You shouldn't be here. It was me who these people wanted…"

"Don't be stupid. I am glad that I am here with you. That way, I can make sure that you'll make it home."

"Yeah...of course." she said softly, "Barry still owes me that lunch. I just hope it won't be a sandwich."

Leon snorted. He had heard about that inside joke from Claire. Barry and his sandwich references were gold.

"You can get it when we return. Oh, and you should treat me for dinner, too. After all this mess, I might deserve it."

"Sure. I can do that…"

"How about some home cooking? Chris was bragging about your amazing cooking skills, and yet I've never tried it before."

"What's Chris doing bragging about my culinary skills?" she sighed, "Well, fine, I will cook for you, but I warn you, don't expect anything too fancy. I haven't cooked in a while."

Their talk about food made him remember how thin she was. Claire hadn't been fat, to begin with, but something about her appearance now was unsettling. She was a little underweighted, or at least that's what he felt. Maybe she had been skipping meals due to work; he just hoped it wasn't something serious.

"Want to sleep?" he whispered.

"Not yet. I need the adrenaline to go down first. We could talk in the meantime. Of course, unless you want to sleep..."

"Nah, talking doesn't sound bad. I don't usually get friendly chatting during missions, but I can't say it isn't a nice change."

"Then tell me about the misadventures of the great agent Kennedy. I bet you get to save tons on damsels in distress each time. You seem to have experience saving my butt."

"I don't think the title damsel in distress and Claire Redfield go well in the same sentence. You are the one saving my ass all the time."

"Maybe years ago, but I can't beat your experience, so...what was your last mission?"

Leon knew that Claire was probably doing casual chatting by asking about his job. She would always do that and avoid the subject of her misadventures. She probably had her reasons to avoid the topic, but he was as curious as she was about what she had done in the last past years, and he probably wouldn't get a chance to talk to her that openly when they got home and her brother hoarding over her.

"It wasn't anything interesting. Just the usual. After the incidents from two years ago, I've only gotten minor tasks."

"It was a tough thing for you, guys. Chris was in bad shape when he came back, physically and mentally. I imagine you were, too. I heard about what happened in Tall Oaks. We lost many of our people there, and I wished we could have done more, but the organization was in chaos at the time, too."

"That's fine. I think I've gotten over it."

It wasn't entirely true, though. Leon hadn't quite gotten over it. He'd had his mourning period, but that didn't mean that the memories didn't hurt. He had lost more things than he could have ever imagined in one single night.

"I am sorry I made you remember that. I can see it still hurts. "

Leon wondered how Claire could see that. He knew the woman was very sharp, and even when she didn't hit the nail all the time, she was usually never too far from it.

"What about you, miss head of branch?"

"Don't sweat it. I didn't want that job to begin with, but after many circumstances, I decided to accept it."

"Got tired of hunting zombies and mutants?"

"Not quite. I just realized how many glitches TerraSave's structure had. It was nothing that I could fix with the power I had at the time, but I could do it if I accepted the role as head of the branch. Power and ranks make a difference. It was tough at first, convincing the higher-ups and everything, but in the end, they all saw the reason behind it, and I think they were pleased with the results."

"Your promotion was a recent thing, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, a little less than a year. My last mission was on an island in South America. Another testing field concocted by Umbrella's remaining lackeys."

Leon remembered hearing something about that. He hadn't read the report, though, but Hunnigan had said something. A group of famous Japanese models had been slaughtered on an island by a viral outbreak and B.O.W's running rampage. He had heard about all the chaos and tragedy it had involved, but Hunnigan never mentioned Claire's name.

"You...were there?"

"Yeah. I got myself in a bad spot and ended up being saved by Parker and the B.S.A.A. Some months after that, I was named head of the NA Branch. I haven't been active in the field since then, but I don't plan to stay like that. As soon as I finish with all the work I've got, I'll be back fieldwork."

He could somehow picture it. Just like Chris, Claire was a person of action and not someone who stayed all day behind a desk signing papers. Leon wondered if it was a family trait and if perhaps their parents had been like that, too.

"It took me a couple of years to see things better. TerraSave needed a change if we wanted the organization to fill the purpose it was created for, helping the people. So far, it wasn't doing such a great job, and it felt a little disappointing. I guess we were all biased and unable to see the breaches we had. It took me a couple of hard hits to come clear with it, and that's how I ended where I am."

"Maybe that is the reason you got targeted," Leon reasoned, "If you were making major changes, some people might have seen you as a threat."

"TerraSave is a salvation organization. We are not a threat to terrorists, like the B.S.A.A or the DSO are. Even with our research, we posed no threat."

"That's enough to them, Claire. Maybe you had something they did not want you to have."

"Maybe? By now, I wouldn't be surprised if we had a traitor on our side. It wouldn't be the first…" she sighed bitterly, "Unfortunately, that is not something I can control. I am not psychic to see what goes into everyone's heads after all, but I've learned my lesson. I won't put my whole trust into people."

Leon was perplexed about that, but he then remembered a report he had read years ago, one concerning Claire and TerraSave. A group of people had gotten abducted during a party and taken to a B.O.W development facility. There had been only three survivors from that incident, among them, Claire. According to the file, the abduction had been orchestrated by a man named Neil Fisher, who was the former head of the NA Branch and Claire's predecessor.

"You wouldn't be referring to the events of Sushestviviane, are you?"

"You got me there. That's why I meant. I can blame it on Neil that I am no longer able to trust people, as Moira likes to point. I cared about him and trusted him with my life, just to get sold to Wesker for a sample of Ouroboros."

Leon caught the bitterness in her words, and he couldn't help but wonder if there had been something more than a mere friendship there, but as he knew Claire, he chose not to ask.

"There are still people you can trust, though."

People like me.

"Yes, I know. Feel proud, Kennedy. You are among the top ones in my list, right next to Chris."

"Do you trust me as much as you trust your brother?"

"Well yeah, who knows if I would be here without you, rookie..."

Claire had suddenly fallen quiet. She seemed to have gotten lost in her thoughts, and unlike Claire, he wasn't that good at reading people, so he had no idea what was going through the woman's mind.

"So...Mr. Agent, what now?"

"Same plan as before. We get to that house, figure out what's going on here, and we leave."

"I don't like being the pessimist here, but what if we find more of my friends there?"

"We can handle it. What's another B.O.W to us? I'll watch your back, and you'll watch mine, that worked pretty well in Raccoon."

"Bet on that. You know I will take a bullet for you."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't want that, so you better don't go doing anything crazy, Redfield."

"Goes the same for you."

Leon did not reply. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and began fidgeting with it. Just as Leon expected, the signal was off, which meant he had no means to contact Hunnigan. He managed to pass a small message, but the agent was doubtful if it was clear enough.

"There must be something interfering with the signal."

"Well, guess that shouldn't surprise us. " Claire replied, peeking over his shoulder at the mobile "How's that they didn't take it from you?"

"I guess our terrorist group isn't bright." he replied, pushing the mobile back into his pocket, "You need to rest now."

"Yeah, I'll take that offer…"

Leon felt Claire curl at his side, and it took her a couple of sighs before the woman had fallen deeply asleep. He took a look at her sleeping form and stroked a couple of hair strands from her face. Took what it took, he would bring Claire home safely.

NOTE: if you guys want to come and chat about the fic, or just about CLEON in general. Feel free to drop by the discord and say hi! JOIN SERVER

#my fanfiction #my fanfic writing #Resident Evil #Cleon #claire redfield #leon x claire #leon s kennedy #claire x leon

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slasherkisss · 5 years ago

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CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 5]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N Chapter 5 is here! I’m gonna finish this fic if it kills me, I promise. I’m just so slow at writing with my work and life. My 2020 resolution is to at least get this done at some point fghgh. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter nonetheless!

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You had seen Jason almost every day since then.

As the seasons shifted with the rotation of the earth, so did your attitude with the presence of the Crystal Lake Killer at your side. Rather than live in isolation as you had planned to, the forest as your only friend and the sound of birds and babbling brooks being the last signal of life within your reach, you had instead found comfort in another figure nonetheless. His hulking stature brought with it a warmth so unique to him that you could feel it radiating from far outside your home each time he visited. It was like a string of fate, you thought with moderate amusement in your mind’s voice as you would constantly guide yourself to it in order to bring him in as you usually did, tying you to him as you allowed yourself to drown further and further against him.

He was a sun at the bottom of water, reflecting stars in the warmest of ways.

Your mind wandered over to the subject the most when you two were making love.

‘Making love’. It’s what you called it. It’s the phrase you used to ease him into the idea of being so intimate with you. For some reason the wording seemed to put him in a more relaxed state than other synonyms. You didn’t mind, though. You had always found it vulgar when your partner talked to you with those phrases dying on their lips as they pushed themselves upon you. ‘Fuck’ and ‘Bang’ and ‘Boink’... All stupid words that stupid people who were not serious about their relationships used to justify their wants. To find someone and use them and then leave them alone.

There was nothing wrong with it, you supposed in the end. Some people liked that style of living. Partner to partner parkour suited those who found joy in it and that was okay, but you? There was a craving for something more in the base of your chest. Thorns digging into your lungs and heart, clutching around each organ tighter and tighter the longer you were without that sweetness of a lover willing to devote their all to you. You hadn’t known that you wanted someone like that in your life until you met Jason Voorhees.

Until he saved you like that, and you repaid him with your love. It made sense now why you never enjoyed the other men. Why you never gained pleasure when they fingered you. As Jason’s thick, delicious fingers filled you to the brim as they always seemed to, you understood what you wanted.

Him. Always him.

Your moans were soft, beautiful noises that hit Jason’s ears in all the right ways. His head tilted slightly to the side, eyes admiring you through the small holes of his mask as his massive fingers curled deep into your throbbing core. Your hips rolled to accompany their movements, fingers finding fistfuls of his ragged shirt and gripping until your knuckles turned white as the sheets of the bed you were atop. His other arm rested on the bed, dipping it dangerously to one side but neither of you could find it in you to care in the throws of your passion.

“Jason,” Your moans of his name were a song to his heart as you arched yourself up into his touch, “There - yes - please! You’re doing so good - ahhh - so, so wonderful and good. My good boy, mmm, that’s it… Jason-!”

Your moans and praises only spurred him on, his confidence increasing with every ‘good boy’ and sweet words of love that left your voice. Each crook of the fingers within you sent your mind running on a high that pushed your entire form over the edge. You came when he twisted his two thick fingers within you and crooked them curiously, hitting a spot inside of your core that made you see stars. Your entire body shook as you cried his name, your moans beautiful on your lips as he memorized the face you made as you soaked his fingers in your cum.

Laying on the bed, you caught your breath as you watched him heave his own heavy ones, his cock hard in his pants as he shifted before you with a needy stature. You knew what he wanted next, smiling as he begged for it in the shyest of ways possible, and it was only natural for you to return the favor. Sitting up, you leaned upwards to kiss his mask. The material was cold under your lips but you didn’t care, not when he leaned forward eagerly in the movement, pressing his cock onto your bare thigh. Your hand came down to free it from its constraints, making a low and shaky moan pull itself from the killer’s throat. You smiled proudly.

His moans were like the wind. Each echo of them burned the very walls of your cabin as you stroked his throbbing cock in your hand, his entire body shuddering as he leaned forward to rest his head on top of yours. In this position, when you looked upwards enough, you were always able to see the beautiful blue of his eyes through the mask. You held onto them as you smiled, your pace increasing as you pleasured him.

He was so perfect.

After taking care of you and your lovers needs you excited the bedroom in an outfit of thick jeans and a plaid button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, bending tight at the forearm as you meandered about in hopes to locate the seeds you had haphazardly placed somewhere in the kitchen before being whisked off by your lover into the bedroom, where he cared for you so well. It was less of an active search effort, however, and more of a generalized meandering of your open space.

You found yourself in that short of mindset nowadays. With nothing to focus on outside of the things you wanted to, life had gone at your own pace. Your only timers now were the sun and the moon as they traded spots in the sky, cycling through each other endlessly as they fought for the attention of the humans down below. Your world went by at a careful rhythm that followed the beat of your heart as you progressed. There were some days you just wandered around the winding paths of the forest, admiring the trees and the animals that scurried past your feet. You gathered the skulls of creatures you passed by when you could, too.

It had started when you found a squirrel skull on a trail. Scooping it up without much thinking about it, it now joined the rest of the bones and plants Jason had gotten you on the various displayed points within your cabin. Soon to join it were the small amalgamation of animal teeth, spine bones, and raccoon skulls that surrounded your living room in a macabre visage of rural beauty.

The trail of thoughts was burst when you turned around from your fifth pacing circle in the kitchen, running face to face with Jason as you did so. His hulking form had entered the kitchen only a short while ago, hands outstretched as he offered the missing seeds to you with a tilt of his head, as if asking ‘is this what you were looking for’?

“Oh!” You giggled and took them from his hand, “Thanks, Jay, I appreciate it.”

You stood on the tips of your toes to kiss his cheek. To accommodate the action, he modestly bent his knees to feel the warmth of your mouth over his mask. If corpses could blush, god, you imagined that he would be red. Shaking the seed packets in your hand, you found the trowel that you had gotten in your short time at the store in the town a few miles out from your location and waved it around with a laugh.

“Want to help me work?”

His nod was adorably eager as he followed after you into the backyard. HIs footsteps fell heavier than your own, making it sound as though your own were echoing off of the edges of your floor as you spun the trowel lightly in your hand.

Outside the house was beautiful. Sun rays proded through the leaves of tall trees, sprinkling themselves down onto the earth below. The dots warmed your skin and made you sigh with a pleasant contentedness as you shut your eyes to bask. The warmth hit your face as you swayed in the mulch below you. Jason watched you for a moment, your perfect face glowing like fire in the rays of the light. Birds chirped their secretive pleasantries around the branches they hid in and he could see the glitter of love and appreciation for his home in your eyes as they opened back up.

The Cabin’s backyard was a large spread of land fenced off with old wooden posts that lined themselves with barbed wire. Your Dad had always said that it was to keep animals out, but, you now wondered if it was to keep something more out. Something that you had let in instead. It was a cruel sort of humor that made you laugh at it before trying to forget about it, focusing instead on the half of the land rimmed with two chicken coops and a small plotted feeding ground for pigs. On the other half of the land, in front of you where your cabin’s entrance spat you out, was an even set of plots. They were perfect for growing fruits and vegetables of all sorts. Your grip on the bag in your hand clenched tighter as you hopped towards the dirt and began your preparations.

You were on your knees and pulling out weeds when Jason joined you, his own hands hesitantly finding the unnecessary plants and removing them fearlessly from their roots. You smiled up at him as he did so, the shimmer of the sun reflecting off of his hockey mask.

“I want to get farm animals,” You announced with a soft sigh, “Some chickens and maybe a couple of goats. Wouldn’t it be fun to have a few pigs around, too?”

He nodded in excitement, the thought of all of those creatures safe within the confines of the land with you a delight to his ears. You watched him stand up and look around, as though he was ready to start finding animals right then and there. Reaching out your hand, you held onto his pant leg as he tried to move, making him look down and offer a quizzical stare in return.

“Not right now, silly.” You laughed, “We have to plant seeds first. And then maybe start stocking up on feed. I don’t want them to go hungry. I’m sure we can make some natural feed out of the things in the woods. You can help me with that later, too, alright?”

He sat down, picking idly at the earth as he helped remove more of the weeds, and nodded.

The two of you worked on your garden in quiet, words not necessary as the both of you relaxed in the presence of the forest and each other. You could count the seconds between the bird’s tweets, slowly recognizing the different iterations of each species. Your fingers felt cool in the dirt as they dug shamelessly through the ground, not afraid of getting dirty if it meant giving you the fruits of your hard work in a few months. Lines were created, holes shoved into them as you had Jason insert each seed of different varieties into their rows. They were so nice and neat. When you told him you were proud of him he beamed.

You put your hands over his as you showed him how to cover the seeds properly, ensuring that they were correctly layered with the amount of dirt necessary. You felt how strong his hands were. They were as powerful, you realized, as they were gentle. Your own didn’t even fit in his palm. HIs massive body was so much more against yours. If he wanted to he could grab you right now, holding you there and then snapping your neck without a second thought.

You could feel them now. Tight around you. Parching your breath. The twist of your flesh… gentle but firm… your tendon snapping and your spine shattering in his grip.

Cr-Ack

You startled yourself as you realized you had broken a twig under your palms, staring down at the earth with wide eyes. Jason’s hands were still under your own as you watched their difference again, trying not to let your mind wander down that path again as you looked upwards towards the massive killer. His hockey mask gave way to his eyes, which were soft as they searched yours. Curious and worried, that sweet look of his made your worries melt away and you smiled softly, lips parted in a breathless laugh that made no sound. Leaning forward, your lips found his again. Well, where his lips might be. You wondered if you could get him to take his mask off at some point. You would have to get there on his own time, especially when he was doing so well for you already.

“Let’s go inside, okay? I think we’ve done all the work we can for now… It’s just up to letting these little guys grow now.”

You cast one last familiar gaze at the plants below you and then let a smile form itself light on your lips, “I’ll even make us some lemonade, okay?”

Jason nodded slowly and it occurred to you that, perhaps, he didn’t have to drink lemonade. Perhaps he’s never had lemonade before. What kind of childhood was that, you wondered, that this man had never had lemonade before he died? A tragic one, certainly, but no one ever claimed that Jason Voorhees had a good childhood.

The inside of your cabin was cold compared to the warmth of the sunny outdoors. It sent a chill down your spine as you wrapped your dirty hands around your arms and rubbed them, the friction accompanied by the feeling of mud being smeared across yourself. It was a nice feeling, though. Dirty and gritty… as though you were closer to the earth. As though, slowly, you were going to become one with it.

That was the part you never seemed to mind about the concept of dying, at least. Being buried deep within the earth or scattered ashes across fertilized plains of existence. The echo of your voice a deathly sound on the wind as all the pieces of you were moved about in different locations… All of it was as beautiful as it was melancholy. It was a terrifying concept but so peaceful in its honest ideal that it almost made you crave it sometimes. To be in the ground with the worms as they used your body to fuel their lives. To fuel nature. Soon you would be the trees towering above you or the plants at the bottom of a lake, swimming and watching the rays of the sun filter downwards into your eyes and system…

A touch lifted you from your thoughts. You turned your head slightly to notice the hand on your shoulder. Jason’s touch was not hard by any means. It was a light rest of his palm on your shoulder, not even squeezing as he waited for you to respond with something akin to worry radiating off of his massive, blank features. Reaching upwards with your own hand, you touched his and rubbed at the textured knuckles, your finger dipping into a part of his skin that had long been peeled away by decay. You felt the texture of his bone against the tip of your finger and shivered with delight at its strangeness. At its unique difference to any other hand you had held before.

You wanted to dip your tongue into it. To taste what his bones would be flavored like. Maybe you could ask him if it was okay later.

Right now you needed some lemonade and a good book.

“I can read you a story after we make some drinks,” You suggested, your first words after a terrifying silence as you pat his hand and smiled brightly at him. Jason’s serious demeanor seemed to lax at the idea, enjoying the sound of your voice when it lulled him into a net of safety through fairy tales and history books. You had read him the tale of Bonnie and Clyde at some point and he seemed to have an interest in the roaring 20s ever since. You tried to imagine him in flapper wear, dancing gaudily to electro-swing, and it almost made you laugh out loud as you entered your living room to skim the stocked bookshelf curiously.

Your fingers passed grimoires of fairy tales and texts of history tomes, lowering themselves idly to the edges of other books whose titles you had yet to read even since your arrival here. Inch by inch you scanned the shelves as you tilted your head sideways, gathering the titles in the light to better comprehend them.

It’s when you saw it.

It was a simple book, blue in its cover with plain white lettering. It was clear and easy to see, yet it nearly mixed with the rest of the blander covers. Perhaps to others it was bland. Yet, still, its concept caught your curiosity. Your heart jumped and you couldn’t help the smile as you pulled it down from its shelf and scanned the front of it.

American Sign Language: Conversations for Beginners

“Jason!” You turned a little too excitedly as your eyes lit up, holding the book upwards to show the startled man before you. He tilted his head in an indication of confusion as he gazed down at the book, which only served to rile you up more as you bounced on the heels of your feet and smiled.

“How would you feel about learning a new language?”

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #friday the thirteenth #jason voorhees imagine #slasher x reader #slasher imagine #cabin fever #cabin fever series

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dememarquette · 4 years ago

Text

True Crime

They parked outside a cottage. Portend Point was a gorgeous neighborhood. Occupying it, 1305 Parkview was an equally picturesque property. It had everything one could want from a gentrified postcard: a manicured lawn, a white picket fence, friendly neighborhood dogs excited to see you but not too excited. A sign advertised this slice of warm American pie could be yours. FOR SALE it said, smacked across an unfortunate realtor's forehead. Kevin Locklear had a new golf cart staked on this commission. In his desperation, which reeked as bad as the scene, he ducked below the police tape to plant an optimistic 'Open House Resumes Wednesday!' picket. Adria would take personal pleasure in throwing it in the garbage.

"Jean and Sidney Morin," She briefed, as Ian punched in the door code. "They're from New Gisen, reported missing 72 hours ago. Gas station footage has the suspect grabbing Jean at the Circle K. Sidney was seen by traffic cams in hot pursuit, but we have nothing after the first intersection. Men are checking doorbell cameras along the street. So far, nothing." The stolen car in the driveway was similarly combed through. Every stray hair inside was documented. There wasn't much left that wasn't bagged, tagged and sent off to the lab, but Ian liked one last intimate walk-through before tossing the keys to clean-up. If he was absorbing one word of what Adria was saying, it didn't show. Her partner worked like a TNT detective. Adria pictured the world bottoming out around him. He'd suffer 50 consecutive epiphanies after looking at something stupid like a tipped ketchup bottle, and construct a convoluted MO from there, but that's not how she worked. If reading the block text helped, murder's hooked on phonics, by God she'd do it. "Neighbors didn't hear anything. We have no idea where the struggle took place, if there was one. Judging from the looks of this place-" "It wasn't here." He said, tuning in only for silent confirmation. She nodded, and he killed the lights. His UV swept over the walls. The inside had the aesthetically-pleasing insipidity of a gourmet cracker. It had been sanitized for a showing, but according to the carpet, the perp wasn't admiring the crown modeling. A modest drip-trail led straight from the front door to the basement, and there wasn't a petal out of place before it. After a quick scan of the rooms composing the ground floor, Ian got his fill of Ashley HomeStore's heritage collection. To the basement they went. Each wood plank creaked under their feet. The floor consisted of a flat slab of water-stained cement. The space was fashioned into a man-cave. Shelves were bolted to the walls. All the sofas were leather. Posters on the wall were swapped for something more palatable, flanking an entertainment system that was to be marveled. In a move that didn't appear to serve any purpose toward the room's breathability, all the furniture was shoved to the side to clear the center. A single bulb hung by chain overhead. Energy funneled through a copper wire made it hum. Evidence photos never did it justice. The victims were strung together by a lawn hose. A single cloth gag- maybe a sheet- knocked their heads together, pulled taut at the pocket of their jaws. Their height difference forced Jean's face heavenward. The whites of her eyes were visible from the top, but you had to be at the bottom to see the shadow she sat in was actually a pattern. Their blood leaked into a paste-like outline, seeping color into the circle etched into it. Where the natural tug of gravity didn't fill the trenches, the killer dropped to their knees and started fingerprinting, casting away any macabre elegance it formerly had. Their hands scraped to fill the pattern all until it got to the bottom of the arc. Ian read her mind. "They were interrupted." "By what?" She asked. His mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn't have an answer. Instead he completed his circuit before dropping closer to the gag. Adria knelt beside him, her boots toeing the edge where the brushwork tapered. Fingerprints- fragmented and smeared- were shipped off to IAFIS. Problem was, when the suspect hadn't indulged in some casual DUI, she needed something to match it to. She sized her hand up against theirs, while the deceased husband stared on. Adria avoided eye contact. Violent crime wasn't anything new. She's seen her fair share since moving to the city, but never a throat cut this deeply. Sidney had been nearly decapitated. Skin folded off his Adam's apple like a bow-tie. Stringy matter underneath was on full display. "What about the design? Does that mean anything to you?" "The team is working on tracking it. So far they're thinking it’s some type of online cult." "And that?" She tipped her head to the bowls skirting the outline. Ian grabbed one, sifting through it with a finger. Its contents stuck to the latex, white. "Cinnamon, and salt. The last one's pyrite. Offerings." "Then what were they?" "Bait." The moment he said it the lights died. Ian shot up. Adria pulsed to follow, but her balance teetered. Neither were near a switch. "Who else is here?" "No one." The bowl Ian was holding warbled a low note, spinning where he’d been. He shouted from the foot of the stairs. "Has to be the breaker. Don't move." "What?" "Don't move." "Wh- I'm not going to touch anything!" Adria lurched on steel-toes. Offense had her fumbling with her flashlight. Sure. Okay. Fine. So in the past she hasn't been the most careful. Maybe she's stomped through one or two crime scenes. But never when it mattered! So it's not like she'd- Something blew past her ear. With a graceless shriek, she made it a third. "God DAMN it!" Coagulated blood gunked to her jeans. She fell onto her back, swearing and curling to assess the damage. Ian would take one look at her and scowl. He'll do that smoldering, glower thing of his that she only liked when it was directed to other people. And then she'll have to go home, change her jeans, and hope he lets her back onto the property before they break out the body bags. He's going to see right away that- There's smoke? She dropped her knee. Sniffing, she swiveled. Air was escaping somewhere, hissing like a busted soda can. Whatever it was suffused the room. Her eyes burned just to move, but she couldn’t shut them. It could be more than the breaker- But that wouldn't explain why it was in the middle of the scene. With a yelp, she witnessed a spark fly between the corpses. Her heels planted into the floor. She kicked, hastily wedging distance between her and smog lifting off the concrete. She could've pretended she missed the class where she found out cinnamon was flammable. She could've maybe let it slide that denim wasn't an accelerant, but this was straight up sulfur. A ribbon of light unwound between them. A silhouette stretched out from behind it, towering. "Ian?" She asked, already knowing it wasn't. It had too many feelings to be. "What is this?" It croned. Miserably, it picked up a leg. "Ugh." Fingers acting faster than her brain, Adria whipped her gun from its holster "HANDS. Hands up, now!" "Sticky-" It groused. She heard a wet, staggered ppmf-ff. That suspiciously sounded like bodies toppling. In a maneuver she couldn't repeat, she blindly vaulted over the sofa, jamming herself between its backing and the wall. Her vision developed slow. First outlines, then shapes. Colors a little after when the smokescreen fanned out, blurring the glow around his face. She propped up her gun. Old leather gave away her position. The red light of eyes widened, vaguely cartoon-ish. "WHOA, hey now. Don't shoot." "Get on the ground." She ordered. "I said I wanna see your hands! Both of them, now!" "Aye-aye!" He complied. There was something sarcastic about the way his shadow wiggled to the floor. "Happy?" "Who are you?!" "Demetri Marquette, at your service." He tried to bow, until the violent rattle of her pistol suggested that was strictly prohibited. "What are you doing here?!" "Same as you, I imagine." "What?! What does that mean?" "You know. Working. The hustle." He shimmied. One by one, the candles surrounding them lit. The man in the center appeared nothing as he did in the shadows. His stature halved. The reddish glow vanished from his face, but most perplexing yet was that he somehow found a cover to throw over the bodies. With the blanket over them, they looked like fucking sock puppets. Adria sucked in a breath, sputtering nothing but inarticulated syllables for solid five seconds before, "Hey- stop fucking with my scene!!" "Oh- this?" He patted the victim's heads. The disrespect alone should’ve been grounds to fire. "I was meaning to talk to you about that. I'm sorry but two? Overkill. We’re not in the business of extra credit but I do appreciate the enthusiasm. So, uh. What's it going to be?" She swore nothing about this conversation was tracking. "Huh? "Money, fame, power, et cetera?" Nonsense! Complete nonsense. What was he implying? That this was an offer? A transaction for the bodies? It didn't matter. He overstayed his welcome before he popped in. And the fact he got in here at all may mean he knew something they didn't. This ridiculous, unexplainable suspension of belief kept her from feeling imperiled but this fuck was going to ruin the whole case if he didn't already. She pinched the button on the side of her walkie. "Ian, I need back-up downstairs now." The stranger sucked his teeth. "Ah. I wouldn't do that.” ’Oh my God, shut up. “Come on, talk to me.” He cooed. “What would make you more comfortable? Fresh air? The lights- is it the lights?" She glared, trigger finger satisfied with rapid-fire button clicking. Ian's hip would be going off like the fire alarm should be. "You know, I was going for ambiance, but." He snapped. Suddenly the power was back. She twisted from her fort. Corner to corner, stomping cleared across ceiling. The basement door creaked. Ian came swinging down the stairs, perfectly on cue. "The breaker fixed itself." He announced, sounding leery of it. "Imagine that," Said Blondie. Adria’s aim stayed fixed, prepared for sudden moves. There weren’t any, even from her partner. Ian’s velocity slowed to a stop. His grip on the handrail turned rigid before the bottom, tightening like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes roved over the ruined scene, the magnitude of it driving a huge crease into his brow. He did not notice the stranger directly beside him. Adria desperately looked between the both of them. "He can't see me," Demetri elaborated. "Adria?" Said Ian. The gravelly rumble of his voice asked fifty questions- none of which she had an answer to. She had a gun aimed at nothing. Two bodies were down, bizarrely set up for a picnic. "I-..." She stuttered. "Word of advice," Demetri picked a piece of lint of Ian’s shoulder. The detective reacted with only the slight drift of his eye-line, before his attention snapped back to Adria. "Don't say anything or you'll buy yourself a ticket to a psych eval." "Ian, you can't-?" "Nevermind. From this angle, you already look insane." Ian waited for her to continue but she lowered her gun. If he was right, there was no coming back from this. "...I thought I saw someone in the smoke." "Smoke?" There was no smoke. No fire, no light. Demetri's trapeze around the basement hadn't even left footprints. To Ian, she used the two minutes he was away to go nuts. Just lose her mind. Sanity to the wind. Who needs to critically think when you can barricade yourself behind a sofa, wildly waving a gun around? Defending yourself from scary shadow people that a paid electricity bill keeps at bay? Ian stared, impatience surging from a quiet simmer to a boil. She realized it’s been too long since she even tried answering a question. "Are you alright?" He rephrased. What she heard was ’Are you an idiot?’ Her face burned hot. "I think-" She slung her bag over his shoulder. "I think I need a minute. I'll be back." The tight set of his jaw meant he agreed. She ran past him, bolting for the cruiser. Now she was going to have to type up an incident report. Scrub her pants. Contemplate the onset of her paranoia induced insanity, and hope they wouldn't take her badge for this. She threw herself into the front seat of her cruiser. The door slammed behind her. Before she’d let frustrated tears get the better of her, she pulled up a Chrome browser. Occult. Satanism. She typed. Demon summoning. Symbol. All the results looked close. Matching the exact twisted pattern would be a nightmare. "Mind if we hit Starbucks?" Demetri necked her seat. She jolted, narrowly stopping herself from throwing her elbow through his eye socket. Knowing he was fictional made her wish she hadn't hesitated. "Why are you in my car?!" She swiped at her face. "For a frap. Hopefully. Is butterscotch still in season?" "No! Get out." His cheek squished against her headrest. "Aw, c'mon." She adjusted the rear-view, only for him pop up passenger side. "I get it." He said, proving he did Not actually. Devoid of any understanding of what 'Get out' meant, "More of a Dunkin' girl. That's fine I guess. Oh! Hope you don't mind. I dug through your glove department. I was trying to get to know you." He waggled a scrap of stationary. "Does the department know you're dating? Seems naughty. Is that against HIPA or something?" She flustered, red-faced. That note had been in Ian’s lunch. "OUT!" "I mean, I'm not judging. I like it. You'd think detective romances would get cliché but ugh." He pressed it to his heart. "There's something so enticing about seeing the ugliness of humankind hand-in-hand with the one you love. A real testament to love's resilience. Do you listen to Rihanna?" We Found Love belted from her speakers. Forget the psych eval, now she had to worry about the HOA. "What do you want, huh?!” Adria punched her stereo. “What do you want? Why are you here? Turn this OFF-" "I want to know what you want." He shrugged. "I want you to leave?! I’ve said a million times!" "No can do. Gonna need something more substantial. Unless, gasp." He made a show of patting down his slacks before producing a pen. The document it came with looked real and official. Spooky, until it came to 'Officer Hardass' at the top of a memo. It read "I forfeit my eternal soul to get Demetrius Marquette to GTFO" in gold. She looked down at the paper, head reeling. This was a fever dream. A nightmare. A joke, but she could feel the weight surrounding the document. Metaphysical. And as tempting as it would be to physically take his pen and jam it through his palm, five finger fillet- "NO." She shouted, chucking it back at him. "I'm not selling anything." Rihanna's chorus guttered and died. Its volume fell with his face. Hopeless indeed. "I don't get it." He huffed, impossibly exasperated. Like she was the one being objectively difficult here. "Why did you even summon me, then? What's the point?" "I didn't summon you, asshole! Some psychopath did!" "Huh." He pondered, deciding that did make more sense after-all. "...SO GO AWAY." "EeeeeEEEH. I don't think I will." He kicked back in the seat. A pair of sunglasses slid down his nose, gilded logo hitting the sun just right. How did a Dolce and Gabbana sales associate see him but not Ian? "You see. The problem is that I'm here now. I can't go home without something to show for it." "That's not my problem," Adria said, incredulously. "YOU are my problem! I don’t know who you think you are, but I don't owe you anything. You came onto my scene, jeopardized my career, made me look like an idiot, and now you're making my car smell like eggs!" Demetri recoiled. For a moment she thought she got through to him. Then it became abundantly clear it was just the egg part, actually. "Wow." He said. Hurt gave his voice a raspy edge. "Wow..." “So GO AWAY.” She tried for two. Three would be a taser. “You- you know what?” Demetri splayed his hands. “Fine. We’re done here. I’ll go-” “THANK YOU.” He scowled. “-I’ll go, but I will be back. And when I return, we're continuing this discussion in earnest. I hope, I sincerely hope Detective Kyro, that you think about it." She wouldn’t. But he vanished before she could say so. - - - By the time she got home, the scene was cleared. Since it had been cataloged ad nauseam, there was no need to report his partner’s lapse in sanity. Ian let it go. He covered her ass by risking his to shuffle in clean-up before anyone with a badge audited the damage. She got off easy. Despite earning every letter of a psych referral, confrontation fell away into 'unspoken' territory. He said nothing, but it was strongly encouraged by his cancellation of their Friday after-work happy hour that she take an extended weekend to 'rest.' That part he phoned in without her approval. Defeated, she threw off her jacket. She hooked her gun belt on a peg by the door. Her jeans were just going to burn- they were as good as cursed as far as she was concerned. There was nothing left to do but take a long, hot shower. Maybe she’d feel better if her skin ran hotter than the shame. The rest could be dealt with Monday. What choice did she have, really? She jammed a thumb through her braid. The plaits fell loose as she kicked off her boots, Adria went through the motions of attaining tentative comfort. And the moment she thought she could let it go (until she’d inevitably replay it at all again tonight) she smacked into the chest of someone in the bathroom. Her bathroom. This motherfucker made himself at home. “So,” His finger wound in the cord of her hairdryer. Freshly washed, and expertly coiffed, Demetri smelled exactly like her body wash. "Did you think about it?"

#a JUST FOR FUNSIES au #adria #true crime #story

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kathyprior4200 · 4 years ago

Text

Kathy Prior Comforts Alastor

Another ordinary day at the Hazbin Hotel. Having died in the 2020’s due to covid, I appeared as a watered down human, not quite a demon unless influenced by Alastor’s dark magic. Originally I was going to be transformed into an angel reminiscent of my supposed spirit animal. But Heaven’s elitism rubbed me the wrong way, thus I refused to submit to God. I was banished down to Hell, living in a cardboard box. I was soon fleeing from the exterminators not too long afterwards. If they had gotten me, I’d either be killed or sent back to Heaven to be brainwashed as a white Exorcist. Then Alastor of all people decided to take me in and I arrived at the Hazbin Hotel. There I was good friends with Alastor, Charlie and Niffty, half convinced that they were the voice actors playing some kind of trick on me.

Aside from my demon form that is activated by Alastor’s magic, my afterlife form wasn’t very impressive. I looked like I did when I was alive, except my skin was ghostly pale, my long hair was gray and my eyes had black sclera, purple irises and white pupils. Although I didn’t fit in with the other demons, I could see in the dark and my instincts were heightened.

It’s not a lot of fun when Alastor possesses me or when he decides to swallow me whole. Apparently, there’s something powerful about me that allows him to heal, feel full and even get some rest. Often times, he sits me in front of a radio and has me listen to several of his favorite jazz songs. The little speakers start to glow and static buzzes in my head. His soothing voice washes over me and I find myself in a daze. My eyes glow red with moving black radio dials and my remaining thoughts are shoved to the back of my mind. Alastor soon has control of my body and mind. He calls the process “getting tuned in.”

I then transform into an alligator/red doe hybrid demon named Cerva. In this form, I’m a vicious killer and cannibal who accompanies Alastor, Husk and Niffty on various missions. Using my sharp claws, teeth and some dark magic, I take down pedos, rapists, criminals or anyone that stands in the Radio Demon’s way. My scaly skin helps protect me from most attacks, though I can still be killed by angelic weapons like everyone else. When he releases control of me and I morph back, it feels like a great weight is lifted off my chest. I cannot remember what I did before.

Like Husk and Niffty, I’m stuck under Alastor’s contract for a while. He persuaded me to work for him at the hotel and that “It’s a dangerous world outside.” Naturally I agreed.

Today was fairly busy. Charlie had a meet and greet event to welcome the newcomers Crymini, Mimzy and Baxter. When I wasn’t greeting any guests, I helped Niffty clean the rooms, make the beds and sweep up the floors. Sometimes I would help Alastor and Niffty make tasty jambalaya (with spicy sauce) and other dishes to serve to all the clients. I wasn’t very good at poker but it was still fun to play and watch as Husk skillfully won almost every game. Often, the characters would mostly talk amongst themselves, me fading into the background, being an OC. I was fine with that…it was almost like watching the show I dearly loved on Earth…except now I was a part of it in a way.

After I finished cleaning beer bottles at the Jackpot portion near the lobby, I heard Alastor and Husk talking not too far away by a pool table.

The cat demon let out his usual grumpy sigh. “Man, what a ruckus. I just served dozens of drinks to these annoying tourists who didn’t even stay. What’s the meaning of that?”

“Why Husker!” Alastor said with a laugh, “Ever since our three new demons arrived and signed up for Charlie’s program, more folks are becoming curious about it. Providing them with drinks and entertainment is surely the way to go!”

“Without any breaks?” Husk scowled. “And why’d you make me stretch my wings and do a stupid dance onstage when I got wasted earlier?”

“It was so funny, I had to!” he chuckled. “Even when you’re getting drunk, you can still do your new job well.”

“I’m here to serve drinks and get my money and booze. That’s it. I’m not some fucking clown you can roll into every little scheme of yours.”

“Hmm…maybe you are.”

“I don’t think so. Remember I’m only here because you bribed me with booze. But even that will only go so far.”

“Come now, my friend, why not liven up a little!” Alastor spoke in a loud voice, making Husk’s ears flinch back. “I provided you with some resources to make your life down here more…livable…or rather less dead.”

Audience laughter came from his microphone.

Husk rolled his eyes and muttered. “Your dad jokes make you a fucking joke.” Alastor snickered. Husk seethed, “Ugh great, now it’s rubbing off on me!”

Alastor pulled Husk in close with his arm, much to the cat’s disgust. “Just have some fun and follow my orders and things will go smoothly. You are my good friend after all.”

Husk’s white furry face turned red as he hissed and shoved Alastor away. “I’m not your fucking friend! You’re nothing but a red psycho freak I happen to unfortunately work under. If I had my way, I’d be a rich free man who could gamble and do whatever I want! Better yet, I’d be far away from all you morons.”

Husk picked up a few cards and shuffled them in his hands. “I had a full house and was about to win the pot. And then you pulled me out of nowhere and placed me in this dump for your own amusement.” He pointed a claw into Alastor’s chest a few times, making him flinch a bit. “When ae you gonna get it past your egotistical head that I. Want. To. Be. Left. Alone?!”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Niffty briefly looked over while she was busy dusting a bookshelf with a white feather duster.

“Looks like our pussy cat’s in his usual bad mood,” Alastor mused in his radio voice. He tilted up the corners of Husk’s mouth into a smile, which quickly fell when he let go. “You know I love to see that smile…”

“Shut up!” Husk pounded his furry fists onto the pool table, making the colored balls rattle. “Just shut the fuck up! I’m sick of you touching me all the time and getting into my face. I’d say you’re lost in this ridiculous musical world of yours…you think you can do anything you want but you don’t seem to be aware of who’s right in front of you!”

The large yellow smile remained on Alastor’s face, though his red eyes looked concerned and confused.

“You’re delusional, thinking Hell revolves around you like some sort of audience.” Husk’s eyes had faint red veins popping out. “You may be powerful, but guess what? You can’t have your way all the time. I learned that lesson the hard way. I may be in your partnership for a while…” He hiccupped, “…but here’s what I really think of you…”

Husk’s breath smelled of booze as the cat spilled out his previously hidden angry thoughts.

“You’re an insufferable…”

Every word was a jab to Alastor’s chest…

“Egotistical…”

He felt the shoves of surrounding boys in a long ago life…

“Filthy…”

The taunts of “dirty boy” and the n word…being forced into a tub of water, scrubbed all over roughly and feeling like he was drowning…

“Immature…”

Authority figures looking at him in disapproval as he auditioned for various radio stations…

“Maniacal…”

Alastor slashing down his hunting knife onto a helpless victim in a snowy wood…

“Heartless…”

Alastor dancing and flirting with pretty women but turning away when they tore desperately at his clothes…

“Couillon…”

Running away as police dogs bit and tore at his legs…

“Retard!”

Pounding on a door in a cold empty asylum room, cold stares from the towering wardens and nurses. Words like “loon”, “wacko,” being mouthed at him as the gray walls closed in…

A sharp record scratch pierced the air.

A black and red gloved hand clutched at Husk’s throat. A tight grip lifted the cat several inches off the ground. He struggled to pry off Alastor’s hand, but his hold was firm. Husk struggled and gasped as he frantically tried to gulp for air. The room darkened and soon filled with radio static and floating red Voodoo symbols. Alastor’s large orbs turned pitch black, with small red dials twitching menacingly. He slowly brought Husk close to his face until they were almost nose to nose.

He spoke in a low demonic radio voice, his mouth not moving.

“Remember who you’re dealing with. I gave you your privileges, and I can easily take them away.”

Just when Husk was about to pass out, he casually tossed him aside. He landed with an “oof” onto the floor. The static and symbols vanished as Alastor’s eyes returned to their normal shade of red. Husk groaned and stood up on shaky legs. He took several deep breaths and glared.

“Guess cats don’t always land on their feet,” Alastor mused as more microphone laughter followed.

“Get ready for another big day tomorrow!” Alastor called cheerfully to Husk as if nothing had happened. Husk flipped him a middle claw in response as he slouched away. Alastor walked on.

“Oh Husk,” Niffty called out. “Don’t forget that you need another bath tomorrow. I‘ll be happy to clean you all up!”

“Suck it, shrimpy bitch!” he yelled.

“Language, kitty!”

Niffty hopped down from the bookshelf and scurried toward Alastor. He looked down at her.

“Well hello little darling!” he greeted to the cyclops maid.

“Hello Alastor,” she beamed. “I was just finishing up my rounds for the day when I heard you and Husk talking. It sounded like arguing…”

“Oh it was nothing, my dear! Just Husk in his grumpy cat mood as usual. I was trying to cheer him up.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow, so much stuff to do! Is there anything else I can do to help out, sir?”

Alastor waved his hand, “Nothing at all. You did a splendid job today.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her large golden eye darting back and forth. “You know, you look pretty dirty, no offence. Perhaps you could use a nice clean…” She looked over at his staff, then stared at the area around his legs a little bit too long. “Your staff I can so easily reach…”

She extended her hand with a hungry expression.

“Ha! No.”

Alastor instinctively stepped back, his frozen smile still on his face. He walked briskly past her without another word.

“See you in the morning!” she trilled with a happy wave before scurrying off.

The room was quiet and empty.

What in the world just happened?

A nagging feeling spread through me as I walked in the same direction as Alastor. It was a strange urge to go and talk with him. His tall frame strolled down the hall and up a flight of stairs. I silently followed, careful to stay a distance away and out of sight. As I almost entered my room, Room 42, the feeling compelled me to wander towards Alastor’s room instead.

His room was across from Charlie’s and Vaggie’s, not too far away from Angel’s. The black door was etched with red Voodoo symbols and had a golden deer knocker. Strangely enough, he left it slightly open. I inched closer and peered through the opening into a dim room.

“Come in, dear.”

The door opened wider on its own, revealing Alastor sitting in a dark red throne-like chair on a small balcony. He was facing the sunset sky, but must have sensed my presence. He had taken off his red pinstriped suit and had it neatly folded on a chair, near where his staff was. He appeared to be wearing a dark red old fashioned nightgown with slippers made of deer fur.

In the room, there was a king-size bed with red satin sheets on it, an elegant bedside table and dresser to match. A small chandelier made of bones hung from the ceiling in the center, illuminating blood red carpets decorated with small golden eyes and antlers in rows. There was a large vanity mirror framed by round theater lights and an array of softly lit candles here and there. And of course, there were old fashioned radios all over the room in various sizes. A four-eyed deer head stared back at me from a plaque on the fancy red wallpaper. More disturbing were the various skin-stitched Voodoo dolls and skulls hanging from the ceiling.

A cool soothing evening breeze met my face as I stepped outside into the inferno air. I sank down into another chair next to Alastor. The sky was painted a brilliant red and orange, the magenta pentagram glowing and moving above like a revolving clock.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you sir…” I began. A small radio sat beside Alastor, emitting radio noises and various sound clips. Strangely they sounded almost the same every time I heard them. In fact, his habit of using his microphone for sound effects…it was almost like a comfort mechanism for him.

“Well usually at a time like this I do prefer to be alone, but since you were nearby…”

“I just…wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m perfectly splendid, sweetheart, no need to worry.”

For a millisecond, his eyes told a different story. Not only did I have better senses, I could read expressions and sense intentions better as well.

“I believe there is more than that. I heard you guys arguing. Frankly, Husk was being a bit of a jerk.”

Alastor waved his hand. “That’s what he does.”

“But it was different this time, wasn’t it?”

Alastor just shrugged.

“Charlie and I were talking today and we both can agree: you can’t hide your feelings forever.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“I can sense that you are lonely, deep down. You want to find a place to belong but your sadistic nature makes others afraid of you. You’re afraid to trust other people.”

He turned to me with a deadly glare but I remained where I was. “If you’re planning on killing me, there’s no point as I’m already dead. Hear me out for a second.”

He paused and leaned back to listen.

“I’m not saying you should reveal your sad secrets to everyone. I’m just saying you should embrace the fact that we all have vulnerabilities and bad days. It’s perfectly okay to cry once in a while. Perhaps your search for entertainment is more than just that. It’s a search for your mother, your friends, a search for your true place on the stage of life.”

“I’m never fully dressed without a smile,” he seethed with his plastic smile. “End of story. Since when has an audience member gave the star of the show directions?” he inquired, eyebrow raised. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well perhaps you need a better script,” I added, arms folded. I stared at his long yellowed nails, his gloves off for a rare moment. “And serious bodily care.”

A brief silence. Had I been anyone else, I’d be a pile of ash.

I continued. “Husk did have a point, though. He wanted to be left alone but you still decided to invade his space. You told Charlie that you want to see people fail, despite her not wanting to hear it. Plus, I’d expect an evil killer like you to take joy in the fact that people run away from you in fear. But you don’t like it. Because you seek something more.”

“I don’t need to hear your delusional words.”

“I’m more observant than you think. You created me to be submissive, but also tough and smart. It’s my duty to serve you and the hotel right now. And you bet your bottom dollar that me and your friends will try and do what’s best for everyone.”

More silence as we watched the sunset in deep thought. After several minutes, I turned to him and couldn’t believe what I saw. I spotted a stray tear fall from Alastor’s eye…and his smile slowly faded.

I covered my mouth with my hands as I let out a soft surprised gasp.

His look alone told me that I’d be demon meat if I told anyone else. Fortunately, I never break my promise.

I thought of all his behaviors I noticed and it suddenly clicked. There was the feeling again, a sense of a peculiar deep connection between me and him. And I figured out what it was.

“Alastor…do you know what autism is?”

He gave me a perplexed look. “Stop making things up.”

“It’s a real thing…but I imagine no one talked about it in your time. Autism is one of many developmental disorders that impairs socialization. Your behaviors appear to be very similar.”

Alastor growled, teeth bared in warning. “I can assure you that I’m perfectly talkative enough. You call me dumb and I can easily…”

“I know because I have it too.”

Alastor’s eye twitched. “What?”

“Do any of these traits sound familiar to you? Being a nerdy child lost in your own world? Being preoccupied and very skilled in your many talents as you grew up? Never quite fitting in with your peers no matter how hard you try?”

Nothing was heard but the sounds of radio glitches. Orange light glinted off his monocle under his right eye.

“Those with autism are often very knowledgeable, setting their minds to something and never letting go of it. But they have a hard time seeing things from another person’s perspective. It’s not that they are antisocial and heartless. Rather, they feel things deeply…but they don’t know how to communicate properly with others around them. Some of them aren’t interested in romance, either.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “I have shows to plan for my demonic audience. I don’t have time for feelings and…”

I continued on. “You’re content with living in your own world of radios, music and murder…because for you, it was the only way to survive and make yourself known in your previous life. Communicating through the radio, playing music, dancing and singing on stage… that is when you feel truly alive. Because your listeners hang onto your every word, not caring who you are on the outside.”

His pupils grew slightly. “You’re making assumptions. You’re forgetting about murder…”

“Bringing joy to others outweighs bringing suffering...at least that’s how it should be. There’s nothing wrong with doing what you love…except when it causes harm to others.”

“Demons kill and eat other all the time. Surely you must know that sometimes death and torture are necessary.”

“You do have a good point. But…I’m talking about your previous life, and why you were sent down here…”

“I killed those racist bastards for good reasons. When you discover there’s an afterlife full of magic, you go out of you way to make deals for power. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. It’s impossible to be sinless, for sinners lost their chance to ascend the moment they died on Earth!”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Say we take the necessary steps to prove Heaven wrong…”

“Heheheh, there you go, sounding delusional like Charlie.”

“Just be glad I’m not as distrustful or hateful of men as Vaggie.”

“Angel Dust is probably worse…”

I chuckled out loud at that. “Personal space isn’t in his vocabulary.”

I took a breath. “Look Alastor, I’m not saying it will be all be rainbows like Charlie claims. I’m just saying it’s not impossible to redeem sinners. Back to the main topic: we both have autism. Your special interests are radios, entertainment, murder and dark magic.”

Alastor made a face and shook his head. “That term you mentioned didn’t exist when I was alive,” he said. “Anyone who was considered strange or deviant were ignored at best. At worst, they were arrested, killed or thrown into asylums. If it weren’t for my beloved mother…I would’ve wasted away a long time ago. And despite enjoying the company of beautiful ladies, I’ve never had much interest in intimacy. My broadcasting career was my life.”

This time I listened quietly. He continued. “I’m only telling you all this because you technically don’t exist in the Hazbin timeline. And because…I can trust you enough, like Charlie and Rosie and Mimzy…”

He sighed again. “Like a skilled actor, I learned not just how to present myself on the air. Thanks to my mama, I learned how to socialize and mimic others around me. It was a way for me to be confident in the face of daily disdain. Smiling became my way of life…my survival skill. If I were to cry and appear weak, who knows what might’ve happened to me. Eventually I became famous for my broadcasting and my music all throughout Louisiana, but it still wasn’t quite enough. I then found another coping mechanism…”

The aura around him grew red…

“One that made me feel like I found my place in the world. How good it felt when I could hear their screams…see the life leave their eyes. How from the moment their bodies turned cold, I knew they could never take advantage of me and my family again…”

His black antlers arched slightly past his face. He lowered his head as static faded in and out. Here was the infamous and ferocious Radio Demon pouring out his secrets to me. I almost didn’t know what to say.

He covered his eyes with his hands, long fingers in claw shapes almost tearing at his pale gray skin. His voice broke in a record scratch…and this time he spoke without the radio effect, barely audible: “I miss her so much.” His fluffy ear tufts briefly drooped as he conjured the loving smiling brown face of his French Creole mother in his head.

We sat in silence for a while. “I hope you can see her again,” I said. “But…you need to have faith. Not in Charlie’s program per se…but in yourself. I know change is hard…I’m not saying go play with dogs and use new technology. I mean, don’t be afraid to explore your feelings, figure out what you truly want in your second life.”

Alastor’s remaining tears sizzled off his face and his tufts lifted back up. “That’s easy. I want to entertain others and have everyone do what I want…endlessly feast on flesh and never be bored…”

“We both know it doesn’t work like that. What you want is nothing compared with what you need. You need love. Friends. The joys of music and a purpose. Instead of killing individuals…you need to kill off your own barriers.”

“Easier said than done. What if I don’t want to change?”

“You’ll either spiral downward into madness, or you’ll slowly change for the better while still retaining your good qualities. If you want to see your mother in Heaven, you’re gonna have to put in some effort. I may sound like Charlie when I say this but…I know you can do it.”

Alastor gradually relaxed, his antlers retreating back to their usual stumps. He soon stood up, anxious to have some space. “Thank you for this lovely chat. Now I’m off to read my scripts and go to bed for a little.”

I stood up and followed. “How long do you usually sleep?”

“Thirty minutes,” he shrugged. “I rest by the wall with my eyes open.”

I gasped out loud and bared my teeth. “Not on my watch, mister. Get into bed, now!”

“Deer don’t need sleep.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Everyone needs sleep, especially you! I promise nothing is going to happen. Your shadow will guard your room and suck the soul out of any intruder. Plus you have several friends and kingpins who are loyal to you. You want to truly be the star, Alastor? Start by taking care of yourself. You are the most important person in your life.”

Alastor smirked. “Like I don’t already know that.”

“Good. Now rest.”

I turned to leave before I freeze. Gathering my courage, I turned to Alastor who sat on the bed. “Alastor…may I give you a hug?”

He stared at me, taken aback. No one had ever asked him for a hug before. He almost flinched when I slowly walked toward him.

After a moment, his face softened. “Just this once.” He leaned into my arms and chest. I got over my brief surprise by returning the embrace, my eyes closed, tears falling. I opened them and saw to my utter delight, his fluffy red and black deer tail wagging a bit! We soon parted and he wiped the tears from my face with his fingertips.

“Now darling, don’t forget to smile! You’re never fully dressed without one.”

I laughed through my tears. His charm worked every time. “Hey, don’t forget to ask people if they want to be touched before you do so. That’s lesson one.”

“You’re my servant, not my teacher,” he spoke up.

I spread out my arms. “This is Hell, Alastor, we can be anything. The world is a stage after all!”

Alastor chuckled, but I sensed that he wasn’t content with taking my advice any time soon. But I had tried nonetheless.

We bid our goodnights, me feeling slightly better. Just before I closed Alastor’s door and headed for my room, his whisper of a voice floated by my ears:

“Thank you Ms. Prior. Stay tuned.”

#alastor #autism #hazbinhotel

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bombshellbois · 5 years ago

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Killer Summer

@harringroveweekoflove

Harringrove Week of Love Day 5: Summer Camp AU

Rating: T

Warnings/Triggers: Dark humor, brief description of a corpse

Words: 2122

Summary: Billy’s big summer plans for him and Steve get derailed by the common annoyances of summer camps, such as children and serial killers.

The rain hits the cabin windows in heavy splatters, smacking into the glass in a way that makes Steve vaguely wonder how old the window are. And if heavy enough rain might break them. It certainly doesn’t feel like that’s impossible when those windows are the only thing between him and a downpour that’s quite literally tearing the forest apart. He sighs and decides not to think about that. Instead, he picks up the handheld mic for the ham radio and pushes the button on the side.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Steve Harrington, radioing in from Camp Know Where. The storm has knocked out our power and there is debris blocking the road out. Two of our counselors are unaccounted for. We have children out here. I repeat, we have no power and no way out of the woods.”

He releases the button and watches the mic like it might do something. Then the radio. Silence. He throws the mic on the desk, scrubbing a hand over his face as it clatters into the body of the radio and falls off the desk.

The cabin door swings open and the wind carries it right into the wall. The rain outside is just a wall of noise, making Steve cover his ears. Billy scrambles into the cabin, the rain splattering in more than halfway across the room when the wind picks up, until he slams the door behind him.

“—Mother Nature, fucking PMS bitch!” Billy is saying, which Steve can only hear once he’s safely shut the door. Billy’s camp shirt is saturated, the green fabric dark with water and looking almost black in the dim light from the oil lamp. He slams a thermos down on the desk and shakes his head rapidly, sending a spray of water everywhere.

“Dude!” Steve raises his arms to try and shield himself from it. “Come on, I just barely got dry!”

“Hey, I risked life and limb to bring you coffee. Deal with it.” Billy grabs a handful of Steve’s collar, the water on his hand immediately soaking into Steve’s shirt. Steve groans in irritation, but turns his head up and gives Billy the kiss he’s waiting for. Water drips from Billy’s curls onto his face and and neck.

“That’s more like it,” Billy sighs, releasing his shirt. He jerks his chin at the mic from the ham radio, swinging gently from its cord where it’s fallen off the desk. “Don’t suppose you were roughing that thing up because you were so happy to get an answer.”

“I don’t even know if this thing is working,” Steve sighs. “Nothing on it does anything. For all I know, I could be talking to a dead battery.”

“Don’t your nerd children know how to use it?” Billy asks, stripping off his sopping shirt.

“Yeah, but I’m not dragging them out of the storm shelter to come work the radio.” Steve picks up the mic so he can pretend he wasn’t staring at Billy’s chest, setting it on top of the radio. “I mean, honestly? What are we even calling for?”

“You know what.” Billy wrings his shirt out by the door, since the floor is hopelessly soaked there already. The water dribbles into a puddle on the floor, and when he snaps the shirt back open, it still drips from the corners. “Hopper said you had to keep him in the loop.”

“Yeah, I know. I know he’s freaked out by the weird shit that’s been going on, especially with El’s battery still being dead.” Honestly, if the storm hadn’t come on so suddenly and buried them under sheets of water, Hopper probably would have come and picked El up as soon as he heard about the very lived-in tent they found in the woods while hiking. The one with a compost pile suggesting someone has been living there at least the whole summer. “But a fucking Demogorgon could come and knock on the window right now and what is the forest service gonna do about it?” Steve gestures wildly at the radio that might not even fucking work for all he knows. “Fire up a helicopter in the middle of a deluge?”

“I mean, knowing Hopper he’d probably pull on a raincoat and come shoot it. It’d take him hours to get here and we’d all be dead by then, of course,” Billy says sensibly, leaning his hip on the desk.

Steve snorts out a laugh. It’s morbid but the image of Hopper in a yellow rain slicker, slogging his way through a mudslide and holding his gun over his head like some kind of small-town Rambo... it’s a pretty fucking funny image. Especially when combined with the severe stress they’ve been under, with finding the tent and then the broken locks in the boat house and now the storm that basically just fell on top of them.

“Not to mention that Demogorgons are pretty bullet-proof,” he adds.

“Ah. Can’t forget that part,” Billy agrees, leaning down and kissing Steve again. “So, y’know... once he ran out of bullets, he’d have to pistol-whip it into submission.”

Steve snickers and wraps a hand around the back of Billy’s neck. “You made me laugh. I’m gonna share my coffee with you for that.” He reaches for the thermos, but Billy nudges it just out of reach.

“I can think of way better ways for you to thank me, pretty boy,” he says, lowering his voice to a husky whisper.

“I know you can. You’ve been hinting at that all summer.” Not terribly subtly either, because when was Billy ever subtle? More like leaving condoms hidden everywhere in Steve’s bed like some fucked-up cousin of the tooth fairy.

“And this might be our only chance to not have anyone else around.”

Steve rolls his eyes and leans further over the desk, snatching the thermos. “The kids aren’t around because we’re in an emergency weather situation. And Tommy and Carol aren’t around because they’re off fucking. Again.”

“Sounds like they’re the only ones having fun this summer.” Billy picks up the radio mic and pushes the button. “Mayday, mayday, mayday... this is Billy Hargrove, calling from Camp Know Where. We’ve lost power and the road is blocked and there’s about to be twenty minutes of unmanned radio waves while I take my boyfriend into the back room and bend him over a kayak.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Twenty whole minutes? How romantic.”

“Ooh. Boyfriend is displeased.” Billy clicks his tongue. “Make that forty unmanned minutes. Forty-five if we cuddle.”

“Oh I expect cuddling.” Steve pries the mic out of Billy’s hand and drops it aside. Standing from the desk, he hooks a finger under Billy’s belt and pulls.

In the time it takes to cross the tiny cabin space, it’s impossible to tell who’s pulling and who’s being pulled. They practically fall into the back room where the lake equipment is stored. There are hard shadows cast by the kayaks leaning on the wall, but the faint light from the oil lamp on the desk in the main cabin doesn’t offer much more detail. Not that that matters.

When Billy trips over a pile of oars he can’t see on the floor, he just hauls Steve down on top of him, grabbing his hair and pulling him in for a kiss. Steve’s hands grope at him, fingers passing over flesh and scars until they find the metal buckle of his belt.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Steve’s method of yanking blindly isn’t doing much on Billy’s belt. Billy laughs breathlessly and reaches down to help him. When the leather tongue finally slips free, Steve makes a triumphant noise into their mouths and throws the belt aside. The metal skitters lightly on the wood and taps gently against a wall somewhere.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Billy pushes Steve onto his back on something that feels soft. Steve shifts and tries to get comfortable, but something is jabbing into his back, It feels like he’s laying on the life preservers, but they’re folded in all the wrong ways. “To lumpy,” he complains. Trying to move away doesn’t work either, because something hard and wooden just knocks into his knee, making him hiss.

“Okay, get the light.” Steve rubs at his knee, trying to ease the throbbing sting of it. Billy makes a frustrated noise but gets off him and goes back into the main cabin.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Steve looks around in the dark. What the hell is that sound anyway? The shadows cast by the kayaks swing wildly as Billy picks up the light source and carries it inside.

“Here. Hurry up and get comfy,” he says, handing Steve the lamp. “With our luck, the rain’ll clear up and all the kids’ll come charging in when I’m still balls deep in you.”

“You’re so charming.” Steve stands up, side-stepping the oars that he can see now. He holds the light aloft, letting it fall on the window. It swings in the gusty wind outside, rapping against its own frame. The wood under it is dark and glistening from the rain.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“...Why is the window open?”

Billy groans like the wait might kill him. “It’s open because it blew open,” he says, stepping around the oars and over to the window.

“Can it even do that?” Steve asks, looking around the room.

“It just did.” Billy yanks the window closed. “There. All fixed. Back to undressing.”

“You’re impossible.” Steve kicks at the pile of life vests, trying to form a more pleasant-looking pile.

“Impossibly horny because you don’t put out,” Billy huffs, unbuttoning his own pants.

“We’ve been at a summer camp surrounded by kids!” Steve sets the lamp on the ground and flops down on his pile, unfastening his belt.

“And now we’re not, for a very limited time. So quit wasting it.” Billy pulls a condom from his back pocket and drops it on Steve’s stomach before shucking his pants off.

“Asshole.” Steve tips his head up and kisses Billy as he kneels between his legs and then settles his weight on top of him. Something is still jamming into his back once he’s got Billy on top of him.

“Dammit.” Steve pushes Billy off and twists around to grab the lamp. “What the hell is wrong with these things?” He yanks on one of the vests free from the pile.

The problem is not the vests. The problem is the arm. The pale, naked arm laying limp on the ground under the pile.

Oh god.

Steve grips the lantern harder to make sure his hand doesn’t shake and slowly lowers the light to follow the arm back, back, back into the dark space under one of the shelving units.

Tommy’s dead eyes stare back at him. His face is white and his mouth is hanging open, the lamp casting hard shadows in his mouth, turning it into a black maw. His green Camp Know Where t-shirt is matted in something dark, but the body is crammed into a space too small to see it clearly.

Steve stares at the body. Billy, crouched beside him, stares at the body. He turns to look at Steve, reaching over to take the lamp before Steve drops it.

“Okay. Steve?”

“..Yeah?”

“I think we should still do it.”

Steve pauses for a long minute, having to run that through his head a few times. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell, Hargrove!” Steve shoves him aside and scrambles up off the floor. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“He’d want us to!” Billy calls after him. “Come on, Steve, honor his memory!”

In the main cabin, he can hear Steve picking up the mic for the radio. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, we have an emergency situation at Camp Know Where...”

Billy groans in frustration and kicks the limp arm hanging out into the room. “Way to fucking cockblock, Hagan,” he sneers, pulling his pants back on. “I hope they let me write your eulogy so I can tell everyone what a sycophantic suck-up you were. And then I’m gonna piss in your open grave.”

“Billy!” Steve yells. “Stop yelling at Tommy’s corpse and come help me figure out what the fuck to do!”

Billy throws his hands up and points at the arm. “Great. Now you got me in trouble,” he hisses. “This is why you got picked off first, because you’re a shitty friend.” He snatches up his belt and stalks out of the storeroom to go help Steve deal with the stupid serial killer bullshit.

***

Epilogue: Tommy’s funeral is lovely. Billy is not asked to write the eulogy, and Steve does not allow him to piss into the open grave, despite Billy’s best efforts.

#my writing #harringroveweekoflove #harringrove #billy/steve #I really do intend to post these during the actual appropriate day #and then I change directions halfway through and start over #PS I don't know enough about ham radios #but I like to imagine that the problem was with receiving responses #and the messages were going through fine #and some poor forest ranger had to relay Billy's message to Hopper

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incoherentbabblings · 5 years ago

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Take Back the Cake, Burn the Shoes, and Boil the Rice (9/11)

Within two months there have been two murders of Gotham newlyweds moments after the ceremony. The only connecting factor was both brides wore the same designer’s work. Needing to establish who exactly is behind the crimes, Bruce enlists Tim and Stephanie to have the biggest wedding Gotham high society has seen in decades, putting a target on their heads not just for the killer, but Gotham society too. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

Ao3 Link Here!

*A little bit nsfw towards the end in this chapter, but nothing explicit*

The rehearsal at the Cathedral had been hilarious. Cassandra had been distracted the entire time, on her phone even when walking with Dick down the aisle. Bruce has sat in the front row pew and promptly passed out, only for Alfred to repeatedly nudge him. Alfred, who was in his element of bossing people around and making arrangements for everything under the sun, seemed to be relishing the chance to do his actual job.

Bruce looked a little affronted at Alfred’s nudges. Tim sighed, then explained,

“You are supposed to be walking Steph to the midway point.”

“I am?”

He turned back, to see Crystal sat one row behind, glaring at him. Bruce promptly turned back around. Steph was far away in her mind and body, staring at the entrance all the way down the far end of the aisle, remembering what had happened the other week. Tim was pacing back and forth along the steps in front of where the Dean stood. Dean Shergate’s impressive eyebrows twitched at how distracted everyone was, whilst Dick had strewn himself across the altar floor as if he belonged there.

“The ceiling is really nice!” He said, flippant and enjoying the chaotic mood. Damian, being designated ring boy and intensely bored, yelled across the length of the aisle.

“Hurry up! This is ridiculous.”

Stephanie looked down at the tiny angry puffball and nodded thoughtfully. Cassandra clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers, pointing to Tim.

“He’s right.” She said, eyes never leaving her phone.

The Dean coughed and Tim jumped a mile.

“Yes yes! Mister Wayne, walk Miss Brown to the end of the aisle on her left-hand side, whereupon Mister Drake will be waiting on her right-hand side and walk the rest of the way into the chapel together as a pair. Mister Wayne will then walk behind the couple next to…the younger Mister Wayne and then take their seats…” And on the instructions went. Stephanie and Damian, at the back of the room, were unable to hear a thing.

“This is ridiculous.” Damian grumbled once again.

“You think?” Stephanie giggled. “Have you ever attended a wedding before?”

“No. They are boring.”

“True. Hopefully not this one.”

Damian kicked his toes on the floor, a habit he had picked up from Dick to indicate restlessness. “Father is not being very open with this case.” He said quickly. Stephanie looked down to see Damian’s cheeks burning red.

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t tell me any progress with the investigation.”

Stephanie nodded emphatically. “He won’t tell me or Tim either. Which is unhelpful.”

“To say the least.”

“Do you know why?” She asked. Damian shook his head. “Huh.” She blew a gust of air out, disturbing her bangs, and shoved her hands in her jean pockets.

She saw Bruce waltzing down to her, plodding himself to the right.

“Other side Mister Wayne!”

Bruce slid behind her, making her laugh despite herself, and Damian continued to grumble, dragging his feet after them. Steph took Bruce’s arm and tried not to gawk at how solid his muscles were. She knew he was built like a brick tank, of course she did, but still… Bruce was beefy.

“Who said I was going to be the one walking you down?” Bruce asked, tone light.

“Well, I guess Alfred was an option. But this whole thing was your idea. Mom wants as little to do with this as possible so…”

“Humph. Vengeance.”

Steph smiled as they reached Tim, who was actually a little sweaty. She would have taken his hand but judging by the way he was rubbing it on his trousers, it would be a little slippery.

“Jesus, Tim.” She tried not to laugh. The Dean was less amused and coughed very loudly. Instantly, she turned white. “Sorry.”

A grunt was all she got in return.

So it was fun in all the wrong ways. Dick and Cassandra, who made a career out of being gnats, had genuinely been intensely unhelpful throughout the whole thing, testing the patience of everyone in the room. Bruce was his usual foppish self, Damian had done as he was told, but made his displeasure deeply known, Crystal had frowned, and Alfred had been distracted, focused on other things. All whilst Tim and Stephanie tried very hard to practice the vows. They had not written their own, God forbid they were that invested in the soppiness, but when they were going through the usual phrases, Tim broke off through his, a little befuddled.

“…and thereto I give thee my troth…Quick question?”

The Dean’s face became pinched tightly shut. “Yes, Mr Drake?”

“Steph has the obey line in hers, right?”

The Dean struggled not to roll his eyes at this usual bone of contention. “Yes, she does.”

“Can she like... not… say it?”

This seemed to break Damian, who promptly ran back down the aisle, heading for the front door. Cassandra bolted after him, chasing the teenager through the building. Bruce did not rise from where he had crumpled amongst the pews, and instead his head fell down in frustration.

“I’m not doing this anymore!” Damian was heard screeching through what was an otherwise silent building. There was a rough oompf, as Cassandra caught up with him, and wrangled him off his feet.

Tim blinked, keeping his eyes on the Dean, but he did not miss how Dick next to him was turning red and looking like he had sucked a lemon.

Everyone aside from Tim watched as Damian was dragged back, which seemed to take an uncomfortably long amount of time. Eventually he went limp in Cassandra’s arms, and she tugged him all the way back up the aisle, his heels and legs splayed out as Cassandra shuffled backwards. When they returned to the chapel, Damian threw himself with a huff next to his father, folded his arms, and made an almighty pout. Bruce kept his head down and said nothing.

There was a moments silence as everyone’s heads turned back around to get back to business, but then Crystal’s hand shot up, as if she were in a classroom. The Dean, more than a little put out and desperate to move past whatever Damian’s tantrum was, nodded at her. Crystal leaned forward eagerly.

“Uh, yes. Cut that line, please.”

“Mommy!” Stephanie protested, trying very hard to not laugh. She tilted her head away, sniggering to herself. Obeying was not something that came naturally to her. Tim stubbornly held his eyes on the Dean, refusing to indulge in the hysterics of his family. The Dean’s face was very white, like he was holding in all manner of blasphemous phrases. He managed to bite out,

“It is not uncommon for many to drop it from their oaths these days.”

“So, she can?” Tim asked.

“Can ‘she’ give her own opinion?” Laughed Stephanie. Tim’s fingers twitched around hers. Yup, sweaty hands. Poor boy.

“Do you want to say it?” He asked, completely lost.

She held a straight face, looking Tim dead in the eye. After a breath, she broke character and laughed. “Not really.”

Tim took a moment, then caught up with her joke, snorting in response. The Dean looked upwards and muttered a silent prayer, regretting agreeing to the plan to host a wedding at all.

“That’s absolutely fine… Now please switch hands.”

They did as bid, and the rehearsal continued. Dick was starting to turn purple he was holding in so much laughter, and it was then that Tim decided he was going to murder his eldest brother. When it got to the bit where they would (hypothetically) be signing the register, the Dean went to talk to the rest of the family, leaving Tim and Steph standing at the altar.

Tim ran his hands across the wood carvings in the banisters, settling to rub his thumb on an eagle’s beak.

“Tim?”

Tim made a querying noise but didn’t look Stephanie’s way. This was just as well, as she was nervously picking at her nails, not looking at Tim either.

“My dress tonight… is red.”

“Oh? Well… it’s a good colour.”

Steph giggled, then quietened. She stopped picking her nails and rammed her hands in her back pockets once more, not sure what to do with herself.

“Alfred actually said… well he got me thinking. The…the…the tiara… is it…”

“Still yours?”

“Oh God. Tim, I’m so sorry…” Before she could get too upset, Tim grabbed her hand and squeezed it to the point where someone else would have found it painful, but Steph felt the reassurance. The two were still not looking at each other, but she smiled and Tim answered her question.

“I’ll bring it over for this evening. My mom had a whole bunch of stuff. Let you take your pick.”

“Thank you.” She shook her head, tossing her hair back behind her shoulders. “I got to pick this outfit you know. Cut, colour, pattern… all me. Making sure my hair’s down.”

The hand holding had quickly turned to flat out fondling of the other’s fingers, playing with knuckles and rings. Steph broke first, and looked at the back of Tim’s head. She headbutted his shoulder.

“Okay?”

Tim looked back, over to Bruce, frowning. “Nervous.”

“Oh. There’s a twist huh? You get cold feet. Runaway groom.”

Her light tone did not match Tim’s openly concerned face. Finally, he looked down at her, and without a hint of shame, he said, “Not running from you.”

Steph blushed, and Tim kissed the very tip of her button nose.

Dick wolf whistled then, which earned a glare from the couple and a smack on the shoulder from Bruce.

Tim’s urge to murder Dick continued through to the evening, when Dick poked his head through to Tim’s room. Tim, who was painstakingly arranging his hair just so in his Henry Poole suit, looked increasingly stressed as the day had wore on.

“You alright there Timbo?”

“Like my heart is gonna give out any second. Peachy.”

“Well, if only you’d have let me do a bachelor party for you…”

“God, no.”

Dick looked a little affronted, but only in an amused way. Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he laid across the bed watching Tim fidget. Slowly, as the silence stretched, Dick’s expression grew increasingly worried.

“Seriously,” He pushed. “What happened the other night? I checked on that drug lord yesterday and the guy is looking like an injured looney tunes character. Never seen so many bandages.”

Tim rocked, looking at Dick upside down, head hanging off the back of the seat. “You ever have a rough week, but then it’s actually like…a rough five years?”

Dick snorted. “It can feel like that. Yes.” Dick rolled onto his back. “I’m sure if I stopped and thought about it, I could make an argument that my life has been nothing but a downward spiral the past twenty years… but that would ignore how much good I’ve done and experienced. It’s always easier to focus on the bad, because we expect happiness as a norm. That’s dangerous I think.”

Tim sat up straight and turned around to look at Dick properly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you go through life measuring your time as a sort of happy-sad binary, with the goal always to be on the happy end, deviations will seem worse, because you’ve convinced yourself they’re abnormal. That it’s supposed to be like that. I don’t think of my life’s purpose is to be happy. It makes me take the good for granted and the pain hurts even worse.”

“What do you do then?” Tim asked.

At that, Dick shrugged. “Dunno. That’s where my guruness expires.”

Tim turned back around. “Helpful.”

“I try.” Dick yawned. “By the way… be sure to compliment Steph. And make sure you don’t dance with any other girls – Cass and Babs and maybe Selina aside.”

“I know that.”

“She’s a right picture at the moment.”

Like a yoyo, Tim spun around once more. “You’ve seen her? Is she ready?”

Dick crossed his arms, a little huffy. “We’re all ready! Just waiting on you and your master hair fluffing!”

Taking one last look at himself, Tim bolted out of his room, leaving Dick lounging on his bed.

“…At least he’s wearing a nice suit…” Dick muttered to himself.

Tim found Stephanie watching the catering staff walk by along the servant's corridors. Her back was to him, and she was bent partially in half, peeking round the corner like a naughty schoolgirl to see what was going on in the kitchen.

She was indeed wearing another red dress, whereas the one from the photo shoot had been crimson, strapless and with a sweetheart neckline, this was a deep blood red, the colour of Tim’s Red Robin suit. It was off the shoulder, but still with a higher neckline, and – like she had promised – her hair was down, with braids and twists providing a base for the tiara to be pinned to.

From the hand that was resting on the wall, he could see she was wearing another piece that belonged to his mother. A hidden wristwatch in a gold that matched the rest of her jewellery.

“Wow.” Tim said.

Stephanie straightened and turned. Tim didn’t miss how greedily she looked at him up and down, biting her red lips.

“Wow yourself!” She moved towards him, injury in her leg largely healed. Her eyes sparkled, the colour popping against her dark makeup. “Don’t we make a pair!”

“Wow.” He repeated.

With the red lip, smoky eyes, and hair so carefully arranged, it was the most done up he had ever seen her. A real bombshell. Depending on how far through the ceremony they got, the girl in front of him might actually end up as his wife in less than twenty-four hours.

Wow.

“I’d kiss you,” Steph teased. “But you’d get a horrid lipstick stain on your cheek.”

“I’ll do one better then.” And then he kissed her cheek instead. A quick peck, but slow enough that he could feel her cheeks grow warm.

“Flirt.”

He took her hand. “Oh, look who’s talking.”

She immediately noticed he was nervous and swung their hands from side to side. “Honey, take a breath. I’m the anxious wreck. Not you.”

His chest puffed up. “Tonight, there’s gonna be some real...”

“Difficult...people?” She giggled. Tim exhaled in such a puff of air Stephanie felt her waves of hair be blown back.

“Rich people are the worst.” He grumbled. Steph simply raised her eyebrows, expression excruciatingly polite. Tim turned redder than her dress. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“No, but I can see you thinking it.”

Steph laughed incredulously, pinching Tim’s cheek like an overly friendly aunty. Alfred then found them and, in typical prim Alfred form, told them to get out of the staff’s way and go help Bruce host.

Near the front entrance, where people were being let in, one of the tables appeared to be filling up with gifts. The pile of presents was a little alarming. Stephanie very much doubted there was a toaster amongst the neatly wrapped piles that sat on the table.

“We’ll donate them...” Tim said, seeing Stephanie��s face.

“You mean I can’t keep the cheques?”

“No.”

“Darn.”

Twelve women and five men told Stephanie how beautiful she looked, and she believed about a third were being genuine. There were seven courses for dinner, and mercifully Alfred had the foresight to sandwich Stephanie between Damian and Cassandra, with Tim sat between Dick and Bruce. Babs and her father were just a couple of people down, whilst the entire Fox family took up another side. Nearly regretting it the moment she made the motion, Steph gave a tiny wave to Tam, who looked a little confused but waved back. Tim seemed quite happy to pretend she wasn’t there, which Steph thought was a little rude, but then again, she still didn’t really know what had happened there. Regardless, she was just thankful an ex of Tim’s didn’t seem to bear a grudge.

The rest of the table seemed to be taken up with WE board members, and other high-flying society folk of Gotham that Stephanie recognized neither the face nor names of. Mrs van Rijk was sat with her husband, critiquing every piece of food that passed her lips. Alfred, who was stood at the far side of the room, only narrowed his eyes at her and kept his mouth shut. Otherwise he seemed utterly overjoyed at getting to Butler it up once more.

Bruce stood up after dessert, looking like he was going to make a speech. Tim’s mouth dropped open, and he looked to Dick, who once again was enjoying the secondhand embarrassment too much to be anything but sadistic. Damian entered a panic and tried to leave like he had at the cathedral, only for Cassandra once again to catch him and glare. If they had to endure it, so did he. Suddenly having a row of diners staring at him, Damian slowly returned to his seat. Indulgently, Steph rubbed his back. She was trying to be sweet on Damian, and thankfully he did nothing but blush at the attempt of sympathy.

Bruce coughed, tapping at his crystal glass to get everyone’s attention. He did it for a moment too long and the crystal shattered under the constant pressure of his tapping with the little cheese knife. Everyone jumped, whilst Bruce stared into his hand, then very carefully, very methodically, put down what remained of the stem of the glass. He coughed again, fanning his wet hand dry and clearing his throat whilst Alfred whizzed around, cleaning up the mess expertly.

“I won’t bore you all with a long speech,” Bruce begun.

“Good.” Tim muttered under his breath. Dick kicked him, and when Tim turned to him, outraged, Dick had that terrible manic look on his face, a closed mouth smile and wide eyes that was telling Tim something. Keep your mouth shut probably.

“Listen.” Dick mimed.

Oh. Close enough.

Stephanie pressed backwards into her chair. It was too heavy to roll back on its hindlegs, which would have been humiliating if she had rolled all the way back, legs and skirt flying upwards. She gripped the table and smiled, channelling her inner customer service smile.

Bruce seemed blithely unaware of his children’s distress (liar. He knew. He knew and did not care. In fact, he probably revelled in it) and soldiered on.

“I know this has been a bit of a whirlwind these past two months…”

Steph’s painted nails had started to make crescent shaped imprints on the wood of the table.

“…But – in fact – it was a long time coming. I am… extremely lucky to have these two in my life. They found me and wriggled their way in. All I can say is, I still see that thirteen-year-old boy who insisted I was Batman –” People politely laughed at the absurdity of the statement. Tim stared at Bruce, mouth hanging open wide enough to catch flies. “– And the fifteen-year-old girl who has since proved me wrong so many times I don’t bother to keep count anymore.”

Steph’s smile turned a little less frigid, and her grip lessoned. Tim meanwhile remained unmoved, still gabbing like a fish.

“You have no idea, how glad I am that you two have each other… Point is, I’m proud of you both.” Then, seemingly as an afterthought, Bruce spilled out, “You are still my kids though, so please don’t go too far after all this, you know I have separation anxiety.”

Dick’s incredibly loud bark of laughter made Tim jump, knocking over another crystal glass. Alfred mysteriously appeared to give two refreshed glasses to Tim and Bruce. A toast was made, and somehow, everyone seemed a little choked up. Tim threw his glass of sparkling water back like it was a shot of vodka.

“Dancing time?” Bruce asked, and the table clapped and chatted and began to migrate away. Tim didn’t miss Tam’s look of confusion, like she really didn’t know if she should be happy for Tim or not.

“That was unbearable.” Damian muttered, shoving his seat back and looking to go sit on the balcony.

“No lie though.” Cassandra said. Bruce shot her a dangerous look, but before he could leave the room, Stephanie kicked back her chair and rushed around the whole length of the table. She threw herself into Bruce’s arms for a tight hug.

Tim shot up from his seat, Dick catching his cuff.

“Be nice.” Dick hissed.

Stephanie rocked from side to side, grinning from ear to ear.

“Thank you!”

Bruce, ever an awkward man, patted her elbows, and carefully broke away. Stephanie remained undeterred though, and decided to keep badgering him. “Promise to dance with me in a bit?”

Because we’re not going to get the chance tomorrow went unsaid, but Bruce heard it all the same. Slowly, he nodded. Backing away, Steph went to grab Tim’s hand and together they made their way to the ballroom. Tim, who seemed increasingly lost as the night went on, held on tight. Bruce watched the pair. It seemed almost like both could not be confident at the same time. Things would come along and knock one back, and the other would turn around and drag them forward, back to normality, back to a sense of purpose, until the inevitable moment when the roles would flip, and the other would stumble.

Bruce told himself that the pattern would break. That soon the two would be able to rest, to see the fruits of their labour beyond a smile here and there, a thank you from time to time, and a pat on the shoulder on the rarest of occasions. The gig was supposed to be temporary for Tim, and for Steph it was a decade’s long culmination of searching for a life’s purpose. A second chance she’d said. Surely, she had succeeded by now.

Not for the first time, Bruce wished that his kids would give up the life they had chosen for themselves and go be normal.

Such a wish was impossible however, and Bruce knew that. Too much baggage and too much empathy meant other options were alien and disconnected from what they truly wanted. What they needed.

Bruce watched them dance, awkwardly, like they were attending the prom they never got to, but also saw how happy they were whilst doing it. He watched as they spoke to many people, most of whom Stephanie had never even met before, and somehow managed to make a good impression with. He watched Tim sidestep and Stephanie deflect every potential pointed barb, every stab in the dark to find something at fault with her character. Some hint that whatever hold she had over Tim would snap and break before the year was out. It did not escape Bruce’s notice that Stephanie’s grip on Tim’s arm was white knuckled by the end. They’d done very well, but by the time the last person had left, it was two o’clock in the morning and Stephanie had collapsed at the foot of the main stairwell, shrugging off her shoes with a wince. Tim was being a good boy scout and doing what he could to help Alfred clean up.

Bruce walked by, about to enter the cave, when he paused, and after a brief argument with himself, sat down next to Stephanie. She smiled, and as she hiked up her skirts so she could rub her feet, she asked,

“All good?”

“You and Tim have done so well.”

Steph scoffed. “Don’t lie. There’s been more than enough slip ups to warrant a lecture.”

“Let’s see how tomorrow goes, then a lecture may be due.”

Stephanie slowly stopped rubbing her feet and looked to Bruce. “You… you sure this person is going to turn up tomorrow?”

“I’m sure.”

“So, you know who it is?”

“Yes.”

Stephanie’s mouth dropped open. “For how long?”

“Just after Bishop Sherborne’s death. It shouldn’t have taken me that long, but when they were trying to frighten you, not to kill you, they slipped up, and I got the confirmation I needed.”

“I… Bruce. I don’t understand. So, you’ve known for weeks? But why haven’t you…?” She huffed, leaning back. “There’s something else going on here. Isn’t there?”

No response. Stephanie felt like throttling Bruce but tried to stay encouraging. “Tell me. I can help?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I wonder if that’s your most commonly used phrase. You are helping Stephanie. The murderer saw what a big event this was going to be and shot at you to help raise the stakes. Toying with us. But they slipped up, and they’re going to get that big ending. I swear that.”

Oh. Bruce wanted as much of a spectacle as possible. That made sense.

“Also…” Bruce looked over his shoulder, ensuring Tim was nowhere in sight. “It gives you and Tim a bit more of a reason to ‘take a break’.”

She looked at him out the corner of her eye.

“You know…don’t you?”

“Know what?”

Oh God. He was going to make her say it. Fine, she would embarrass him. Tim had once thrown a fit in front of Bruce, essentially declaring his love for her whilst telling Bruce to get screwed. It was the first time he’d said he’d loved her (hers was months before… the hormones from the baby had made the L word slip out a little early, or so she’d told herself at the time). Tim had also picked her up and kissed her right in front of Bruce after they’d caught up with her post-Africa. If Tim had no issue being open about his affections, Stephanie saw no reason to either. Quietly, almost pleadingly, she said,

“That I’m in love with your son. That we want to be together for real when this is all over.”

Bruce exhaled, and wrung his hands. Stephanie tried to not let his silence eat at her, but it did, and she grabbed his wrist, as if the physical contact would change his mind. Bruce looked down. Tim had tried the same thing the other day, but with Stephanie he knew she wasn’t trying to get him off her back, if anything she’d wanted him to be more involved.

“Bruce… is that okay with you?”

“Ask him about Captain Boomerang.” He said, tone short. He watched the blank confusion pass over Stephanie’s expression, and he felt a pang of disappointment in Tim.

“What? What about him? What’s he got to do with –”

“If he hasn’t told you, then he’s hiding the truth because he feels guilty, and he’s frightened of your reaction. That’s not a relationship built to last. Ask him about Harkness. Regardless of what you think of it all, you deserve to know what Tim did.”

Stephanie’s confusion turned to frustration and consternation. “I don’t understand?”

Bruce shook his head, knowing that now the thought was planted, Stephanie wouldn’t let it go. He got back on his feet and looked down at her.

“I’m going to patrol now. Tomorrow I might be late coming to the cathedral. If I am…start without me.”

As she listened to Bruce, Stephanie tilted her head like a confused puppy. “Please let me and Tim help?”

“Help Tim first.”

“But I’m the one who needs hel —”

“I promise you Stephanie… you’re not.”

She stared at the floor as Bruce walked away. What she supposed he intended as a comforting moment for Stephanie instead made her outraged on Tim’s behalf.

“You should have more faith in him.” She called out across the room. She heard Bruce stop and turn, and slowly she raised her determined gaze to meet his sad one. She choked on her final words, “You should…”

She stopped, feeling she was starting to project paternal issues too much, and hoisted herself upwards, picking her shoes off the floor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Bruce. Thank you for the speech today. It meant a lot.” Then she turned away, trying to maintain the last word, and made her way upstairs. She had been sincere when she spoke, as she hoped it would shame Bruce a little more than snark.

She was spending the night at the manor. The whole don’t see the bride the night before thing seemed a little moot in these circumstances. She wanted one last night with Tim, regardless of what happened tomorrow.

Slowly, carefully, Stephanie sat in Tim’s room at his desk, and took off Janet’s (hers. It was hers now) wristwatch. Janet Drake had kept all kinds of beautiful pieces. Lots of rings. Lots of pendants. Lots of earrings. Steph had opted for the watch and the tiara, conscious that anything more would have made her look like a magpie, like someone of new money. She knew that was something Gotham society hated. She felt like she was living in the Great Gatsby.

Her head was aching however, and she knew it was from the tiara and the pins holding it in place. Ten hours of it sitting on her, weight light at first but pressing down by the end made her grunt a little. One lady had recognized it as Janet’s and had actually got a little teary eyed; she had seemed so proud. Two weeks ago, Stephanie would have scoffed, but now it just made her feel warm. She wondered if Janet would have liked her. Jack had been indifferent at first. He probably thought what Tim and her had was nothing more than a typical teenage romance. Then everything had come pouring out about Robin and the baby and… well, maybe she was a bad influence on Tim, but she also mattered a lot more then Jack first thought. The way Tim spoke about his mother suggested she was the one with the emotional intelligence, maybe she would have seen Tim and Stephanie were serious almost from the word go. Maybe she would have liked Steph.

Stephanie looked up to the ceiling briefly, hoping that regardless of what Janet thought of her, she wasn’t angry that her jewellery was being worn by Miss Madam from Nowhere.

She was going to start taking the pins out when Tim came in, looking tired and stressed. She smiled at him through the reflection, Bruce’s words stuck in her head. Tim saw what she was doing and made his way over. His fingers found their way up the back of her hair, and began to remove pins, braids and twists uncurling as he did so. He saw her twitch in pain when the tiara was finally lifted off her scalp, and his fingers returned to her head, rubbing to calm the ache.

Stephanie shut her eyes, blissfully happy for a moment. Tim grinned a little cheekily, enjoying her cat like smirk. The mood grew sombre strangely, and Stephanie sighed, opening her eyes once more.

“That wasn’t too bad.” She said.

Tim’s fingers found their way behind her ears, and he watched the shiver go down her spine.

“No… Just… Nervous for tomorrow. Feels like a ticking clock.”

“We’ll help each other through the aftermath.”

“Promise.”

She tugged at his hands, and he leaned down, resting his chin on her shoulder, arms lazily crossed in front. Her makeup was a little bit smudged from smiling and eating and generally fading as time went on, and it made her look as tired as she felt. Her leg had started to pulse a little, the wound reminding her of its presence, despite the healing going well.

She buried her fingers in his hair, and in the mirror, Tim noticed that she looked distant, like she was only half present in the moment.

“What is it?”

She ground her teeth, not sure if she should tell the truth or not. This was such an intimate moment, she didn’t want to spoil it by dragging Bruce into the conversation. Tim however, nuzzled her, and asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“Bruce spoke to me… just now.”

“Oh.” Tim scoffed. “That dinner speech was something huh? I can’t figure him out sometimes. What’s genuine and what’s an act.”

“I asked him about the case. Why it was taking so long.”

Tim chewed his tongue, feeling smug in his irritation. “What was his excuse then?”

“Tim… he’s figured it out. He figured it out weeks ago.”

“What?”

“He’s trying to catch them in the act, so there’s no doubts about the guilty. But he said also, if it was a big scene like what he wants, then it leaves us free to do any option. Break up because it was too traumatic, take a moment to catch our breaths… stay together…”

“Mmm.” Tim rocked them from side to side, thinking aloud. “I get all that. But why keep us in the dark? What’s his angle? We’re the ones in danger, right? We should know what we’re up against.”

Stephanie supposed it was to prevent either of them acting a certain way around the suspected parties, but she thought that was a weak excuse. Ignorance wasn’t going to keep them safe. She would have thought Bruce would have learned that by now.

“He said he might be late tomorrow. And to start without him if he is.”

“God, he’s a piece of work sometimes.”

“He also…” She gulped. “Tim… He also said, that if we wanted to stay together after…” Steph felt Tim’s arms tighten around her. Bruce’s judgement on them as a pair was something he could never stomach. “He said… I didn’t want to… I’m sorry if it’s none of my business but he said I should ask about Captain Boomerang? Which… if you want to not talk about your dad and him right now, I get that. And we can forget about it. But…why would he even say to ask?”

Slowly, robotically, Tim’s arms retreated from his cradle of her. She saw in the mirror as he grew pale and backed away.

Thinking he was angry at her, she got up, and began to try and do damage control.

“It doesn’t matter. We don’t need to talk about him. He hurt you in the worst of ways and that’s it. It’s not relevant to now. Bruce is just… he’s just shit-stirring.”

“I hate him sometimes.” Tim’s voice was cracked and dry, barely audible after Stephanie’s pleading explanation.

“No. No don’t say that. He’s just… I don’t know. He’s worried.”

“You’ve said that before. And I went to speak to him. And I told him not to use you to punish me again, and then it’s the same thing over and over.”

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

She wasn’t mollified. There was something more going on here. Something more than Tim feeling sad about his father and hatred for the murderer.

“Why are you and Bruce so tense round each other?”

“You know.”

He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “No. Don’t start hiding things from me. Not now. Bruce is worried because you’re getting more violent? Is that it? Because of what Boomerang did to you?”

“Because of what I did to him.”

Steph stared at Tim, not understanding. “Please let me help.” She whispered.

Finally, he looked at her. Screw it, Tim thought. He was so close to being happy, so close to him and Steph setting the groundwork for moving forward, and Bruce, as always, ruined everything.

“I tried to kill him.” He confessed. “After Bruce came back. I tried so hard. And Bruce thinks I don’t deserve to be happy until I regret it. Until I get on my knees and beg for an apology.”

“You don’t regret it?”

“No.” He laughed, incredibly bitter. That was what she had taken umbrage with? Not the attempted murder but his lack of guilt? “Part of me still hopes he comes back so I can…”

He trailed off, noticing Stephanie had stepped away from him. “He ruined my life, Steph. And Dana’s. And my dad…” He pled. She had to understand. She had too.

“I know.”

“I told you, I’m not as far gone as to… jump off the edge or anything. It’s just him.”

“This isn’t like you.” She said. Finally, she returned to him, holding him tight. Tim’s chest still felt strangled, even when Steph whispered into his neck. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t there for you when it all happened.”

“No, God, Steph. Don’t turn this into a blame game.”

“But I can be there for you now.” She ignored him and pulled back a little, her nose brushing Tim’s. He kept his head stubbornly down. “Tim? Remember we promised we would stick together after all this. I’m not going anywhere if you aren’t.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Stephanie swallowed.

“Why didn’t you then, in the end? I can’t believe it was because your plan failed. You stopped yourself, didn’t you?”

“Dick and Bruce and Damian were watching… I couldn’t stand them judging me. Can’t stand the thought of you…”

Steph’s temper flared, though not at Tim, not truly. “Wait what? That’s why you stopped? Because daddy might be angry with you?” Tim broke away, pacing a little heatedly, whilst Steph continued. “No way, Tim. You’ve never been afraid of pissing me or Bruce off. I think you’re in denial.”

Incredulous, Tim collapsed on the bed. He kicked off his shoes, sending them flying across the floor. “You and Bruce have been doing this thing recently where you open your mouths and the other person’s words come out.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s weird.” He pouted.

Stephanie moved closer again, and Tim allowed it. Her skirt was voluminous enough that it pressed against Tim’s legs first, until she knelt down in front of him. He wasn’t going to be convinced in one conversation to change his mind regarding Harkness, but she hoped his stubbornness had been thrown into question. Even though he always meant well, if she could point out Tim’s worst flaw, it was that he could be entitled. Entitled to someone’s time, entitled to their emotions, entitled in his world view. He sometimes struggled with seeing things from outside his initial judgement, and it always seemed to take a metaphorical (or literal in one case) earthquake to shake things up for him.

Tim stared at her. She looked a little bit of a mess with her tangled hair and fading makeup, but her skin was so healthy and glowing, even at half two in the morning, she looked so lively. They were both tired, and tomorrow was going to be even more exhausting, but Steph wouldn’t let it lie. Not yet.

“I’m not judging you, Tim. God knows how often I imagined smashing my dad’s head in with a baseball bat. Or with Black Mask… I so nearly shot him when I escaped. I still don’t really know why I didn’t.”

“Because you’re a good person.”

“And so are you.” She smiled, and Tim could feel how in love she was just from that look. “One of the best people I’ve ever known. And I’m not going to let some shitty little man make you believe otherwise. If he does come back to Gotham, call for me, and we’ll deal with him together.” She sighed, then reached up for his hands. “I want you to be happy Tim. But I don’t think that’s the way to it.”

“Do you think that’s life’s point?” He asked, thinking of Dick and his conversation earlier in the evening. “To be happy?”

“Ooft. I don’t know. That’s a toughie.” She shrugged, a little blasé. “I just live. Does it have to have a deeper meaning?”

Finally, Tim smiled, though when he did, a tear slipped out, and he gasped a little. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As she pulled herself up, and fully knowing she was going to get Tim covered in lipstick, she kissed him. He responded enthusiastically, rising off the bed so they could kiss at their usual angle. His hands twitched against her shoulder blades, feeling the fabric of the dress blocking the heat she was radiating. When his fingers brushed over the ribbons that corseted her in, she broke off the kiss and stared at him. She chewed her lip and decided there and then to take a gamble.

She reached back and took one of his hands, pulling him down to the knot. Biting the inside of her cheeks, Stephanie tugged at Tim’s hand, trying to make him understand. It took a moment, but then Tim moved closer so he could stare down over her shoulder and undo the ribbon that held her in the dress. Neither spoke, only their anxious breathing filled the room. Stephanie’s hands were up on Tim’s shoulders, held in loose fists, uncomfortable and unsure. Eventually Tim was able to loosen the dress enough that she was able to wriggle out, and the whole thing collapsed onto the floor. Stephanie immediately pulled Tim in for another kiss, unbearably shy at the thought of him seeing her in her underwear (and less) with all the scars present for him to see and feel guilty over.

He broke away, hands hovering near her waist. He could feel the heat of her, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go and indulge.

“Steph… are you sure?”

“I want it. I want this. I want you. For real.” She begged. “Please, Tim. Please.” He caught her mouth then, one hand buried in her hair, the other pulling on her shoulder, almost as if he was trying to press her into him, melding the two together. He sobbed, desperate, and bit her lip hard enough that she knew it would bruise. She would have to wear a red lip again tomorrow to cover it up.

They broke apart to catch their breath, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. Stephanie gulped as she felt Tim shudder. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, breathing laboured, as if he were in acute pain. She brought her hands up to cradle his cheeks. He was limp in her hold, so tired and utterly trusting.

“Tim.”

He opened his eyes to look at her and she tried to appear encouraging. She moved closer, impossibly, so that her chin rested on his shoulder, legs moving to wrap around his hips and waist. He caught her and held her tight, moving to the bed.

When he set her down, she reached up and pulled him back home to her. She soon ended up on his lap with the two of them moving together instinctively. When she felt him press against her she groaned and the kiss turned sloppy.

Tim broke away, Stephanie ensuring the kiss ended with a loud wet noise, and he seemed to be in a huge amount of pain. His eyes were still screwed shut, and whilst his hands – one on her elbow and the other on her shoulder – were gentle in their touch, she could see him shaking from how tense he was.

“Baby, if you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

“I want to.” He said, tone half begging, half drowning. “But you... I’ve never... And you...”

Words were failing him, so Steph pushed his hair off his forehead. Her smile was fond, but Tim, in his little angst bubble still had his eyes shut.

“Not for a very long time, Tim. And never with anyone I loved.” She giggled. “I’m really nervous too… if that’s any help. But I want to sleep with you.”

They both burned red at it being spoken out loud. They’d both been so tentative about the topic for so long. Steph had largely negative memories regarding her relationship with Dean and the pregnancy it produced. The only bright glimmer was the knowledge that the baby was well looked after and that she had grown so close to Tim during those nine months. She hadn’t felt secure enough to be with anyone else in recent years, and she knew Tim took it seriously. Very seriously. He wanted that safety too, and they had just been so young at first, and then everything was so strained, and they weren’t even together but now… “It’s my promise. To you. That I’m in it for the long haul.”

A long moment passed, until something within Tim seemed to make up its mind, and he grinned. It was the smile Steph didn’t get to see too often but when she did, she was reminded of that cheeky teenager he used to sometimes allow himself to be. There were red lipstick stains all over his lips and cheeks, and his eyes shone. He looked sweet and alive and –

Tim threw Steph back, letting her bounce on the bed and she laughed, watching as he wriggled out of his clothes. She saw the scar from his spleen ruining injury, as well as others that looked like gun shots, burns, stabbings… She sighed in sympathy then looked down at her own hurt body.

Screw it.

She flung off her underwear and held out her arms. Tim swiftly returned to her, kissing and nipping every bit of skin he could get his mouth on. She gripped his shoulder blades and did not let go for the rest of the night.

No more lies, omissions or half-truths, no more insecurities, and no more blind anger. No matter what happened by tomorrow, she wouldn’t regret being with him, and she prayed that he thought she was worth the effort.

With Tim looking at her like she was made of literal starlight, Stephanie thought maybe her wish had already been given.

#dc #timsteph #tim drake #stephanie brown #my fic tag

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contentconsumer · 5 years ago

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BooBoo

A/N: Still have a few requests but trying to get through them & I’m trying to keep my masterlist updated with what’s to come. GIF not mine! Key: Y/N - your name Word Count: 766 Pairing: Spencer Reid X Reader Warnings: Mentions of guns and blood and violence. Summary: You and you’re team are split up in a warehouse trying to catch an unsub, what happens when she gets to you before you get to her? Requested?: Yes, ‘ that prompt list was rly creative!! i’d love to see 33 spence/reader!! 💙’ , here it is my love & thank you!! From this prompt list. Prompt: “I didn’t MEAN to headbutt you it slipped out”

This case had gone south quick. Somehow the team had been split up and due to the fact you were in a warehouse coms were a hit or miss, you knew the unsub was in the warehouse with you but no one knew which corners had her in and which had your teammates in. Due to the unknown you were extra cautious when turning corners. None of you wanted to draw attention to yourselves so there was no shouting - you could barely hear yourself breathe.

The wood beneath you squeaked under your weight loudly. You mentally curse yourself and try to keep moving forward. Then you hear footsteps. You mind instantly goes into panic and you try to work out the statistics of it being your team and not the unsub but as you feel a hand pull itself over your mouth your worst fear becomes true. You try to speak but her iron grip means it comes out as a mumble. She takes you gun. Next she wraps a piece of fabric over your eyes - you know she felt remorse when she killed as she kept all her victims eyes covered with a blindfold so she couldn’t see their pain. A tear starts to run down your face as you realise she could kill you before you team reach you. She also stuffs a dirty cloth in you mouth as a makeshift gag. She presses your gun against your back to urge you to move forward. You comply and you walk for what feels like hours but it means you’ve lost all sense of direction.

Suddenly you feel her move the gun from your back to your temple. You take a deep breath, fearing the worst. She moves the gag out and says to you “Scream, I want your team to rush in so I can kill you in front of them then kill them.” You don’t say a word, you don’t want your team to find you because the killer is impulsive and there is no stopping her from killing your team as they come to your rescue. She becomes angry when you refuse to speak so jabs you in the jaw with the butt of the gun - her voice is raising “Scream! I want them to hear you in pain! I want to hear how scared they are of losing you!” Blood fills your mouth as you have an idea. “Me? Miss me? Oh no no no Kelly, you’ve really messed up here,” You chuckles flashing your blood filled teeth. You’ve scared her by using her real name but you continue, “You’ve picked the one person in the team that no one cares about, me! The team won’t look for me, what a mistake.” You are lying you know your team love you but Kelly doesn’t. The gun hits you again this time in the chin, “You’re lying.” She shouts trying to convince herself. You take this as you chance, you grab the gun and start trying to hit her however you still had the blindfold on and you couldn’t undo it without leaving yourself open. You scream for you team. “HELP!” You know they heard you as you hear footsteps. Kelly is on the floor as you hit her unconscious which is impressive as you couldn’t see her however you don’t know this as you can’t see, so naturally when you feel someone. Headbutt them. Hard.

What you weren’t expecting is to hear you boyfriend Spencer scream in pain, “Oh my god Y/N I’m trying to help!” In the distance you can hear Hotch reading out Kellys rights to her and you hear the sound of handcuffs. You sigh. “Please drop the gun I’m now a lot more scared of you.” You hear Spencer say, you laugh and drops the gun. Next you pull the blindfold off, you squint to the change in light but gasp when you see Spencer. You’d hit him so hard you made his forehead bleed. He looks up at you from touching his wound and raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t mean to headbutt you it slipped out,” You say cheeks blushing, “also next time a ‘Hey it’s Spencer’ would be nice.” He laughs, “But does it look badass?” He asks with his dazzling smile. “Nah you’re too cute” You say, he mocks offence but throws his arm around you and you start to leave the warehouse, “Come on, let’s go home. You need to kiss my booboo better” Spencer says, “Your booboo? My mouth is bleeding!” You exclaim but laugh and lean into Spencer.

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kkintle · 4 years ago

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Map: Collected and Last Poems by Wisława Szymborska; Quotes

Dreams flickered on white canvas.

The future—who can guess it. The past—who’s got it right.

Trite Rhymes A great joy: flower upon flower, the branches stretch in pristine blue, but there’s a greater: today’s Tuesday, tomorrow will bring mail from you, and still greater: the letter trembles, strange reading it in spots of sun, and still greater: just a week now, now just four days, now it’s begun, and still greater: I kneel on top and make the suitcase lid shut tight, and still greater: the train at seven, just one ticket, thanks, that’s right, and still greater: rushing windows, with view on view on view on view, and still greater: dark and darker, by nighttime I will be with you, and still greater: the door opens, and still greater: past the door, and still greater: flower on flower. —Ohhh, who are all these roses for?

Do you open each human fate like a book, seeking feelings not in fonts or formats? Are you sure you decipher people completely?

Are people really so simple as far as people go?

Lovers In this quiet we can still hear what they were singing yesterday about the high road and the low road . . . We hear—but we don’t believe it. Our smile doesn’t mask our sorrow, and goodness needs no sacrifice. The pity we give to nonlovers is even more than they deserve. We’re so astonished at ourselves, what’s left to astonish us? Not a rainbow in the night. Not a butterfly in snow. And when we sleep we dream of parting. But it’s a good dream, it’s a good dream, since we wake up from it.

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue mentions your name by accident: I feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent.

Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow? It’s in its nature not to stay: today is always gone tomorrow. With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star, although we’re different (we concur) just as two drops of water are.

If we haven’t had enough of despair, grief, all that stuff, lofty words will kill us off. Then we’ll stand up, take our bows: hope that you’ve enjoyed our show. Every patron with his spouse will applaud, get up, and go. They’ll reenter their lives’ cages, where love’s tiger sometimes rages, but the beast’s too tame to bite.

I TEACH silence in all languages

FOR PROMISES made by my spouse, who’s tricked so many with his sweet colors and fragrances and sounds— dogs barking, guitars in the street— into believing that they still might conquer loneliness and fright, I cannot be responsible. Mr. Day’s widow, Mrs. Night.

We know ourselves only as far as we’ve been tested. I tell you this from my unknown heart

An Effort Alack and woe, oh song: you’re mocking me; try as I may, I’ll never be your red, red rose. A rose is a rose is a rose. And you know it. I worked to sprout leaves. I tried to take root. I held my breath to speed things up, and waited for the petals to enclose me. Merciless song, you leave me with my lone, nonconvertible, unmetamorphic body: I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.

Leave me, leave, but not by land. Swim off, swim, but not by sea. Fly off, fly away, my dear, but don’t go near the air. Let’s see each other through closed eyes. Let’s talk together through closed mouths. Let’s hold each other through a thick wall.

Since eternity was out of stock, ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead.

Everything’s mine but just on loan, nothing for the memory to hold, though mine as long as I look.

One day the answer came before the question. Another night they guessed their eyes’ expression by the type of silence in the dark. Gender fades, mysteries molder, distinctions meet in all-resemblance just as all colors coincide in white.

Sunny. Green. A forest close at hand, with wood to chew on, drops beneath the bark to drink— a view served round the clock, until you go blind.

Parable Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. It held a piece of paper, with these words: “Somebody save me! I’m here. The ocean cast me on this desert island. I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry! I’m here!” “There’s no date. I bet it’s already too late anyway. It could have been floating for years,” the first fisherman said. “And he doesn’t say where. It’s not even clear which ocean,” the second fisherman said. “It’s not too late, or too far. The island Here is everywhere,” the third fisherman said. They all felt awkward. No one spoke. That’s how it goes with universal truths

Ballad Hear the ballad “Murdered Woman Suddenly Gets Up from Chair.” It’s an honest ballad, penned neither to shock nor to offend. The thing happened fair and square, with curtains open, lamps all lit: passersby could stop and stare. When the door had shut behind him and the killer ran downstairs, she stood up, just like the living startled by the sudden silence. She gets up, she moves her head, and she looks around with eyes harder than they were before. No, she doesn’t float through air: she steps on the ordinary, wooden, slightly creaky floor. In the oven she burns traces that the killer’s left behind: here a picture, there shoelaces, everything that she can find. It’s obvious that she’s not strangled. It’s obvious that she’s not shot. She’s been killed invisibly. She may still show signs of life, cry for sundry silly reasons, shriek in horror at the sight of a mouse. Ridiculous traits are so predictable that they aren’t hard to fake. She got up like you and me. She walks just as people do. And she sings and combs her hair, which still grows.

I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings.

Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out. With birdlike feet and palms, they strove to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades. The thirteenth century would have given them golden halos. The twentieth, silver screens. The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous. For even the sky bulges here with pudgy angels and a chubby god— thick-whiskered Phoebus, on a sweaty steed, riding straight into the seething bedchamber

He grew rozes with a “z.

(...) the rest of your life? Old age is a precipice, (...)

I am too close for him to dream of me.

Silence—this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word “woods.”

Funny little thing How could she know that even despair can work for you if you’re lucky enough to outlive it.

The Railroad Station My nonarrival in the city of N. took place on the dot. You’d been alerted in my unmailed letter. You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time. The train pulled up at Platform 3. A lot of people got out. My absence joined the throng as it made its way toward the exit. Several women rushed to take my place in all that rush. Somebody ran up to one of them. I didn’t know him, but she recognized him immediately. While they kissed with not our lips, a suitcase disappeared, not mine. The railroad station in the city of N. passed its exam in objective existence with flying colors. The whole remained in place. Particulars scurried along the designated tracks. Even a rendezvous took place as planned. Beyond the reach of our presence. In the paradise lost of probability. Somewhere else. Somewhere else. How these little words ring. Alive These days we just hold him

But this is ancient history. I can’t dwell on it forever or keep asking endlessly, what’s next, what’s next. Day to day I trust in permanence, in history’s prospects. I can’t gnaw apples in a constant state of terror.

Arduous ease, watchful agility, and calculated inspiration.

Old Folks’ Home Here comes Her Highness—well, you know who I mean, our Helen the snooty—now who made her queen! With her lipstick and wig on, as if we could care, like her three sons in heaven can see her from there! “I wouldn’t be here if they’d lived through the war. I’d spend winter with one son, summer with another.” What makes her so sure? I’d be dead too now, with her for a mother. And she keeps on asking (“I don’t mean to pry”) why from your sons and daughters there’s never a word even though they weren’t killed. “If my boys were alive, I’d spend all my holidays home with the third.” Right, and in his gold carriage he’d come and get her, drawn by a swan or a lily-white dove, to show all of us that he’ll never forget her and how much he owes to her motherly love. Even Jane herself, the nurse, can’t help but grin when our Helen starts singing this old song again— even though Jane’s job is commiseration Monday through Friday, with two weeks’ vacation.

Sell me your soul. There are no other takers. There is no other devil anymore.

I’m bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies. What a loss when you think how much effort was spent perfecting this petal, this pistil, this scent for the one-time appearance, which is all they’re allowed, so aloofly precise and so fragilely proud.

The abyss doesn’t divide us. The abyss surrounds us.

In Praise of Dreams In my dreams I paint like Vermeer van Delft. I speak fluent Greek and not just with the living. I drive a car that does what I want it to. I am gifted and write mighty epics. I hear voices as clearly as any venerable saint. My brilliance as a pianist would stun you. I fly the way we ought to, i.e., on my own. Falling from the roof, I tumble gently to the grass. I’ve got no problem breathing under water. I can’t complain: I’ve been able to locate Atlantis. It’s gratifying that I can always wake up before dying. As soon as war breaks out, I roll over on my other side. I’m a child of my age, but I don’t have to be. A few years ago I saw two suns. And the night before last a penguin, clear as day.

True love. Is it normal, is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own?

Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there’s no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.

And it so happened that I’m here with you. And I really see nothing usual in that.

Under One Small Star My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all. Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths. I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five A.M. Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don’t pay me much attention. Dignity, please be magnanimous. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train. Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then. My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man. I know I won’t be justified as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

Non omnis moriar—a premature worry.

Thank-You Note I owe so much to those I don’t love. The relief as I agree that someone else needs them more. The happiness that I’m not the wolf to their sheep. The peace I feel with them, the freedom— love can neither give nor take that. I don’t wait for them, as in window-to-door-and-back. Almost as patient as a sundial, I understand what love can’t, and forgive as love never would. From a rendezvous to a letter is just a few days or weeks, not an eternity. Trips with them always go smoothly, concerts are heard, cathedrals visited, scenery is seen. And when seven hills and rivers come between us, the hills and rivers can be found on any map. They deserve the credit if I live in three dimensions, in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space with a genuine, shifting horizon. They themselves don’t realize how much they hold in their empty hands. “I don’t owe them a thing” would be love’s answer to this open question.

Dentistry turned to diplomatic skill promises us a Golden Age tomorrow. The going’s rough, and so we need the laugh of bright incisors, molars of goodwill. Our times are still not safe and sane enough for faces to show ordinary sorrow.

Our solitary existence exacerbates our sense of obligation, and raises the inevitable question, How are we to live et cetera? since “we can’t avoid the void.

No way out? But what about the door? No prospects? The window had other views.

You think at least the note must tell us something. But what if I say there was no note— and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

(...) to linger longer, not to go home again. Since only prisoners want to go home.

In Praise of Feeling Bad about Yourself The buzzard never says it is to blame. The panther wouldn’t know what scruples mean. When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame. If snakes had hands, they’d claim their hands were clean. A jackal doesn’t understand remorse. Lions and lice don’t waver in their course. Why should they, when they know they’re right? Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton, in every other way they’re light. On this third planet of the sun among the signs of bestiality a clear conscience is number one.

I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine, I can’t exchange it. I have to guess on the spot just what this play’s all about

The star is large and distant, so distant that it’s small, even smaller than others much smaller than it.

Small wonder, then, if we were struck with wonder; as we would be if only we had the time.

God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

“How should we live?” someone asked me in a letter. I had meant to ask him the same question. Again, and as ever, as may be seen above, the most pressing questions are naïve ones.

Whatever you say reverberates, whatever you don’t say speaks for itself. So either way you’re talking politics.

Who knows you matters more than whom you know. Trips only if taken abroad. Memberships in what but without why. Honors, but not how they were earned. (...) Price, not worth, and title, not what’s inside. His shoe size, not where he’s off to, that one you pass off as yourself.

Nothing’s sacred for those who think. Calling things brazenly by name, risqué analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects, discussion in heat—it’s music to their ears.

During these trysts of theirs, the only thing that’s steamy is the tea.

May delivery be easy, may our child grow and be well. Let him be happy from time to time and leap over abysses. Let his heart have strength to endure and his mind be awake and reach far. But not so far that it sees into the future. Spare him that one gift, O heavenly powers.

For the sake of the children that we still are, fairy tales have happy endings. That’s the only finale that will do here, too. The rain will stop, the waves will subside, the clouds will part in the cleared-up sky, and they’ll be once more what clouds overhead ought to be: lofty and rather lighthearted in their likeness to things drying in the sun— isles of bliss, lambs, cauliflowers, diapers.

I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries that can be celebrated every day.

A miracle, just take a look around: the inescapable earth. An extra miracle, extra and ordinary: the unthinkable can be thought.

When I see such things, I’m no longer sure that what’s important is more important than what’s not.

Hatred is a master of contrast— between explosions and dead quiet, red blood and white snow.

Perhaps all fields are battlefields, those we remember and those that are forgotten: (...)

Without us dreams couldn’t exist. The one on whom the real world depends is still unknown, and the products of his insomnia are available to anyone who wakes up.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

We agreed to death, but not to every kind. Love attracted us, of course, but only love that keeps its word.

We were besieged by doubts. Does knowing everything beforehand really mean knowing everything. Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice.

We’re extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in.

I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

They aren’t obliged to vanish when we’re gone. They don’t have to be seen while sailing on.

The Three Oddest Words When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it. When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no nonbeing can hold.

But how to answer unasked questions, while being furthermore a being so totally a nobody to you.

Talking with you is essential and impossible. Urgent in this hurried life and postponed to never.

Understanding came only later: not all misadventures fit within the world’s laws and even if they wanted to, they couldn’t happen.

And what can you say about one day of life, a minute, a second: darkness, a lightbulb’s flash, then dark again? KOSMOS MAKROS CHRONOS PARADOKSOS Only stony Greek has words for that.

There must be an exit somewhere, that’s more than certain. But you don’t look for it, it looks for you, it’s been stalking you from the start, and this labyrinth is none other than than your, for the duration, your, until not your, flight, flight— (...)

Life on Earth is quite a bargain. Dreams, for one, don’t charge admission. Illusions are costly only when lost. The body has its own installment plan. And as an extra, added feature, you spin on the planets’ carousel for free, and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard, with times so dizzying that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.

At times I get fed up with her. I suggest a separation. From now to eternity. Then she smiles at me with pity, since she knows it would be the end of me too.

Assassins They think for days on end, how to kill so as to kill, and how many killed will be many. Apart from this they eat their meals with gusto, pray, wash their feet, feed the birds, make phone calls while scratching their armpits, stanch blood when they cut a finger, if they’re women they buy sanitary napkins, eye shadow, flowers for vases, they make jokes on their good days, drink citrus juice from the fridge, watch the moon and stars at night, place headphones with soft music on their ears and sleep sweetly till the crack of dawn —unless what they’re thinking needs doing at night.

It’s good you came. Sit here beside me. He really was supposed to get back Thursday. But we’ve got so many Thursdays left this year.

Page after page at a snail’s pace. But we’re still going in fifth gear and, knock on wood, never better.

We eat another life so as to live. A corpse of pork with departed cabbage. Every menu is an obituary. Even the kindest of souls must consume, digest something killed so that their warm hearts won’t stop beating.

In the end I stopped knowing what I’d been looking for so long. I woke up. Looked at my watch. The dream took not quite two and a half minutes. Such are the tricks to which time resorts ever since it started stumbling on sleeping heads.

#poems #poetry #Wislawa Szymborska #literature #quotes

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catsafarithewriter · 5 years ago

Note

Vampire AU: "You can't just turn into a bat and fly away when you don't want to deal with things!" "Watch me!"

A/N: I am living for all the Vampire AU prompts you’re sending

Haru had had this holiday planned for months.

She’d booked the weekend off in February, the site in March; she’d even made a nice little list of things they’d need, and things they’d want, and things they’d almost certainly forget if she didn’t put it down on paper.

In short, she had had this camping holiday planned long before Baron had come into the picture.

And vampire-sitting wasn’t on any of the lists.

“It’s just a holiday,” she assured as she threw a handful of clothes into her rucksack. “I’ll be away for a few days and then I’ll be back, no biggie.”

“No… biggie?” Baron echoed skeptically.

“There’s literally nothing for you to worry about,” she translated. “In fact, I’ll be far more worried about leaving you behind - and no,” she quickly added, “that doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind and you can come. My holiday. My two days of peace and quiet. You just stay here and stew in front of the TV watching soap operas for two days. Please.”

“I still don’t entirely understand the point of your excursion. You are staying out in the woods in a rickety tent for… what? What kind of holy day requires this sort of ritual?”

“I said it’s a holiday, not a holy day, what are you–” She broke off. “Good god, you don’t know what a holiday is, do you?”

Baron, as usual, looked somewhat affronted at having his outdated vocabulary criticised again. “If words have adapted in the last 400 years, I hardly think it is a surprise–”

“You don’t. You poor, poor man.” She hesitated, and then amended, “Creature. Monster? Look, I’m not entirely sure what to refer to you as - and, no, ‘monster of the night’ is far too much of a mouthful and I’m not saying it. Okay, I’m going away for the weekend to get away from work and responsibilities and I’m going to have fun. That’s what a holiday is.”

Baron started to speak again.

“A vampire-free weekend,” she added.

“I still feel it is highly inadvisable for a young lady to spend several nights sleeping the woods.”

“Just as well I’m not taking advice then, isn’t it? And stop pouting - I’m not going alone. Hiromi’s coming with me.”

“Ah yes. Hiromi.”

“You could sound less like you’re dribbling the name off your tongue. What do you have against her? You only ever met her once.”

Baron hesitated. “She… creeps me out.”

“You. The ‘monster of the night’. Are creeped out by my tiny friend. I left you in the same room together alone for all of two minutes. What happened??”

Baron’s mouth thinned. Haru recognised that look.

“Oh dear, was she not instinctively terrified and reverential to your impressive vampire aura?” she crooned. “What a shocker. How traumatic that must have been for you–”

“I have spent enough time in this century to recognise sarcasm, Haru.”

“Oh thank goodness. You’re finally getting a sense of humour.”

“That’s not–” He scowled again. “I still don’t like this.”

“That’s fine. I’m still going.” She threw her rucksack over her shoulder just as a car horn announced her ride’s arrival. “Try not to eat all the prunes in the first day, okay? I haven’t left you any grocery money.”

“I don’t need money.”

She bapped him on the nose the same way she did with naughty dogs. “No stealing into shops in the dead of night and raiding them. If any robberies get traced back here, I will not help you.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll never trace it back here.”

Haru stared. “That’s not what I meant – look, just behave, okay? You can surely do that for a weekend, right? Please?”

Baron’s mouth was thin, but in defeat this time. “I will not cause chaos here while you’re gone.”

“Close enough.”

The air in the forest was almost like the air Baron remembered from his life pre-400-year-nap. There was no need to breathe for him, but he could still taste the discrepancies in the breeze, the clarity far from cars and cities and people. Wild. Untamed. Free…

A bundle of hikers popped out from a thicket of ferns and blindly relocated the path. One of them held the remains of a map. The human with the map approached Baron. Yet another human who had somehow lost that vital survival instinct.

“Hey, I don’t suppose you know whereabouts we are on here?” the woman asked, thrusting the torn paper towards him.

He flashed her a fanged smile. “You’re in the monster’s lair.”

“Hmm, no, I don’t think so… I think the Devil’s Punchbowl was down that way, so…” She turned the map around a few times. “Yeah, the sun is that way, and the valley is behind us, so east is…”

“Don’t you know what I am?” he tried again, injecting a slight growl into the curve of his words.

“Very bad at directions, apparently.”

“I’ve got signal!” One of the other humans hurried forward and brought their phone into the light, carefully as if carrying some hallowed item. “It seems to think we’re… here. Don’t-don’t move it, or I’ll lost it again, but…”

Baron caught sight of a miniaturised map on the phone screen, a small blue dot flashing in the centre.

The woman shot Baron back a smile, all blunt teeth and useless canines, and nodded politely. “Looks like we’ve got our bearings. Do you need directions somewhere or…”

“I don’t need your help.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but you probably should be moving soon. It’s getting dark and you probably shouldn’t be in these woods alone at night.”

Baron watched the hikers vanish into the undergrowth with a fresh layer of incredulity. His mind rebooted after the last of the ferns rustled back into place. “I’m the scariest thing in this forest!” he snapped.

The forest didn’t seem too impressed.

A squirrel ran along the tree roots and paused to pick at acorns scattering the forest floor. Baron bared his fangs in a snarl. The squirrel continued on unaffected.

In the end, Baron threw an acorn at it to make it leave.

Twice.

The first one missed and the squirrel actually stopped to pick at it, and almost approached Baron to see if he’d give another. The second acorn still missed, but was close enough to startle the creature.

Maybe the problem wasn’t humans. Maybe after 400 years, he was just losing his touch.

He glowered and leapt up into the trees, scaling the trunks and moving silently through the canopy until he came to the tent where Haru and her… friend were staying the next two nights.

He wasn’t following Haru. Of course he wasn’t. He just… had thought that an evening stroll into a wood would be a nice change of pace. If it happened to be the same forest Haru was staying in and he just happened to pass by, well then, it was only natural to stick around and make sure she was okay. After all, she was his host. If he lost her, he’d had to find somewhere else to live. With someone who maybe didn’t have the channels with good soap operas, or who didn’t buy him tinned prunes, or who didn’t tell him how their day had gone while they were cooking and laugh at odd things that the 21st Century deemed funny and curl up like a housecat while reading.

And that would be a shame.

Night was fast drawing in, even with the long summer days, and the two women had set several lanterns in a loose circle around their tent. Their little temporary home was a gentle patch of light in the otherwise shadowed forest. Like a little moon.

Baron perched in a tree just beyond the lanterns’ glow and kept guard, his back to them as he watched the forest for any hidden dangers. Their conversation - louder than the conversation Haru and Baron usually shared, rambunctious and bouncy - was a strange sort of company for him, but not one he disliked. Eventually they gave in against sleep and retired into their tent and it was just Baron, sleepless and eternal.

He dropped down to the ground, approaching to stomp out the last embers of the fire, and hit a wall.

No. Not a wall. But definitely a barrier of some type.

He circled the makeshift campsite, but the barrier seemed to encompass the entirety of the shared women’s tent - including the fire. He stepped back and re-examined his surroundings, eventually resting his gaze on the lanterns. They were placed evenly around the tent - too evenly. Too precisely. He lowered his gaze and now saw marks in the ground - carved out with a stick, most likely - to create a warding spell. Designed to keep creatures like him out.

But Haru knew no such magic…

“So what’s your deal, huh?”

Haru’s friend was leaning casually against a tree trunk within the circle, still in pyjamas but with a chunky wooden stick slung over one shoulder. A stake. A glint of metal at its tip. Silver.

Instinctively his mouth curled into a snarl,

Hiromi swung the stake into her hands. “Oh, so you recognise this, do you? I used to have a much fancier one, family heirloom in fact, until it got… uh, stuck in a creature like you. Luckily the important details aren’t hard to replicate. Wooden stake, silver-tipped, a few important runes in place and bam. Perfect vampire-killer.”

“I knew there was something off about you.”

She laughed, presumably emboldened by the protection of her spell, and pointedly stared back at him. “Hark who’s talking. You’re not so hot yourself, slick. Now, how about you tell me what you’re doing with my best friend and I might reconsider staking you into permanent sleep.”

“I’m not doing anything to her,” Baron retorted. “She’s my host.” He winced at the bad word choice, quick to correct himself.��“Not in… not in a vampire way. She lets me stay with her.”

“Why?”

“Kindness, she told me.”

Hiromi snorted, and all of Baron’s surprise at Haru’s reasoning felt a little belittled. “Naturally her kindness ends up inviting a vampire into her home. Naturally. God, I love her, but her kindness gets her into all sorts of chaos, you know?”

“If you know my kind as well as you boast, then you’ll know I haven’t touched Haru,” he said, his tone sharp, sharper still for the dismissal. “Even a single drink from a human leaves its marks.”

Hiromi glowered, and Baron could see she had already checked as much. “You’ll be drinking from someone.”

“Do you really think I’d be foolish enough to drink from a person in a world I know so little about? Please,” he scoffed, mimicking the tone Haru had thrown so often at him. “Give me a little credit.”

“Then where are you drinking from?”

“There are other things vampires can survive on. Animal blood. Eggs.” He hesitated. “Prunes.”

“Seriously?”

He allowed a flicker of irritation to darken his face. “Would I joke under such circumstances?”

“I don’t know. I’ve met several vampires with a sense of humour. And before you say anything,” she added, “I didn’t kill all of them. Only those with a fondness for human blood. Still, prunes are a first.”

“We all have our weaknesses,” Baron muttered.

“Uh-huh, and one of yours may be my best friend.” She considered. “For whatever reason, Haru seems to… tolerate you to a surprising degree - I don’t know what she sees in you, because it certainly isn’t your humour or your manners or your personality–”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“–so I won’t tell you to get out of her place. But–” and she swung the stake so it rested between them, on the tip of the invisible barrier “–if you touch one hair on her head, one little drink, one single bite, if you give in to your vampire urges for even the briefest second, I will stake you, understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then we come to an understanding.”

“I’m not going to harm Haru. Even before your threat, I wasn’t going to harm her.”

Hiromi gave him a strange, searching look that Baron wasn’t entirely sure he liked. Like she understood him better than he understood himself in that single moment. Then the moment passed and she threw a bark of a laugh and turned away. “You should be going before all this wakes Haru up.”

“But–”

“What were you even doing here? She’s your host, sure. But the home she’s sharing with you is all the way over that way. Why come all the way out here?” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you were thinking about a late night snack while away from the city…?”

Baron bristled at the accusation. Still, he wasn’t even entirely sure of the answer himself. “I… The forest is a dangerous place for humans.”

“Yes. Because of creatures like you.”

“Sometimes.”

Hiromi smirked. “Well you needn’t have worried, if that’s true. If you can worry. Can you?” She shrugged and continued before Baron could muddle through an answer. “I can take down pretty much anything of your like. And a few others as well.”

He eyed the stake. “Apparently.”

There was a grumble from the tent, followed by movement.

Hiromi made a face. “Shit. Get going before we have to start explaining.”

“You don’t tell me what to do.”

The tent flap opened and Baron dissolved into a swarm of bats, vanishing before Haru could see his human shape. He lingered just long enough to see Hiromi’s smirk widen, and see Haru spot his bat form disappear into the dark.

To echo Hiromi: Shit.

Haru found him early the next morning.

The light was still low, long shadows cast through the forest canopy and just dim enough for Baron to remain safe from the rapidly warming sunlight. Lord, he hated summer.

She stalked out of the tent, obliviously out of the protection spell, and stopped by the dip of a river. The water was caught in an eddy, courtesy of the rocks channelling it, and it churned like a… well, a punchbowl. As Haru sat down by its cooling side, he wondered if this was the Devil’s Punchbowl those infernal hikers had been rambling on about.

“I know you’re there.”

He jolted, and was optimistic enough to think that maybe she was talking to somebody else.

She shattered that illusion pretty quickly, dropping her head back in his general direction and adding, “Baron.”

He dropped down from the trees, barely making a sound as he landed on the forest floor. “How did you know I was there?”

“I can always tell. It feels like someone walked over my grave.” She paused, and added, “And then there was last night.”

“Ah.”

“Did… Did Hiromi see you? Or did you stay in your bat form the entire time?”

He considered. If she didn’t know, then Hiromi hadn’t seen fit to inform Haru about her true occupation or her awareness of Baron’s. He considered revealing Hiromi’s monster-hunting life, but quickly discarded it. Haru had only seen his version of vampires - and however he wished to be rightfully intimidating, he was by far not the worst vampire out there. There were vampires out there that would make even his skin crawl.

Vampires that Hiromi had probably encountered, if her boasts were anything to go by. Vampires her family almost certainly had. Tales of bloodlust and slaughters and a carelessness for human life that would turn the stomach of anyone humane. Tales that might be shared with Haru if Hiromi’s true life came to light. And Hiromi would have little reason to hide such stories from Haru.

Stories that would change the way Haru looked at him.

“Baron?” Haru gave an uneasy chuckle. “Oh god, tell me you didn’t do anything stupid. Again.”

“She didn’t see me,” he lied.

“It was close though.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Close enough.”

“I can’t believe this. I told you to stay at my flat. You said you would behave–”

“I said I would not cause chaos in your flat,” Baron said. He helpfully gestured to their forested surroundings. “We are not in your flat.”

“I am going to kill you.”

“You can’t.”

“Stake you, then.” She made a frustrated nonsense movement like she couldn’t quite decide which rude gesture to throw at him, and kind of spun on the spot.

He smiled, and then looked away before she could see it.

“How would I even begin to explain what you were doing all the way out here? ‘Heya, Hiromi, meet my flatmate, he stalks me but it’s fine, I promise. Sleep? Oh no, he doesn’t sleep - he’ll just turn into a swarm of bats and hang around until daybreak.’ I mean, honestly, what was I going to – what are you grinning about? I’m being serious here!”

“I know.”

“Then what’s so funny?”

He looked back to her, and wasn’t sure how to explain it wasn’t humour, but a strange sensation of contentedness. It was a fondness for the familiarity he saw in her. It was in her bluster, her teasing tone, the tilt of her head and the flicker of her eyes. He knew exactly where he stood with her in this exact moment, and it wasn’t because of his ability to intimidate, but because of her.

He said none of this, however.

“Did I ever thank you for giving me a place to stay?” he said instead.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’d kinda stopped expecting it.”

“Then thank you.”

A surprised tilt of the head. A funny half-smile on her lips. “You’re welcome?”

Suddenly Baron knew that if he were still human, he’d be blushing right about now. As things went, he couldn’t be sure his expression wasn’t betraying just as much anyway. He looked away again. “Well, I can see you’re managing just fine without me, so I’ll just be going--”

“Wait, wait, you’re still in trouble for stalking me here--”

His form began to shift, deliberately slow enough so that realisation could hit Haru before he dissolved into a swarm of bats.

“Hey! You can’t just turn into a bat and fly away when you don’t want to deal with things!” she snapped. “Baron!”

He grinned before his face vanished in a haze of wings and fur. “Watch me.”

#caylinnightengale #replies #in which I am being painfully historically inaccurate #apparently 'holiday' has been a word since 950 #but baron being ignorant is always fun #tbf i'm putting in about as much research into this as most YA vampire books do #so you can't fault me #the cat returns #cat writes #tcr ficlets #modern vampire au #you know how cats do that thing where they turn their back to you #if they're comfortable with you?#yeah that's baron here #the cat queues

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oneletteredwondered · 5 years ago

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Be Gone, Thot

Sum: Remus playing.. Matchmaker???

Warnings: High key disturbing imagery, sexual language, embarrassment, swearing, god what even is Remus, uh both Remus and Deceit are in this

Pairings: Roceit, Analogical, slight awkward Paternal Patton towards Remus

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or like that weird ringing in his head that never seems to go away, or maybe it really is that every time his brother is in the same room, Dee just, happens to show up. Remus isn’t stupid per say, out of the box and into a trash can perhaps, but he can see things and isn’t above asking questions.

“I thought you were going to do snake things like laying under a rock?” The question sounds innocent enough, but thinking of snake things like rocks and heating lamps and mice and Deceit’s mouth opening far to wide and the crunch of bones as he closes it around a still wriggling mouse isn’t the most unpleasant thing he’s ever thought of. He twitches in his spot while Deceit just sighs.

“It’s hard to relax when Roman is about, he’s so.. loud.” Deceit says it like he’s annoyed and exhausted by the antics, but Remus had seem them, smirks on their faces, a red tint to their cheeks as they threw insults back and forth. It makes his stomach churn.

“You want to fuck him,” Remus says plainly with a wide smile. Virgil can feel when people are afraid, lies ring back in Deceit’s head like an echo. Remus has a knack for knowing when someone wishes they weren’t thinking something, but also he can feel their sexual energies. Similar to the way Roman can feel people’s love, but way more physical.

The look on Deceit’s face though is priceless. His disgruntled expression drops to something like pure rage. Vaguely in the back of Remus’s mind he can feel that maybe he messed up with how angry Deceit is glaring at him. But he can’t focus on that too much as he can also feel Deceit’s thoughts rolling over his words, that inkling that he’s thinking something he doesn’t want to be. The fact that Remus is right.

Now of course how can Remus help it but gasp out into laughter. He’s barely making a noise with how hard he’s wheezing. It takes him a moment to collect himself and when he opens his mouth to say something he just bursts back into laughter. Deceit just looks so angry.

“Oh my god!” He manages to say. This is the best day of his life, this is the worst day. He wipes a tear from his eye openly ignoring the murderous snarl on Deceit’s face. Perhaps Deceit’s venom will curdle his blood one day, or maybe in ten minutes, depends on how fast Remus can run.

“I’mgunnatellhim,” Remus rushes out and sinks to the lighter side of the mind palace.

“REMUS.” The voice shakes the house but Remus is skirting down the hall, images of his blood splatter the walls with Deceit jaws wrapped around his throat dance in his head. Remus flat our crashes into Roman’s door. Naturally their rooms are connected by a different door, but the chase is so much fun like a serial killer on their camp prey. Remus doesn’t mind playing prey.

He crashes into Roman’s door and through it, leaving a Remus shaped hole in the wood. Roman jerks at the koolaid man like entrance, dropping his papers all over the floor in a confetti of thought. Remus manages to clamber to him, put his hands on Roman’s shoulder and smirk wildly into his face. And he wants to say something, blurt out all of Deceit’s secrets, and when he opens is mouth all he can do is start cackling.

He can feel the confusion and the wave of anxiety, the anger and the chaos that is following him. He’s clinging to Roman like a drunken man laughing out his mind as it oozes out of his ears. Maybe this is insanity, maybe Roman will take pity on him and finally snap his neck. Or at least kick him really hard.

“Rems?” Roman tries not very hard to hold Remus up, Remus is too wiggly for that really. There’s a thundering of multiple footsteps, people gathering at the broken doorway. Remus snaps up straight with an obnoxious inhaling. He grabs Roman’s face, squishing his cheeks between his hands. Maybe if he squeezes hard enough Roman’s insides with splurt out like playdoh. But that doesn’t happen.

“Roman!” Remus says with a manic looks in his eyes. Roman just stands there, knowing for a fact Remus needs to decide to leave on his own, there’s no forcing him away.

“You will not believe what I’m about to tell you~” There’s something delicious bubbling inside him, the thoughts of Deceit’s thinking of all the shit that can come out of Remus’s mouth in this moment. Maybe he should talk about butts.

“I’m sure there’s a chance I won’t,” Roman says plainly though his face scrunches up in thought.

“Listen, listen, Deceit wants to-” It’s painful the way his own hand slaps over his mouth muffling his words. He wants to scream and he does, the stifling feeling hindering his mind more than his mouth. It’s too bad that ultimate honest trumps trying to force something from happening. Remus rips his hand off his mouth, maybe pulling skin with it but what does that matter?

“Deceit wants to fuck you!” Remus manages to finally say. His mouth hurts from the insane smile on his face. They should know shouldn’t they? Then they can get on with their lives.

It’s dead silent at the confession he shouldn’t have been the one to make. Roman just stares at him. And that bubbly feeling comes back twice as much. There’s Deceit’s thoughts of how he can’t believe Remus actually said that, and Roman’s now too about how he doesn’t want to believe Remus. But Remus doesn’t lie, there’s no filter for that.

Remus moves his hands about, waiting for the rest of things to happen but no one does anything. He gestures behind him where Deceit is standing in the doorway, the snake’s yellow eye glowing. No matter the grand hand movements, nothing happens.

“That’s it?” He deadpans to them both. After all the trouble he just went through, this is what happens?

"Remus can I talk to you for a minute?” That’s Virgil’s voice, strained and panicked like nothing else. Remus glances around at everyone, a soft disappointed scoff escapes him as he drops his head back like a begrudging child. He shuffles his feet to the door following Virgil through his own wooden silhouette.

With a wave of a hand the door is fixed, Roman and Deceit on one side, Virgil and Remus on the other.

“What did you do dude?” Virgil asks simply. Remus twists his tunic in his hands. He twitches as he wonders what it would be like to eat shards if the door would taste like. Like wood probably.

“I just told Roman the truth,” Remus whines even more like a child. He wants to crawl into a hole, hide under a blanket, suffocate, or maybe jump from a high cliff. He scratches his head wildly.

“Dude you can’t just go spouting shit like that,” Virgil chides with a hand to his head. Remus swallows hard keeping down the metaphorical shit and perhaps literal shit that he want to throw up. It’s awkward for a moment until Remus gets a wave of energy from Roman’s side of the room.

“Oh! They’re finally getting it on! My work here is done!” Remus announces proudly. Gosh it was painful seeing the two of them pining and those stupid longing looks they would give each other. He shivers.

“Now what about you?” Remus turns a dark look towards Virgil, a thrill going through him seeing Virgil shiver despite his unimpressed expression.

“What about me?” Virgil says darkly, trying to skirt around Remus and back to his room. Remus smirks and follows like a stalking cat after a mouse. Oh he made it full circle.

“You~ Want to get dicked down by the Darwin dork~” Remus says. Virgil just sighs, turning to tell Remus to fuck off most likely, when Virgil’s face goes horrendously pale. Remus tilts his head to the side and looks over his shoulder too, a wicked smile crossing his face seeing Logan right there behind them having heard the whole conversation.

“Oh this is fun~” Remus giggles. Virgil glares at him and the shadows around him swirl dangerously.

“Fuck off Remus,” Virgil growls at him and Remus is giggling too hard to fight back. He lets himself falls backwards and uses the momentum to drop back to the dark side of the mind palace. His laughter rings out in the seemingly empty room. His insides are twisting like worms, unsure of what he did or what to do now.

“Hey there kiddo, you okay?” Remus stares up bug eyed at Patton leaning over him with a soft smile.

“What if you become one of us one day and Thomas decides to murder people?” Remus says without thinking, which is normal. Patton’s expression twitches but he still smiles.

“Then we’ll figure it out then,” Patton says softly. Exact opposite of what Deceit used to be towards them when he got in a parenting mood. Remus takes a shuddering breath.

“I made you some cookies on the counter, feel free okay?” And with that Patton is walking away from him. Remus sits up fast enough to make his head spin. Cookies for him? Never. Probably poisoned or even full of bugs. He might actually like that and he can’t say that Patton making those for him doesn’t feel nice.

Maybe he should meddle more in people’s lives if it gives him cookies.

#remus sanders #deceit sanders #roman sanders #roceit #analogical #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #fic #my post #what the fuck did i just write

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lune-hime · 6 years ago

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Tatted Up (Chocobros + Luna x f!Reader)

No Ragrets about my new tattoo

(I want to get a tattoo soooo bad)

~~~~

Noctis

“Y/N, you have something on your arm.” Prompto called as you walked towards your lawn chair.

“What?!” You squeaked and shook your left arm frantically checking for, six forbid, a spider and almost spilling your freshly brewed cup of ebony in the process.

“No, your other arm!” Prompto exclaimed, hopping up from his own chair. Wiping a hand on your upper arm to disperse whatever was on your skin, no matter how many times the boy brushed it the little brown smudge peeking from under your shirt sleeve just wouldn’t come off.

“That is some serious dirt, it’s really stuck on there.” He had now resorted to picking at the speck, causing a fit of giggles of erupt from your chest.

“Oh my god Prom you scared me.” You laughed, the shock of a potential insect chilling on your body quickly washing away. Your laughter only further confused the boy as he leaned in closer to your arm to see it better.

“What’s so funny?” He asked perplexed, blue eyes fixed intensely on the spot. You set your ebony down in the chair’s cupholder unable to hold in more giggles.

“One sec.” You said, holding up a finger and slipping away into the woods. A moment later you reappeared with Noctis in tow.

“Uh, hey Noct?” Prompto blinked.

Scarily in sync, both you and the prince suddenly rolled up the sleeves of your tee shirts revealing matching behemoth tattoos. Prompto’s jaw dropped and continued to drop as the two of you proceeded to squad pose in the middle of the campsite.

“Ugh, not again.” Gladiolus rubbed his temple, groaning. “They were doing this all day at the Citadel yesterday after they got them.”

“Wha- hey don’t encourage them!” He yelled as Prompto instantly went into photographer mode, snapping pictures from various angles.

An audible sigh could be heard from the grill, where Ignis stood pinching the bridge of his nose as he flipped the last hamburger.

Prompto

“You didn’t.” Your best friend gasped at the image on your wrist. The sleeveless cocktail dress left nothing to the imagination and any partygoer within a ten-foot radius would be able to catch a glimpse of the masterpiece on your skin. At this royal gala there was no uniform or jacket to cover the, one could say unique, image that was now a part of your body.

“Wait it looks less regrettable when we’re together.” You explained in defense, setting your champagne glass down after one final sip and pulling your friend by the arm. The two of you weaved through the sea of Insomnia’s elite until you reached the terrace. The iridescent fish in the large aquarium installment paled in comparison to what now adorned your wrist. They seemed to stare you down as you approached the now neatly combed mop of blonde hair that stood in front of the aquatic structure.

Not bothering to pull him away from his conversation with Gladiolus, you rolled the sleeve of his suit up just enough to expose the pale freckled skin of his wrist. Placing your arm next to his, your friend gasped. The images of two brightly colored chocobos stood squawking at each other from your arm to Prompto’s. Your chocobo sported the traditional yellow feathers, the same color as Prompto’s hair, while the one on his arm had a hue akin to your own locks.

The two of you gave your friend a cheesy smile, causing them to deadpan.

“You two really are perfect for each other.”

Ignis

Ignis’ foot would not stop tapping. The thudding of his dress shoe against his office floor echoed off the walls of the spacious room. He had been in this jittery state ever since you had left a few hours ago to get your tattoo. Not just any tattoo, however, but your first tattoo. He absolutely would have gone with you, but paperwork forbid him from leaving his office at the Citadel. Although there was nothing he could do about it, and you were very understanding, he still felt bad. This was your first tattoo after all and as your boyfriend naturally he wanted to be there for all the big milestones in your life. He was a bit worried for you at first, as you got anxious anytime a needle was anywhere near you. Yet when you had reassured him that you would be fine and that a close friend of yours would be going with you, he relaxed a little. That is, until you disclosed which close friend was tagging along for moral support.

“Don’t worry about me Iggy, Nyxie is coming with!”

When you had told him this Ignis didn’t realize it, but he was squeezing the pen in his hand with a little too much force. He had always felt a little envious of your relationship with the member of the Kingsglaive; as the two of you had been friends since you were younger. He felt stupid for feeling this way and he knew your relationship with him was completely platonic, but your closeness to the confident and charming man brought out Ignis’ insecurities. It wouldn’t have bothered him so much if it was another friend, but as Ignis sifted through the mountains of paperwork he could feel the green-eyed monster slowly possessing his body. And Ignis didn’t get jealous; it was a tedious emotion that wasn’t worth wasting time on. He also didn’t usually have the particular urge to punch anyone, but at the moment Nyx Ulric had a very punchable face.

So, when you burst into his office later that afternoon he expected Nyxie to be with you too but was pleasantly surprised when you were alone.

“Iggy I’m back!” You bounced in through one of the large double doors, plastic wrap around the reddened skin of your lower arm. Seeing the happiness on your face instantly brightened his mood and the intrusive thoughts that had previously preoccupied his brain began to fade away. Swiveling in his office chair, he found you beaming at him from the other side of his desk. Your smile was contagious, and soon a grin began to spread across his face as well at the sight of you.

“Hello love, how did it go?” Ignis’ eyes fell to the plastic wrap; a movement not undetected by you as you quickly placed your arms behind your back before he could catch a glimpse of it.

“It went really well! Painful as hell, but it turned out exactly how I wanted it.” You replied, excitedly shifting on your feet.

“I’m sure it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, you once sat three hours with a killer wasp stinger in your leg.” Ignis praised, resting his elbows on his desk as he leaned in closer to you. You both grimaced at the memory, but you quickly waved it away.

“Nyx called me lame for flinching a couple times, but other than that it didn’t hurt that bad. I made sure to squeeze his hand extra hard when it did sting though to get him back.” You huffed. Ignis bit his bottom lip as the unwanted feelings of jealousy washed over him once more. That hand you had been suffocating should have been his.

“So, am I going to get to see it?” He blurted out, sounding a bit sourer than he intended. Your eyes widened slightly and a playful smirk danced across your features as you realized his current mood. Adjusting your posture so you stood up straight, you whisked your arms out from behind your back and held them out in front of you.

“Tada! Isn’t it cute?” You squealed happily. Ignis tilted his head to the side as he viewed the tattoo. Sitting on your forearm was a simple, small cup of ebony with delicate lines of steam emerging from the top of the mug. Before he got the chance to comment on it you cleared your throat and spoke, voice soft.

“It combines my two loves; coffee and you.” You cooed, smiling lovingly down at your arm. Who knew something so small could make Ignis’ heart swell so much. Whatever grudges and doubts Ignis had felt earlier had been disproven by the little design. The way you regarded the image with such affection gave him butterflies.

Before you knew it, you were engulfed by a pair of strong arms and assaulted with kisses all over your face. Giggling, you wiggled in his tight hold to look up at him.

“So I’m guessing you like it?” You smiled, craning your neck to meet his gaze.

“Like it? I find it absolutely stunning. I love it, and I love you.”

Sighing contently, you snuggled closer into his broad chest. For a while you two stayed like that, relishing in the warm of each other’s embraces. After a few moments you spoke up, voice muffled by the hug.

“You know, I didn’t take you for the jealous type Iggy.”

“I don’t get jealous, darling.”

Gladiolus

“Wow sis it looks so cool!” Iris gawked at your new tattoo. You leaned into your chair at the café as she traced her fingers lightly over the patterns, offering a giggle from you whenever she hit the ticklish spot on your shoulder. Since you had last seen the younger girl you had gotten a floral tattoo on the back of your left shoulder and she could not stop fussing over it, calling you “so much more badass than Gladdy now”.

The two of you had had a girl’s day out shopping in the city; which included getting matching moogle plushies and much more clothing than what was practical. You were thankful to spend some one on one time with the little Amicitia, not only because you loved Iris but because you needed some more estrogen in your life after spending nearly every day with four college aged boys.

The two of you were currently unwinding from your busy day at a café that had a beautiful view of the Disc of Cauthess while you waited for the boys to get back from a hunt nearby. You hummed happily, resting your head and arms on the back of the iron chair, enjoying the view while Iris continued to trace the lines of your tattoo.

“You guys look like you had a fun day.” A husky voice called behind you. The rest of your squad had noisily made their way up the stairs, getting dirty looks from the other patrons as their post-hunt adrenaline disturbed the previously peaceful chatter that surrounded the rooftop. Gladiolus made his way over to the two of you; ruffling his sister’s hair before briefly cupping your cheek, rubbing it a few times as you leaned into his touch.

Gladio gestured to the plethora of bags, pursing his lips when his gazed reached the giant moogle struggling to fit into the paper bag. He looked to you and Iris with a raised eyebrow.

“This is Barnaby. He’s our son.” You said with a straight face, patting the stuffed creature on the head.

“Hopefully our future kids don’t look as ugly as him.” Gladiolus huffed. You returned his bemused grin with sticking out your tongue.

“Hey, Gladdy have you seen your girlfriend’s beautiful tattoo?” Iris piped up, still preoccupied with the design.

“Of course, I have. I’ve seen her other one too.” He replied nonchalantly.

Iris furrowed her eyebrows and wiggled in the chair, scanning every inch of visible skin on your body.

“I don’t see another one.”

“Exactly.”

You choked on your sip of iced coffee and Iris visibly gagged.

“I think I need to go rinse my ears out with bleach.”

Lunafreya

“Sister is that a tattoo?” Ravus questioned, as he entered the parlor room. The two had just finished with a busy day filled with politics and official oracle business. It wasn’t often he had the chance to see his sibling; always caught between military excursions and confidential dealings. It was these rare times that he got to spend with her, although he would never admit it, that he valued most.

Lunafreya jumped at the sudden inquiry, causing Pryna to jolt awake from her spot next to the oracle on the large sofa.

“O-oh yeah, I got it about a week ago.” She replied, laughing nervously. The question had caught her off guard and she already felt the heat beginning to rise to her face.

Ravus cocked an eyebrow at her peculiar behavior. What kind of tattoo could make her so flustered?

As he drew nearer to where she rested he could see the image just below her collarbone more clearly. It was a detailed little drawing of a crescent moon with several stars surrounding it. Ravus noted its artistic quality; it was quite tasteful and not overly flashy.

“It’s one of Y/N’s drawings.” Luna explained, a soft smile rising on her features at the thought of you. She rose from her spot on the couch, with a whine of protest from the sleepy pup beside her, and made her way over to where her brother stood in front of the entrance to the balcony. The floor to ceiling windows blanketed the room in the warm mid-afternoon light. The natural lighting made the image stand out against Lunafreya’s pale skin and got caught in her hair, turning it an ethereal silver. Taking inher appearance he thought the little image complimented her well.

“It makes it seem likes she’s less far away whenever she goes back to Insomnia.” She explained, turning her head to the side to look out upon the lively landscape of Tenebrae.

“Does it hold any special meaning?” Ravus asked, causing her gaze to slowly tear from the window to meet his own. He noted the redness of her cheeks as she spoke.

“Well, she always calls me her moon and I call her my stars.” Luna’s blush grew tenfold as she told him your nicknames for each other. She then smiled, placing her hand over the design and rubbing loving circles over it.

“Heh, it sounds so silly saying it to you.” She said awkwardly, flustered as if you were still her middle school crush.

The smallest of smiles graced Ravus’ face and he placed a hand on her shoulder just above the tattoo, rubbing his thumb along the exposed skin.

“I think It suits you.” He praised. The grin that adorned his sister’s delicate features widened at his remark and she beamed up at him.

There was no doubt Ravus had mixed feelings about Insomnia, its royal family, and its guard. But he was positive that the one good thing that came out of that city was you; for you made the only reason he had left to smile, smile too.

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crashdevlin · 6 years ago

Text

Zed Word-10: Love. Actually.

Zed Word Masterlist

Author’s Note: Originally posted to ao3. This was inspired by a series of tweets between Jeffery Dean Morgan and Jensen Ackles…. Sam and Dean never found John, but everything went the same way anyway until Season 5. Adam never said ‘yes’ to Michael. The fight at Stull Cemetery never happened but Lucifer (jumping from vessel to vessel ‘cause Sam wouldn’t say ‘yes’) and Pestilence managed to infect everyone with Croatoan, turning everyone into zombies when they die. The boys have traveled the apocalyptic landscape killing zombies and saving people ever since. JOHN IS NEGAN!!!

Summary: Reader has been living in Alexandria since Daryl saved her life. When she ventures out of town for the first time in months, Sam and Dean save her life and she takes them back to Alexandria, a town on edge since Negan showed up. Dean takes an instant interest in the woman, and when Negan shows up again, he does, too.

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Negan (John Winchester) x Reader

Story Warnings: Kidnapping, torture, Non-con/dub-con, unprotected sex of a forced nature, pregnancy, mentions of abortion, PTSD, *THIS IS A DARK FIC*

Chapter Warnings: manipulation, pregnancy stuff, tainted food, oral (fem and male rec), unprotected sex, noncon/dubcon, 18+ HERE BE SEX, DO NOT READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!

You stood awkwardly behind the men as Sam opened the box, sliding the pieces of wood to reveal a large, old key. Exactly how you'd dreamed it. Every matching image from your dream made your stomach feel a little sicker. The house, the key, the door on the river... there would be a spiral staircase on the other side, leading into a room with a light-up table with a map on it. Computer banks would line the walls of the first room, but they'd give way to an open library full of lore and magic books. Dean would find the power switch and everyone would go exploring.

Sam swung the door open and took a cautious step over the threshold, pistol in one hand, machete in the other. John followed, then Dean. Chuck shot an apologetic look at you before stepping over the threshold and you felt like you were glued to the ground. Panic rising in your chest, you considered running again. If you ran, the dream couldn't be real. If you ran, though, Lucifer might get his hands on both babies and you couldn't risk that. It needed to be done. God chose you to... God chose your children to get this over with.

You took a deep breath and forced your legs to move, carrying you into the bunker as Dean found the power switch and the lights came on. John quickly came up and closed the door behind you as your eyes fell on the exact images from your dream. "Oh, God." fell from your lips.

"All right. Sam, Dean, spread out, check for zombies. Prophet, keep an eye on our girl." John ordered. He said it like it was your safety on his mind, but you read it for what it meant. 'Don't let her run.'

The Winchesters descended the staircase and disappeared. They wouldn't find anything. You sat on the top stair and hung your head. Chuck sat next to you and folded his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry."

"The dream... it's all real. It's all real, isn't it?" You didn't look at him as tears started to gather at the corners of your eyes.

"Probably. Yeah." He answered, softly.

"Why would I do that? Why would I let him... why would I put that ring on? I have to be missing something."

"The visions are like that, sometimes. Sometimes there's big chunks of important information missing. Like, one time, I saw Sam in bed with this demon, Lilith, but I didn't see that he had the demon-killer knife under the pillow. And I didn't see that Sam killing Lilith would let Lucifer out of his Cage. I didn't see the twins." He finished, softly.

You looked over at him, finding comfort in his blue eyes. "Why me?" You whispered. You weren't sure why, but you honestly felt he had that answer.

He put his hand on your back, running his thumb across your coat. "Because John picked you." He sighed. "He's got Sherry and he's got that group back at the Sanctuary, but... once he... after he had you... y/n, you know how obsessed with Mary he is. He's replaced her in his heart, after 30 years, with you."

"But I don't want that."

"Mary didn't, either. Not at first. The angels interfered." Chuck's face showed volumes of pity. "The Cupids are gone, so you couldn't be forced to fall in love with him, so you just..."

"Had to be forced. Right." You leaned your head against his shoulder. "So, God must hate me, right?"

"Nah. I don't think so. I think... he probably admires your strength and intelligence. I think he's probably happy John picked a woman who sees the big picture, who's strong enough to put her stuff away and do what needs to be done. What Sam and Dean couldn't do."

"Place is clean." John's voice made you tense, but Chuck slipped his arm around you, comfortingly, before helping you stand. John's eyes narrowed at the contact between you and the prophet, but he turned and headed for the hallway you knew led to the bedrooms. "This one's yours." He opened the door with a '12' on it. "You get one of the ones in the cross hall." He spat at Chuck.

Chuck patted your arm and you slipped into room 12, slamming the door behind you. You looked in the mirror over the sink next to the door and sighed. You looked like shit. Your eyes were sunken and you were obviously dehydrated. Your face was sunburned, your skin was dry and your hair was stringy and oily. You needed a shower and a meal and... the apocalypse to be over. You needed the Winchesters to go the fuck away. All of them. Sam seemed okay, but you were certain that was only because he wasn't trying to or failing to fuck you.

You collected all of your clothes from your bag and headed down the hall to the shower room. You locked the door behind you and took a nice hot shower with the best water pressure you'd ever experienced. You wrapped yourself in an thick, old robe and tied the sash in a double knot, before picking up all of your clothes and heading to the laundry room. You put your clothes into the old Bendix washing machine and poured some detergent powder in on top of them. You started the machine and ran for your bedroom, locking the door behind you. The woman in the mirror looked like you again, but you were definitely in need of some water, so you filled a cup that was sitting on the sink and sat on the bed to drink your water in your comfy robe.

Your stomach was starting to growl when a knock came to your door. "Go away."

"Thought you might be hungry. It's been a while since you ate. You want some chicken noodle?" John's voice was barely muffled by the hard wood door.

Your stomach spoke for you, rumbling at the thought of food. You stood, double-checking yourself in the mirror to make sure the robe was completely covering you before opening the door. His eyes roamed over your body, like he was imagining what's under that robe. He smiled and offered you the bowl. You took it in both hands and sat on the bed, pushing the robe down your legs and putting the bowl in your lap. You took a bite of the soup and smiled. It was warm. Actual real warm soup was something you hadn't experienced in a long while. "Thanks, John."

John shut the door behind him and looked down at you, a soft smile on his face. "No problem. Thanks for accepting it. After how I acted the other night, I was afraid you'd throw it in my face."

"Too hungry to waste good food like that." You responded, pulling another spoonful of soup to your lips.

"I wanted to apologize for that. You know, I knew I went too far as soon as I walked away. I don't want you scared of me, Y/n." He said, sitting down on the edge of your bed. You chose to ignore his proximity by shoveling more soup into your mouth. "I want you to love me. I want you to be mine and no one else's, y/n, and I know that's a stupid thought now and I wish I hadn't treated the way I did. I was so afraid I'd ruined any chance I had of making you my wife, all because I called you 'Muffy' and made you get a little too intimate with Lucille." You shivered at the memory and swallowed another mouthful of soup. "But then, Chuck gave me an idea. See, my beautiful Mary, she had to be persuaded to love me. A Cupid got her, shot her with some Enochian spell to make her fall head over heels for me."

You looked up, your eyebrows coming together in confusion. His smirk was enough to make you nauseated. "You really shouldn't accept food from a crazy, controlling sociopath. He might have dosed it with love potion." You threw the bowl off of your lap and it crashed to the floor, splashing the bed frame with pieces of chicken and veggies. "These Men of Letters, they had so many books, so many spells. It took me half an hour to find the components for that spell. Can you imagine? It took me years just to find the proper sigils to protect the Sanctuary. I not only found the spell, but the pieces I needed to put it together in this bunker, in less than an hour. This really is a dream come true."

"You poisoned me?!"

"Shh." He ran his hand down your arm and it sent a confused fog to your brain. "In a couple minutes, it won't matter. You'll be in love."

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. "No." You said, weakly, trying to get off of your bed. He grabbed your arms and pulled you back onto the bed. You grabbed onto his white tee and tried to not look at him, but after a moment you blinked up at him. Your fingers relaxed and your hands came to rub across his chest. "John." You breathed out.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He asked, his smirk making his eyes sparkle.

"I'm so sorry I ever doubted your love. I can feel it, now." You stared into his eyes, completely sure of the mutual love in your hearts. "I love you, too, John."

"Of course, you do. How about you show me just how much you love me, baby girl?" He suggested, pushing your hands down to the button of his jeans.

"Anything for you, John." You responded, wistfully, leaning forward to catch his lips while you popped the button and pulled his zipper down. "I wanna make up for all the horrible things I said about you, the terrible way I treated you." You mumbled against his lips as he leaned back to lie on the bed, taking you with him to lie on top of him. "I want to make you feel so good to make up for how bad you must've felt hearing me say all those-"

"Sweetheart, shut up and suck my cock." He whispered, amused. He shimmied his jeans down his legs.

"Of course." You grabbed his dick, almost immediately hard in your hand and ran your hand up and down it in exactly the way he'd taught you. You leaned forward and swiped your tongue across the head. He grunted and his hand buried in your hair, but you didn't let him push your head down. You brought your lips to his cockhead, placing kisses down his length until you got to the nest of hair at the base before twisting to place those kisses on his balls. You licked from the base to his head and dipped your tongue into the divot where precum was already starting to gather. "Have I ever told you how much I love your cock, John? It's so perfect, so nice, so big." You praised, before taking him in your mouth until he hit the back of your throat. You pumped the base of his dick as you bobbed your head up and down, nipping slightly at his frenulum every time you came up to the head.

"Oh, sweetheart, you are gorgeous. Swallowing my cock so pretty. I'm gonna fuck you 'til you can't move." He grunted. You moaned as he pushed you backward onto the mattress and easily pulled the knot out of the sash on your robe. He pulled your robe open and stared down at your body. "Oh, y/n. I fuckin' love your body." He ran his hand across your belly, the bump already becoming prominent with the twin boys inside your womb. "I want you to scream for me. Can you do that, sweetheart? I want you to scream my name. I want them to know who you love."

"Okay." You breathed out as his head dropped between your legs. He didn't go slow, no licking and nibbling his way to the place you needed him most. He rammed his tongue into your entrance, his nose rubbing against your clit as his hand came up under your ass to push your groin into his face. "Oh, fuck! Oh, John. More." John smirked as he pulled back enough to look up into your face, before sucking your clit between his lips and sucking on it, hard. "Ah!"

He crawled up your body and looked down into your eyes, his cock pulsing against your lips. "I love you, y/n." He whispered, cupping your face in his right hand before kissing you deeply. You grabbed at his shoulders and wrapped your legs around him. He reached between you and lined his cock up, sinking into you with ease. His head dropped to the crook of your neck and he groaned, licking at your skin. "God, I missed you. Those beautiful tits, your amazing strong tight pussy... do that thing I like." He ordered, nibbling at your shoulder.

You clenched your vaginal muscles, making him groan. He held tight to you as he pulled almost all of the way out and then began to push back into you, pushing an inch or two in, then pulling out and pushing in even further. You threw your head back as he bottomed out. It'd been months since he was inside you and you felt a little breathless at finally having the man you loved where he belonged again. "Remember, sweetheart. Loud as you can, let my sons and the prophet know exactly who you love."

You nodded and he grabbed your shoulder as he began to thrust into you. "Oh, my god! John! God, yes! Oh, god!" You screamed. Normally, you weren't so vocal, but that's what your love wanted from you, so you screamed and moaned like a porn star as he picked up his speed and fucked you hard. He moved his left hand between you and used his thumb to rub your clit to orgasm as he came deep inside of you. You fell over the ledge right after him, screaming as loud as you could.

He pulled out and kissed you, softly, before jumping up off of the bed. "Let me go check on your clothes, okay, babe? Why don't you clean yourself up? And, uh, that soup you dropped."

"Yeah." You said, sitting up and pulling the robe back around yourself.

"Hey, y/n?" He stopped at the door. You looked over at him. "I love you."

"I love you, too, John." You smiled, happily as he slipped out the door, quickly closing it behind him.

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

John shut the door and turned around to see Dean leaning against the wall across from the door. His arms were crossed over his chest and there was a deep scowl on his face. He straightened when he saw his father. "What the fuck?!"

"What?" John started, innocently, before throwing a look at the bedroom. "Oh. We made up."

Dean pushed away from the wall. "You made up? From you kidnapping and raping her? You made up from treating her like a fucking dog?"

Dean moved to open the door, but John put his hand up to stop him. "I told you, Dean. It's all about how you treat her and... you didn't treat her right. Didn't treat her like the strong, beautiful woman she is."

"Move out of the way. Let me talk to her."

"Of course, Dean. I was just trying to save you from some disappointment." John feigned an earnest expression as he moved out of the way and Dean moved to knock on door number 12. He walked down the hall toward the laundry room with a smirk on his face.

Dean glared at his father's back as he walked down the hallway. He didn't knock on the door, just opened it and walked in. "Y/n?"

She was on the floor, cleaning up a spilled bowl of soup with the sash of her robe. She looked up. "Oh, Dean. I thought... thought you were John."

Dean's eyebrows came together as she smiled up at him, holding her robe closed with her left hand. "Are-are you okay? I mean, you-"

"I know what you're gonna say." She stood, looking a bit embarrassed. "I'm usually not that loud, you know, but John wanted me to vocalize. I think it's a dominance thing."

"A..." Dean shook his head. "What... what's goin' on?"

"I think he just wanted to make sure everyone knew that we were... together, you know?"

"But why are you together? I'm sorry. I'm just so... confused, here."

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, pity in her eyes as she gave a tight smile. "Dean... your father loves me."

"He tortured you."

"He had to. His men are terrible, okay? They would have seen how he feels about me and they would have done so much worse to me. He saved me. Because he loves me. We're in love, Dean."

"But you weren't this morning." Dean growled.

She nodded in understanding. "I get what this is about. You're jealous."

"What?! No, I'm not jea-"

"You had your chance, Dean. You're the one who said 'pineapple'."

"This isn't about that! He's horrible! What the hell has he done to you?"

She shook her head. "He hasn't done anything to me. I just... realized, you know?"

"You just realized?" Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Right. Yesterday you hated him, but today you realized you love him? That doesn't seem wonky to you?"

She shrugged. "No. Not really." She dropped back down to clean up the soup. "Oh! So, I was thinking that maybe you and Sam could go to Alexandria and pick up everybody, bring them back here where it's safe."

Dean leaned against the sink. "That's not gonna happen."

"Well, I know it's not ideal. I mean, maybe you don't bring the whole town, but definitely Daryl and Michonne and Maggie. I mean, she's gonna want somewhere safe for baby Rhee and I guess Rick would have to come if Judith and Carl were gonna come. Rosita would be nice for Sam to have some fun with, but..."

"That's not the problem. Negan killed their people. They're not just gonna get over that and live with him in harmony." Dean looked down at her as she scooped soup in her hands and dropped it into the bowl.

"Well, they'll have to get over that. He's the father of my children and I love him. If they care about me, they'll get over it." She looked up at him from the floor and gave a pointed look. "Everyone who cares about me should get over this."

"If they care about you, they won't want you being controlled by a psycho like him." Dean shook his head, stepping away from the sink. "I'm gonna find out what he did to you."

Y/n sighed, wiping up the rest of the soup with the edge of her robe, before standing and dropping the bowl in the sink. "He didn't do anything, Dean."

"Yes, he did. Whatever it is, you can't see it, but I know-"

"She said I didn't do anything, son. You callin' her a liar, or just stupid?" John opened the door and walked in. "Your clothes are in the dryer, baby. You're gonna be stuck in that robe for another hour, or so." He moved to stand in front of her, grasping the edges of her robe. "Wonder how we could kill an hour."

"John!" She squealed and giggled as he pushed her into the wall and attacked her neck with his mouth. "John, Dean's right there!"

"He can watch, if he wants." John whispered as he reached down to grab her legs and hitch them around his waist. "Long as he keeps his distance."

The bedroom door slammed as Dean fled the room in a rage. He stomped down the hallway to Chuck's room, which was open. "Explain that!" He demanded, pointing in the direction of y/n's room.

Chuck shook his head. "I don't have all the answers, man! I don't know how to explain that."

"Okay." Dean closed the door behind him. "Then, tell me what she was so upset about yesterday. What about the dream was she freakin' out about?"

Chuck sighed and looked down. "This... and the ring."

"The what?"

"He's gonna ask her to marry him. She's gonna say 'yes' and she's gonna... John's been carrying around Mary's wedding ring for thirty years."

"No." Dean's face fell. "He's not gonna give her my mother's ring. She wouldn't accept that." He began to pace the small room. "Especially if she was so worried about it yesterday. He had to have done something to her. Blackmail? Cursed item? Love spell?"

"I don't know, but I mean, John's not a witch."

"But you agree that isn't natural?" Dean turned to him.

"I... agree it's weird. But, you know, maybe she just had a change of heart. Women are prone to change their minds, right?"

"Chuck... don't be an idjit. Women don't change their minds like that." He pointed toward her room again. "They don't fall in love with a guy who raped them and treated them like a dog for almost a month."

"Stockholm Syndrome?"

"No." Dean shot down that idea immediately. "She's been out of his influence for-"

"Yeah, but... John can protect her."

"I can protect her." Dean argued.

"But you can't make her feel whole." Chuck answered, bending down to pull a notebook out of his bag. "Okay, I have an answer on this one." He flipped the book open and flipped to the back.

"Chuck, I don't wanna read your stupid-"

"Pick up the book and read, Dean."

Dean sighed, loudly, and picked up the notebook.

She remembered watching the zombie as it tried to crawl away. It was a perfect metaphor for her. No longer human. No longer whole. Just there, plugging forward, responding to outside stimulus but nothing else. Dean said he loved her and he dearly wanted to, she could tell, but he couldn't love her. The only one who wanted her, as is (pregnant, broken, conditioned to be the way John wanted her) was John. He swore he was in love with her, too, and somehow it was more believable from him. Of course, he only loved her the way he made her, but he was probably the only one who would ever love her. Dean couldn't love her. Dean had said 'pineapple', he'd never be able to look past her conditioning, her training. So, her options were wait and then run where she would be alone, (which she hated), stay with Dean and be content never knowing his touch, or let John have her again. Bow to what he made of her and how he made her body feel.

"What the hell is this, Chuck? Are you tryin' to tell me it's my fault she's in bed with him?"

"I'm tryin' to tell you that she's... I don't know, Dean, that she... has needs? I mean, you know... You fucked up. You knew you fucked up as soon as it happened. Maybe she just... chose the option that was easiest. All of her needs can be met this way, and the babies' needs."

Dean shook his head. He refused to believe that. "No. No, he did something. This isn't..." He threw the notebook on Chuck's bed. "I'm gonna figure it out." He pulled the door open and stomped down the hall toward his own room.

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