#real ass survival horror hours

[tachimichishrine]

Please I am begging, I can’t get over just how perfect Tachihara would be with the whole ghost face trend. Please please please

<what. what if I told you I wholeheartedly agree. throws my headcanons and love at you>

"scream for me"

⫭◦⨝◦⫬

tachihara michizou x fem! reader {ghostface trend} hcs

warnings: nsfw ; kitchen sex ; knife play ; intended lowercase ; cursing; unedited so unedited i wrote this half asleep thinking abt being pussy drunk on tachi pls forgive me

manz is a SPY. he's done undercover work and wears a disguise 24/7 (his disguise is a goddamn bandaid but he's hot so we let it slide) he adores getting dressed up

I think he'd be really bad at taking it serious though

100% he gets very childish about things like birthdays, holidays, halloween bc he didn't get that kind of experience with his family when he was younger (womp womp :/)

the hunting dogs obviously don't have anything to do with halloween so imagine his surprise when he caught the port mafia hq covered in spider webs and blood.

the blood was likely real

elise was the one who insisted on it, and if she insists, everyone is wearing cat ears and fake vampire fangs.

chuuya was a vampire the dude definitely had practice

he was definitely in the spooky scary spirit when he had his head on your lap, one hand sliding under and up between your thighs like a pillow and watching scream

i KNOW he felt just the teeny tiniest insecurity when you started calling certain scenes really hot but he tried, really hard, to ignore it.

got a little too comfortable and sleepy when you starting running your fingers through his hair and found himself letting out a yelp at the stupidest jumpscares

you teased him for it all night

"do you think I'd survive in one of those horror movies?" you asked later that night, curled up in bed.

"your dumbass would probably trip and kill yourself on a kitchen knife while making breakfast."

"well, fuck you."

"only if you insist" said with his trademark grin.

you got him back by playing into his jumpiness and hiding around every corner, even when you're on missions

you sprung out with a dramatic ghost-like scream (holding back laughter) on one important mission and the man almost shot you

like he pulled the trigger and everything and had to use his ability to keep the bullet from drilling a hole in your stupid skull.

you toned down the pranks after that.

however, it did give him an idea.

he started using his ability to set up the mood for payback by making metal doors creak or scraping chair legs on the ground slowly

a chill physically ran up your spine when you were walking hand in hand and the front door of an empty "for sale" store slammed open, then shut.

maybe he liked it a little how you squeezed his hand when he did that

maybe he liked it a little when you punched him on the shoulder as you realized it was just his antics

but he sure as hell liked it when you roughly smacked his naked ass and shoved his face into the sheets later that night to teach him a lesson

you liked his screams more like that anyways

tachihara was nowhere to be found after you disappeared into the shower trying to wash off all the smeared cum he'd left on your body. you already thought it was strange that he didn't join you even when you offered, but it was even weirder when you came out in nothing but a towel, and the bed was empty.

"michi, I know you're tryin' to be cute or whatever and scare me, but you're not very subtle about it," you giggled, ditching the underwear to just put on some shorts and one of his shirts. your body bounced onto the mattress that was still warm from your bodies, still smelling like sex and gunpowder. the covers were thrown over you and snuggled into and you waited patiently.

it was amusing, at first.

it was annoying after 10 minutes.

you'd gone on your phone, scrolling listlessly to pass the time while you waited for him to finish up whatever stupid prank he was planning so you could get back to sleep, but a whole half hour had passed and it was beginning to feel a little wrong. you weren't worried (he kicked your ass in training too many times for you not to know how strong he was), but sure as hell curious as to what was going on. it was the spooky season, after all, and there was no harm in indulging a little bit; you dialed his number and heard it ring from somewhere in the apartment.

he was really trying to set it up for you, huh? cute. you figured you'd play along.

the phone was vibrating from the kitchen counter, and you picked it cautiously, glancing around you to find out from where your boyfriend was inevitably going to try to jump at you. you heard a chair move, and your eyes darted to look over in that direction out of instinct.

of course a hand clasped around your mouth and another pulled your waist backwards. you bit his gloved hand playfully to get him to let you go and just giggled, shoving your hips back onto him teasingly and trying to flip around to get a look at him.

your entire body got slammed onto the kitchen counter, hair pulled back in one harsh movement

oh fuck.

you didn't think you'd be bent over so fast, his hips already grinding into your ass while the thin, cheap plastic of his mask rubbed against your cheek, his husky voice laying out every lewd thing you both knew you were thinking. from the way his body was leaning onto you, you guessed that he was shirtless and wearing just about the tightest, low-cut pants known to man being held up by a belt (there was definitely a thick belt; you felt the buckle poke into your lower back every time he'd grind too hard)

"michzou..." you didn't have any problems with what he was doing, but loose fingers were touching your body all over and the thin shorts you'd thrown on previously without a second thought were soaking with every word he'd rasp out. "michi, stop playin' around, I-"

it seems your simple ask got you manhandled again, and both gloved hands were now on your thighs, lifting you up to sit you down on the counter so he could rub against you from the front. it was hard to take it seriously and you let out a giggle when you watched him loom over you with the ghostface mask on, trying to be serious. your fingers went to dig into his shoulders as your hips rolled, back arched trying to feel him better.

he sighed, groaning and trying to slip off the mask when he realized it wasn't having the effect he wanted, but you flicked it back on.

"just because I'm laughing doesn't mean I don't think this is fuckin' hot," you reassured him, ironically chuckling again, and this spurred him to grab your hands and pin them above your head on the cabinets above.

"can't believe you liked gettin' fucked by a masked man this much." his voice was deeper than it usually was but god did it get you throbbing. your legs wrapped around his hips, trying to regain control without your hands.

you quipped back with a sly grin. "would be better if you actually fucked me."

shit, you knew just what to say to get him riled up. he let your hands go to pull off your useless shorts which already had splotches of your arousal, and you seized the opportunity to unbuckle his belt, slide your fist into his pants and pull him out.

getting fucked senseless by your masked boyfriend on the kitchen counter at 3 in the morning was not on your schedule for halloween.

"you know," you mused, your pace slowing once the build up had passed but still rocking yourself on him, "usually the victims try to fight back."

"the fuck does that me-"

the cold metal of a knife poked and teased the exposed skin on his neck, and you felt a little irritated you couldn't see his shock through the mask. "c'mon, you've had your fun, baby, it's my turn."

he wanted to play the part, he really did, but before he could try to resist you had him gently sliced into streaks of red, teeth marks coating his body and his tongue gagging on blood-stained fingers from under the mask. your legs were still secured around his hips, fucking into him slowly and deeply, and every guttural groan that echoed out in the hollow apartment was good enough to keep you going while his body tensed up with rigid muscles and heavy breaths.

he couldn't take it anymore once the searing sting of you smearing his blood on his skin mixed in with the pleasure of dragging against your tightly clenched walls, and he murmured a curse before discarding the mask, messily kissing you with groaning lips buried into your neck once he finally got enough air to pant your name.

ah, the dumbass. he really tried to get you to play along but it was hard when you had him under your thumb. maybe next year, he'd try again.

[toothpuulp]

joe bob on men, women, and chain saws -- possibly my favorite book review ever. love his ass <33

transcript under the cut

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 12/18/92

cutline: Berkeley professor Carol Clover, author of "Men, Women and Chain Saws," may be the first person with a Ph.D. ever to watch 200 slasher flicks BY CHOICE.

By Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

For about ten years now, I've been getting flack from various organizations of feminists, fundamentalists, mad mamas and psycho college professors, claiming that the movies I write about--that is, the three B's, Blood, Breasts and Beasts--are sick and demeaning and twisted and perverted.

Of COURSE they are. Why do you think I watch em?

But there's other stuff they say that is NOT true. For example:

1. Slasher movies are demeaning because they celebrate violence against women.

I never understood this one, because I never noticed a single movie in which more women were killed than men, AND in 99 per cent of them, the ONLY person who survives is a woman.

2. Hard-core horror flicks cause crime.

If this is true, the Tarrant County Sheriff's Department should have a posse stationed outside my trailer house 24 hours a day, because NOBODY has watched more hard-core horror flicks than I have. Any day now I could go off the deep end and start flinging hatchets at old ladies.

3. Horror flicks are a way for rednecks (like me) to act out weird violent fantasies.

In other words, all of us out here in the boonies are like the cannibal family in "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." We really WOULD like to be munching on tourists. Otherwise, why would we laugh and hoot at the screen when Leatherface's family does it?

Anyhoo, I've talked till I'm blue in the face about this stuff. I've gone to seminars, challenged the president of the National Organization of Women to a nude mud-wrestling match, faced off against that shrewd fundamentalist, Dr. Thomas Radecki, head of the National Coalition Against TV Violence. But nobody ever listens, because it's "just Joe Bob."

In other words, I'm too pitiful.

So I wanna say something here, and I want you to listen REAL carefully. I'm about to tell you about a book written by a Berkeley professor. This is hard for me. Large parts of my identity depend on HATING everything that comes out of Berkeley. But I like this book so much that I almost don't even wanna review it, because what if everybody says "Oh, don't read THAT. JOE BOB LIKES IT!"

But it gets lonely out here. So here goes.

"Men, Women and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film" is written by Carol J. Clover, Professor of Scandinavian and Comparative Literature at the University of California at Berkeley.

Whew! I'm already exhausted. Carol, next time, when you write a book, study titles like "Jaws" and "It." It's easier on all of us.

Anyhow, I'm not gonna try to analyze this whole book, because a lot of it, frankly, is over my head. (You scoff?) But it's basically about three kinds of flicks--slasher movies, possession films like "The Exorcist," and rape-revenge films like "I Spit On Your Grave." In fact, I'm pretty sure this is the first serious book in the history of the world to do a complete analysis of the PLOT of "I Spit On Your Grave."

But, from my selfish point of view, I want you to know a few things Professor Carol decided after watching about 200 of these movies:

1. Slasher movies are told FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE WOMAN! In fact, the "Final Girl"--or, as I call her, the Jamie Lee Curtis Girl--is so much a part of the slasher film that the writer doesn't have any choice. You've GOT to have a Final Girl, and the Final Girl HAS TO BE A GIRL.

2. Since 99 per cent of the audience at slasher movies is MALE, this means that all those men are IDENTIFYING WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF THE WOMAN! They're experiencing the movie THROUGH A WOMAN'S BODY! ... In other words, the OPPOSITE of what the feminist censors have been saying for umpteen jillion years now.

3. Jason and Leatherface are actually FEMALES DISGUISED AS MALES. Kind of a transvestite deal. Think about it. Aren't these guys always real screwed up sexually? Don't they always have trouble DECIDING what they are? It's a tradition that continues right up through Jame Crumb, the psycho killer in "Silence of the Lambs." So the original criticism of these movies--that the killers are always male, and the principal victims always female--is turned upside down.

3. The real villains in horror movies are MALE REDNECKS. "The rednecks have replaced the redskins," she says. In the old westerns, any Indian who came on screen was ASSUMED TO BE VIOLENT AND HATEFUL AND SAVAGE. Today, any redneck who comes on the screen is assumed to be violent and hateful and savage.

4. "I Spit On Your Grave," which has been called the most disgusting film ever made (by Eggbert and Siskel), and which has been banned from cable TV for 15 years, is actually told from a female point of view, so that the audience identifies with the ultimate triumph of the woman over the leering rapists. (As I've always said, what male could ever watch the bathtub scene and think the movie is in FAVOR of violence against women? When I see that scene, I can't walk straight for a week.)

5. "The Accused" and "Thelma & Louise" are both watered-down versions of "I Spit On Your Grave." And "Silence of the Lambs" is just another version of "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre."

You think I'm oversimplifying this deal?

Yeah, okay, sure. Probly. I'm probly gonna get a letter from the whole goldang Berkeley faculty, saying "You ignorant yahoo, that's NOT what it means."

But right now, today, after reading this book, I feel pretty good about it. Makes me think there's some hope. Makes me think some smart people will get their hands on it and become dumb like me.

Hundreds of dead bodies. No breasts. Academic Fu. "Men, Women and Chain Saws," published by--oh my God!--Princeton University Press.

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

[moorheadthanyoucanhandle]

G, SPOT ON

Now in theaters:

Godzilla Minus One--To paraphrase Yeats: What rough beast, its hour come round again, slouches toward Tokyo to kick ass?

Who else? This new kaiju flick, from Godzilla's home studio Toho, celebrates the title character's 70th anniversary. Released in the U.S. with minimal fanfare (no screening for critics in my area), this entry tells a standalone story, unrelated to the earlier Japanese or American films, and it feels very different from either series.

For one thing, it's a period piece. It begins in 1945, with Shikishima (Ryunosuke Kamiki), a young kamikaze, first shirking his suicide mission, then freezing up when he's confronted with the supposedly legendary sea monster at a small airbase in the Odo Islands. This lapse results in horrifying losses. Then when Shikishima gets back to the ruins of postwar Tokyo he's a pariah in his neighborhood.

Over the next couple of years, the guilt-haunted Shikishima becomes the reluctant head of an improvised family after Noriko (Minami Hamake), a young homeless woman, takes shelter in his house with an orphaned baby she's picked up. To support them, he takes a job with an oddball minesweeping crew on a small boat, clearing the leftover mines surrounding Japan. Then one day The Big G surfaces, made gargantuan after being irradiated during the Bikini nuclear tests, and heads for Tokyo.

The monster scenes here are spectacular, staged by writer-director Takashi Yamazaki with panache and a feel for dizzying ponderousness. There are some genuine jolts, too, notably Godzilla's first appearance. Best of all, the behemoth's big scenes employ Akira Ifukube's masterly score from the original 1954 film.

But at some level Godzilla Minus One feels less about monster action and more about Japanese society struggling to come to terms with an almost unimaginable defeat. The big scaly guy seems more like a symbol of the magnitude of despondency that had to be overcome for the country to survive and rebuild. This, along with heartfelt acting from an appealing cast and an effective sense of period detail, makes the film unexpectedly moving.

Having a failed kamikaze as the hero set the story up for an obvious payoff that I found troubling from the first scenes of the film: The perceived need for redemption from the eminently sensible decision not to carry out the lunacy of a futile suicide mission. Here, I thought, is the sort of intractable nationalism that makes for good melodrama, but in real life leads countries into war and horror and misery.

I'm happy to say that G-1 is having none of it; while giving full credit to worthwhile self-sacrifice, the film is resolutely life affirming. "This country never changes," one of the characters mutters, about some governmental folly. "Maybe it can't." But that country did change, albeit at a Godzilla-sized price, and this movie gets at the pained yet exhilarating spirit of that change.

My Kid accompanied me to this film, and after checking out the trailer on the way to the theater, she disapprovingly said "I think they're going to hurt him," him being Godzilla. She was right; the monster is not, here, a long-suffering defender of humankind against some bizarre alien or primal abomination, but a rampaging destructive force who must be stopped. Even his roar sounds scarier; it's not the usual nasal, irritable honk. But even so, I too felt sympathy for him during the efforts to destroy him. Something about that big lizard is lovable, even when he's being a bad boy.

[autistic-crypt1d]

The Runner

S2 E3 of Stargate Atlantis

I'm writing this after being awake for like 20 something hours on 3 hours sleep so forgive me if it makes no sense, BUT

This episode is so intriguing for so many reasons. I love it because it introduces one of my absolute favorite characters, Ronon Dex, but that's not the only thing that gets introduced. Throughout season one we've been shown plenty of examples of wraith based horrors, but this is different. We already know that Wraith evolved for the enzyme they release to allow their victims to survive longer during the feeding process. We also know that they enjoy this greatly, but in this episode we see just how bored they can get and what they do to solve that. The entire reason for runners existing is for the wraith to play with their food more, the thrill of the chase. We know for a fact they don't have to work very hard to get their meals, just send a few darts. Might as well be fish in a barrel and yet they still waste endless amounts of time, manpower, and wraith lives chasing these runners they create. They do this knowing they can be killed, all of the wraith that have pursued Ronon have been (for 7 years) and they do this anyway presumably for fun. Like, imagine getting bored with going on walks in your neighborhood and solve it by taking a walk through a minefield to mix it up.

On a non wraith related note, I love that Ford is present and a part of the plot that brings Ronon to the team. The fact that Ronon promises to get Ford back if they get the tracker out of him and boy howdy does he keep his word. Immediately after waking up from having the tracker removed from his spine, he takes off and body slams Ford. Keep in mind Ford is hopped up on wraith cocaine right now and insanely strong, taking 3 bullets like it's nothing strong, and Ronan holds his own. Not only does he hold his own but I am 100% confident that even in Sheppard hadn't shown up, he would've whooped Ford's ass.

I also love how Teyla and Ronon immediately begin to bond in the cave while waiting for John and Carson, and it only grows throughout the show. This is the first time probably since the village he stayed the night at, that he's had a real conversation with someone. He's immediately curious about what she knows of other runners, they're interrupted, but I can't help wondering what he hoped she would tell him. That they made it out? I also wonder about the stories behind the armour he's wearing when we first meet him, in the flashback to his release from the wraith we see he's wearing something of their design.

[heywoodvirgin]

WIP LATE NIGHT TUESDAY

THANK YOU @theviridianbunny FOR THE TAG AS ALWAYS !

It's a snippet from a new short one shot i'm working on ! It takes place early in the 2070's when Vénus was still working for Biotechnica and hiring Jackie as her personal bodyguard. It's by this time that their feelings begin to shift from teasing casual friendship to something more complicated and deep.

tags be sexual tension - danger danger - corpo life - angst - comfort

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

the new appointed top negotiator Biotechnica assigned stands with natural confidence, the professional stance following her into her private retirement, yet she felt slight unrest all through the day, and it followed her into the night, something she can’t pinpoint at the moment as she squints her eyes, absent looks wandering about Chicago bay’s flickering lights as she mentally revisits her meeting of the day. Six hours of nerve wrecking discussions with Soviet Biotechnica partners, SovOil representatives, where knots of tensions almost broke into irremediable conflict. She saw her guards’ grips tighten on their automatics many a time, and as hard as it was to reckon, she found herself seeking Jackie’s eyes as often, maybe to find a split second of reassurance, comfort, calm. 

She sighs, now he’s only mere feets outside, she can open the door, invite him in, chit chat a lil, drink a glass or two. He has that special way with words, and if it doesn't always comfort, it amuses, but she’s too tired and nervous, not her usual self, she can make a mistake. They can make a mistake. She pinches her eyes then  frowns at the mascara smeared on her fingertips. It's the time she should take a shower and some deserved hours of sleep. 

*

“I need you to stay calm.'' 

Her slumber is  interrupted by a familiar voice, her eyes snap open.

“No te muevas”Jackie hisses.

Her heart misses a beat. They agreed to keep their shared comms on, and only use it in case of imminent danger. They never had to use this before, her thoughts race, rock still in her bed, she feels weak, exposed, almost humiliated. She only dares to move her eyes, carefully, more a survival instinct than a studied move. There is no commotion, no dancing shadows of intruders, no pistol pointed at her temple, yet Jackie is barely holding his breath, she can sense his great distress leaking through the statics of their comms.

She hears it before she sees it.  

Wings flap mere centimeters away from her face, the buzz of death  of artificial wings, tiny parts move together, holding a fragile horizontal equilibrium opposite her, the device almost look sentient, mimicking the still  flight of a mosquito, yet it has bulbous globs as disproportionate eyes that seem to asses her, waiting for the perfect moment, and if she looks close, she could almost see the microscopic lenses zooming in on her and she fast understands. 

“Vénus! don’t—” 

But her muscles react first, survival instinct kicking in. In a desperate movement, V throws her cover on the robot-mosquito as she rolls off the bed, and Jackie storms in at the same time, with pistols in both hands and  a flourish of spanish curses. 

It’s dead silence for brief seconds. Jack and V exchange panicked glances before the buzz makes itself heard again, trapped under the drapes. The moment doesn’t last, V and Jackie both watch in horror the device cuts its way through the fabric, immediately regaining its equilibrium and focus on its designated prey. Vénus growls, curses low, tries to stay low behind a nearby screen, crawling on bare knees.  Jackie vainly attempts aiming at it as the robot moves its wings frantically, never staying on his crosshair for more than a second, he gives up in the end, time running out as the thing detects Vénus hideout, so he opts for the brute method. He charges in, kicking the air, as if he’s really trying to kill a real mosquito when Vénus scream interrupts him. 

“Jack! could be dangerous, don’t fucking touch it!” 

“Yeah cuz I gotta another choice? you tell me now!” 

“Fucking hell” She’s trying, she barely finishes scanning the killer device when it spurts on her, she dodges on time, and it stucks in the wallpaint, the relief she feels is used to attempt a quickhack, but the devil’s firwalls break her ICEs one after another. She’s heating up,  the people who designed this didn’t see failure as an option. V steals a glance at Jackie, shakes her head, it’s the first time he sees her that scared. 

[stevetown]

Alan Wake II

Playtime: 21h 42m Completed: November 17, 2023

Fuck this game. I hated almost every moment of this twenty-hour slog. Mechanically, the game sucks ass. Enemies are bullet sponges and can teleport around you while you're stuck trying to move the camera through molasses. All the puzzles and hidden areas of the game net you nothing but ammo and then spawn more enemies that cause you to lose more resources than you gained. Saga's Mind Palace Place has you constantly recapping the plot by placing photos on specific index cards, to which there's only one right answer and no actual deduction happening.

And my dude, Alan Wake? He sucks so much. I think the game knows how much he sucks, but I was never sure. Half the game is dedicated to this chucklefuck running around, prattling on about his missing wife and his Dark Half alter ego while absolutely nothing of plot or character consequence happens. I know he's supposed to be a hack, but the game never goes out of its way to let you know if it's in on the joke or not.

Saga's sections were much, much better. She was genuinely a very funny character and there are some excellent character moments between her and some side characters who don't get enough screen time. Had we just followed Saga along some whimsical SCP adventures, I would have had a good enough time even with the god awful combat.

But no. The game is called Alan Wake, so we must suffer this water treading hack and his no-fun-zone version of New York City for at least half the play time.

To be honest, I wasn't a fan of the first game either, but was told that this one was focusing on survival horror a la Resident Evil. I was also told the game was True Detective if it delivered on the eldritch horror teasing. Neither of those descriptions proved true. The game goes nowhere. It sets up a sequel that I won't be tuning in for.

Like Alan rewriting the story in real time, I scratched out the game from my hard drive as soon as the credits rolled.

[lookninjas]

Shakespears Sister serves a Special a la Mode with Salt n Pepa (2.9%) -- "Was It Worth It?" Shakespears Sister feat. Terry Hall

Not saying Lin-Manuel owes Eugene a couple bucks, but also not saying he doesn't (4%) -- "Immigraniada (We Comin' Rougher)," Gogol Bordello

Jamiroquai in the age of non-stop productivity (4.6%) -- "Workin' Hard," Fujii Kaze

Controversial opinion: The best Bond theme is Garbage (5.4%) -- "The World is Not Enough," Garbage

Love Theme from House of Leaves (5.8%) -- "Haunted," Poe

Third wave ska meets new wave classic. Nothing not to love (7.9%) -- "Take On Me," Reel Big Fish

A heavy-ass song to lighten your burdens (8.2%) -- "Burden," Helga

We had time to pull out the harpsichord, but still no time to fuck. (8.8%) -- "Paper Bag," Goldfrapp

Tiny metal band. Big metal sound. HUGE METAL ATTITUDE. (9.3%) -- "[NOT] PUBLIC PROPERTY," Voice of Baceprot (warning for flashing lights/images)

It's raining men! They're… not exactly surviving the fall. (11.1%) -- "Deadman Deadman Deadman," Skinny Pelembe (warning for flashing lights/images)

Powering up my "This Song is GAY" playlist (14.4%) -- "Real Power," Gossip (strobe warning)

Like a blues metal version of that whole sea shanty thing, but with Cthulhu (17.5%) -- "Row Row," Zeal & Ardor

And there it is! Tagging: @genrenommer, @ddxcrow, @nonebinary-leftbeef, @barbariandiplomacy, @dawngel, @dovahbeat, @scarletpineapple, @fennyfen10, @syntax-horror, @nightmareglitter, @genreawareness, @determinedapathy, @hussarbynight, @ohmysatan42, @bonemaggots, @emo-bunny-1317, @inplodinggofer616, @swagphilosopherdragon, @ranthaven, @lorienlady, @massivetreewinner, @edenaziraphale, @beannachd, @artemisofmars, @rnanqo. I think that's everyone. (There were a couple of "I'm so curious" or "I can't wait to listen"s in the batch, so I did tag by default; apologize if you weren't actually that interested.)

Also, for those that were particularly interested in the House of Leaves mention, I actually went ahead and wrote a separate post about that one. Because I have been so obsessed with Haunted for like twenty years, and while the general purpose of these polls is "New music can be a fun and whimsical experience! Let's share in the joy of discovery!" thing, that is a record I specifically will rant about endlessly for hours if given the chance. With citations. And footnotes.

And that's it for now! Working on a themed playlist for the next one, but song selection might take a while. I hope you like this playlist, I hope you maybe discover something new to you, and thanks for playing. I had fun. I hope you did too.

Anyway, pick a song based on one of my bad descriptions. You do not need to recognize any of these songs (although there are, as always, band names and random lyrics and breadcrumbs mixed in). Just pick whichever description sounds most appealing, or funniest, or anagrams out to something clever, or however you make your random decisions. At the end of the poll, I will put the songs into a playlist, from the song with the lowest number of votes to the song with the highest number of votes, and share the playlist (plus links to each individual song).

If you would like me to tag you when the playlist is done, leave a comment or put it in your reblog somewhere, and I’ll make sure to tag you. If you desperately want to know what one particular song is and don’t want to wait a week, shoot me an ask and I will answer.

And please reblog! More reblogs = more votes = a more interesting playlist.

[overgrownmoon]

doomposting hours

before i start let me reassure everyone that i’m okay and just really need to get some shit off my chest. i’m posting this to tumblr in hopes that i’m not alone in my thoughts.

worlds been a scary place for the last decades of my life.

i’m living through Unprecedented Historical Times and it’s fucking terrifying. First a pandemic, then a crusade on queer rights, and now a genocide on the Palestinian people. what in the fuck is happening anymore?

i know things will get better. they have to, i have to hold onto that hope. but things always get worse before they get better and oh boy has shit gone downhill. for some people things will never get better. those people are dead.

i’m appalled at both Israel’s and Hamas’ actions. No civilians should have ever been harmed; but they were, they got hurt, and now millions are being punished for it. I stand with Palestine. I stand with the people going through this horrific occupation. I do not stand with Hamas, let me make myself clear; Hamas does not represent all of Palestine.

I’m scared. I scared that i’m gonna turn on the news and see the headlines of a genocide in the Gaza strip, that i’m gonna see the photos of bodies piled high while the west pretends to weep and say “we didn’t see it coming, we didn’t know they would go this far” while the buildup has being happening right in front of our eyes.

I fear the day that my own politicians cheer and clap for the death of a thousand muslims and arabs; christ, that day already happened years ago when 9/11 happened and the US slaughtered hundreds if not thousands of people in Iran, Iraq, and Syria. the islamophobia in this country is so fucking sickening.

I don’t even remember 9/11, man, i wasnt born yet. I don’t know what kind of patriotism people want me to have for this country when all i ever see it doing is hurting more and more and more innocent people.

I’m not patriotic. I’m not nationalistic. I don’t support my government or my military. I have never been given a reason to. I grew up with the occupation of the middle east, with drone strikes on refugees, with hate crimes on mosques, and with ignorance pronounced in peoples hearts. i have nothing to be proud of. i have nothing to respect.

and yet i still live here. i didn’t choose to be born here yet here i am, in my cushy middle class home with my white-ass skin and american-ass privileges, crying about atrocities a thousand miles away that my own elected people rally and support. what am i doing, man. what right do i have to complain.

i feel both helpless and complicit. it makes me feel that my own issues are insignificant and in the face of these real horrors they are, because who cares about my pronouns or my social life when real families are dying? what in the fuck do i have to complain about? i’ve never not had food or shelter or luxury items. i’ve never lived in want. i have everything and that’s not fair when so many other good people have nothing. what i’d give to give all of my luxuries and niceties away to help just one family survive.

i think they’d deserve it more than i do.

so what did i do? vote, i guess. i’d try to donate but nothing is getting through the border. i’ll carry on in my life, knowing that what i have millions would die for, and continue being ungrateful about living in the USA. i really do hate it here, between the homophobia and transphobia and islamophobia and the christian nationalists and the ignorant masses. talk about first world problems.

woe is me. the White Person is sad. what a hard life i live. boo hoo.

[pennzance]

Ghostbusters: Port Huron (Episode 11)

Episode 11: The First Day

September 8th, 1998

Field operation report by Eric

Oh my god I want to go home.

I have never, in my entire life, felt the kind of pants-loading terror I have felt in the last 24 hours. I’m not even ashamed to say it, I have cried, screamed, and begged for my life more times in the last day than I thought I’d ever do in my lifetime. The things I have seen and heard and the feelings of sheer, out of my mind fear I have succumbed to repeatedly are like a crucible for the human soul that, should I survive it, will leave me either a broken shell of a man or the toughest son of a bitch to ever walk the Valley of Death.

The ghosts are nasty too.

MOST of my issues so far stem from the General. This guy is un-goddamn-real. I thought Amber was kind of a hard ass (every team needs one, apparently), but this guy takes the cake, the oven, and the entire bakery and chews all that scenery like he’s the villain in a bad translation of a Japanese RPG. He insists on being called General, and I’ll be honest I cannot tell if he has a real name because everyone just went along with it. He’s certifiably insane.

He took a real shine to Amber, too. He found out she was Air Force and I guess he was a Marine and there’s some friction there? She keeps calling him ‘the crayon eater’ when he isn’t in the room, so maybe there’s a funny story there I can get out of her later. Bryan and Jeremy figured out real fast that staying out of his way was the best way to deal with the man, but me? He zeroed in on me as the team leader and he… has not been kind about it.

Every time that man shouts “Port Huron, get over here!” my legs demand that I flee for the hills. My nerves are shot and frankly I was looking forward to going up against horrors I could legally blast with a Proton Pack.

But the problems started way before we got into Eloise. When we pulled up in the Ecto-908, the engine died all on its own. When Bryan tried to turn on the PKE Meter, it sparked and died. Nobody had ever seen that happen before. I breathed a sigh of relief when Jeremy booted up his Proton Pack, at least THOSE were working.

Equipment woes aside, we got ‘organized’ by the General. Our team, the twelve guys from the Flint branch, and the six people the Detroit branch sent altogether made for 22 Ghostbusters in one place. Some people might think that was overkill, but oh man would they be wrong.

The General’s plan was to start out on the outskirts of the property and work our way in. This would have been fine, but he also decided that throwing team cohesion out the window and making us all mix up was a good idea, and I’ve already filed a formal complaint about that nonsense.

And that’s how I ended up walking three miles to the opposite side of the Eloise compound with two guys I’d never met before on what promised to be the hardest day I’ve ever had since I became a Ghostbuster. Both of my new teammates were from Flint, one guy bigger than Jeremy named Dabonovich and a slightly smaller-but-still-big guy with a hat everyone kept calling Microwave. I’m sure that’s a nickname based off a joke I don’t get, and frankly I don’t have the desire to understand it anyway.

We started off on the eastern border of the property, near some of the buildings the county was able to knock down. Microwave’s PKE Meter was functioning out here, and before long we were finding vapors and slimers in groups. We were able to discorporate a lot of them, just nuetronize them right out of existence, but it was slow going. They weren’t particularly threatening, but there were a LOT of the buggers. Dabonovich is a good shot, and nothing seems to scare the guy, which is fine, but Microwave was a little more… I think the term Amber would use is ‘squirrely’. His eyes were always darting elsewhere when you would look at him and he wouldn’t speak above a mutter unless you said something.

About every 90 minutes or so, the General would drive up in his compensationally large truck. That’s what they were using to haul the mobile containment grid, which looked like a big red septic tank with the grid controls and panels stuck onto the side. The sight of it did not inspire a lot of confidence, let me tell you. He seemed disappointed we hadn’t caught anything substantial that would require the traps to be emptied yet but moved on his way.

The spooks weren’t the only issue we were running into. Since the place was covered in a lot of rubble that used to be buildings, there was a lot of debris everywhere. Twisted old bed frames, the remains of doors, the remains of walls, steel beams, glass, timber of various shapes and sizes, it was pretty much a minefield of tetanus hazards. Suffice to say, progress was slow.

The most enjoyable (for me) part of the day came when we found the body of a drifter who had been in one of the buildings when it had been bulldozed. Well, we found MOST of the body. What we did find had a unit tattoo that Microwave said was common among Vietnam veterans. Dabonovich was adamant we should give the guy a proper burial, and I agreed.

Then the day got way, way weird. I’ve never actually seen a ghost be… born? Created? I’m not sure what the terminology is. But the wind kicked up and there was this low noise. Microwave shouted that the PKE Meter was spiking, and I think I responded with a super sarcastic “Oh, really?”

I’m not much for the classification system in the employee handbook, but I’ll argue till I’m blue in the face that this was a Class 3, not a Class 4. To be a Class 4, we’d have to be able to identify the entity, and while I’m sure it was the ghost of the body we found, I don’t know who that was so I can’t say it was an identifiable entity. Anyway, splitting hairs here. What I DO know is this guy was an asshole, because he came out of the rubble swinging. Swinging rubble. It was the Ice Museum all over again.

Microwave took a brick to the head and went down like a house of cards. Dabonovich and I tried to hit it with the Packs, but it just shielded itself with a whirlwind of masonry. We had to get closer, and I had just the tool for the job.

I’d been lugging it around all day, and now I got a chance to plug the emitter hose into the gauntlet I had Jeremy put together for me. It was VERY warm, concerningly so, but I had bigger things to worry about. I shouted at Dabonovich to get the trap ready, grabbed a piece of sheet metal to use as a shield, and charged. Not my brightest move, but damn effective.

I know I got pelted by some stuff, and I’m feeling it right now, but I was able to break through the debris and punch that ghost right in the face. There was a moment of total shock, I think for both of us, and it started to scream at me, so I punched it again. I just kept punching it until Dabonovich came over and pulled me away, stomping the trap open and sucking the guy inside.

When the General came back around, we caught a ride back to the other side of the property to get Microwave checked out and myself patched up. The rest of the Port Huron crew came back gradually, all of us looking worse for wear, but nobody was badly injured. We piled back into the Ecto-908 and Amber’s Taurus and went back to the Best Western. Now that I’m done writing my report, I’m going to sleep off some of these bruises.

[pixelrender]

Top 5 games I played in 2022

I wrote a bit about my gaming in 2022 in the article on games from 2022 I haven’t played. There wasn’t a whole lot of it. I probably couldn’t make a list of proper video games. However I got into digital board gaming about a month ago. I got neck deep and by now I have over 100 games there under my belt. I’ve tried 30 different digital implementations of games (I haven’t got far enough in some of them to really asses my thoughts). A lot of these are super solid games, classics and this list with one exception consists of games I would like to have on my shelf in their physical form. Or their close relative. My new passion for digital board gaming connects to another news. I bought several board games. All of them second hand and I haven’t played any of them yet. But it’s gonna be an interesting base for changes, which my appear in the next edition of my board game wishlist and overall content of posts on this blog.

This year I have quite a list of honorable mentions. These could easily make it top 7 or top 10, but some of them don’t feel like they should be on the list and that the overall number of games is too small for me to have a longer list. Let’s start with Tropico 5. I played quite a bit of it in January and had fairly good time and I would like to return to it, but there’s also a lot I don’t like about it. The central gimmick feels sometimes restrictive, sometimes I started losing after several hours and couldn’t get myself out of the hole in time. I would like it to be slightly more organic and easier to make nice areas around your island. Next on, Soma Union. I def would feature this game if I’ve managed to play more of it. I’ve started playing it some two days ago and I’m not very far. Might be on the list next year. I also want to mention three little web games I played earlier this week. Descent is a cool atmospheric horror puzzle. Karawan is a tight survival snake inspired strategy with cool visuals. Kinsplant is a weird atmospheric multiplayer game about finding and hiding and object. I love the visuals and the atmosphere. I didn’t manage to find the object, but I killed some zombies. I also want to mention some board games, which are great but not quite top tier for me for various reasons. El Grande is a great game and I would live to play it with real people at a real table. I played a turn based digital version. It took weeks and one third in I knew I had already lost. Not the best time, but the game’s good and I would like to play more. Chicago Express is a fast-paced cube rails games. I’ve only played it once but it was really fun and easy to understand. Right now, I’m in a second game with more players and I still like it. Pier 18 is a stylish 18 cards game. It’s very light and fast and the way you score is super fun. It’s just too light to have the same staying power or depth as other games further on the list.

I feel like that’s more than enough for honorable mentions. Now, the list. An aside. It’s always more difficult to find pictures for board games, especially older ones. I used some pictures from Bgg. The pictures for Obsession and Tinner’s Trail are official. Carnegie uses a 3D render provided by the publisher. Assyria uses a picture from the bgg user Colin Jennings and Kingdom Builder a picture from the user Svetlana.

5. Kingdom Builder

Before playing it I heard about Kingdom Builder that it is too abstracted and that it’s too random without sufficient depth. It might be true if you play it casually. But this very simple set of rules presents a great competitive game. Learning to use randomness and mitigate it is a big part of enjoyment. Various scoring cards and special tiles change the way the game plays and the way it scores. Merchants turn it into a game of connections (almost a cube rails game), Lords make it an area majority game. The game shines at three players. The board doesn’t feel crowded, but blocking and grabbing these special tiles is more important than with two. Also it’s less likely that you get stuck with bad cards, because it’s more likely that someone blocks off the rest of the territory or something. I like this one as a digital game but I wouldn’t mind trying a physical version with expansions or its sequel, Winter Kingdom.

4. Carnegie

Carnegie is the new hotness, the highest ranking game on BGG from 2022. There is a good reason for that. The game offers a great mix of mechanisms, fun engine building and worker manipulation and action selection and it is layered and brainy and satisfying. There’s a lot of depth to it and I know I still have a long way to make every move of mine good and satisfying, to utilize all of the rooms in your headquarters well. But learning the fine intricacies of this game is part of the fun and pulling out an occasional big move feels just good. The game looks classy too and I wouldn’t mind having a copy of this Ian O’Toole illustrated masterpiece at home.

3. Tinner’s Trail

This is a game I enjoyed the most. Its mechanisms feel thematic and you interact with other players a lot. Basically, it’s an action point game with auctions and resource extractions. Every decision feels important in more ways. It also left me curious about another Martin Wallace design - Brass. I like that production more and I feel like a little more crunchier version of this might be even more fun. Here, the board is too busy for me to like it as a physical item. Still, it’s a lot of fun with many difficult decisions.

2. Assyria

I find this to be the exactly kind of the game I would like to have in my collection to pull out once or twice a year. The game is highly interactive (most of my fav board games have that in common, I find myself disliking multiplayer solitaire and cooperative games) and actually fairly light. The combination of mechanisms make it feel, at least to me, very thematic. The way you need to feed your huts and the way they get at the end of round flushed away by floods puts me in sandals of that ancient nomadic chief. The way you score points is mildly point salad-y but in a good way. There are not many choices or decisions but every decision feels interesting and important. Even the way you can sacrifice some of your huts in order to be first one to play is interesting. This game is a hidden gem and I expect it to get a new version and well-deserved recognition.

1. Obsession

Yes, I might be slightly overhyped here, because I crushed my opponents in the single game of this I have played so far, but I like this a whole bunch starting with the production. I just want to have this on my table. Cards, tiles and wooden meeples, all of it looks exquisite and helps the overall theme. The game feels extremely thematic as you are hosting various parties and other events in various rooms of your estate and use your servants to host them. The last part are guests. You’re trying to get the best hand of guest possible, but I wouldn’t call it a deck building game. The game presents you with many options and none of them feels boring, even passing and replenishing your hand is good and rewarded with some money. I can’t wait to play more, but I also want to chat more during the game and really got into the role of Victorian aristocracy. It’s just pure joy.

And that’s it for this year. Next year, hopefully video games are back and board games aren’t just their digital implementations. Look at it, real things look so nice and tactile.

[harrowreads]

HALIAAAAHHHHH!!!!!! 🔥

ok um FIRST OF ALL??!?!??!

HOW DID I NEVER READ THIS!?!?!? DID I SLIP MY RADAR??? DID I FALL INTO A COMA???? WHAT-- HOW---

overall thoughts:

i love horror. i love talking to you about horror. i love when you write horror. i love love love. horror horror horror. having this be yoongi's pov is a lot of fun. i enjoyed watching him spiral. it makes me want to explore something like this really badly. maybe in 2025 when my wips are all finished lmao.

you really feel Yoongi start to lose it and slip, almost immediately. i love the ebb and flow of slipping and returning. so much fun!!!!

real-time reaction/chaos:

as per usual, i have read zero warnings, so the reactions are chaotic.

The world takes on a muted feeling, like the two of you exist between murky, brackish water with something lurking just beyond the clouded space that he can’t quite make out.

shut the fuck up this line is perfect. ugh.

HE FALLS OFF THE BARSTOOL STOPPASDASDALDJAL

i have officially become too busy reading to comment, but i love everything about this. i love seeing the dizzying intoxication from his pov, and all the hints that mc is otherworldly. i have a theory about the ending.................😈😈😈 ~whispers~ is he gonna die???

his entire life is just falling apart so he can have sex, i love this for him. can't even be at the office for an hour without needing to be home.

he is LOSING IT. i love this.

oooh the repetition. ahhhh. this is so good. he's LOSTING ITTT.

the catttljkakdsjakldjaldja

ok i did have a split moment thought where i was like "i swear to god if mc isn't real and you fight club us--" kasdksjahdkahdska.

i can't get over Old Ass Han. i was going to let it go but he's come back up again and alsdjasldjaldjadhahahaha

Yoongi has a problem.

Spirited Away AND Tokyo Ghoul??? and an actual literal demon?????? i knew it, this mc is me!!!

He feels like a watercolor painting with too much liquid medium, running at the edges and blurring across a once-beautiful canvas.

ughhhhh this is so good shut uppppp.

It always feels like you’re in his head.

hehehe 😈😈😈

The succubus needs sexual desire and energy to survive. He scoffs and wonders what heterosexual male wrote that dream.

😂😂😂 breaking the 4th wall, we love it

Think Jennifer’s Body, people.

i legit just snorted water onto my laptop. 😭😭😭

wow. wowwowwow. with all the distractions, it took an afternoon to read this. NO REGRETS. i love this. i love how it's so delicately insidious at times. very fun read. I CAN'T BELIEVE I MISSED THIS BEFORE ALJDALDJAL. what was i doing??????????

Mine | One Shot | myg (m)

→ Summary: Yoongi lives a quiet life. His days are organized neatly, and every week he can expect the same results. Then he meets you. Hypnotizing. Otherworldly. Strange. And his life never goes back to the way it was before.

→ Pairing: Yoongi x Succubus F. Reader

→ Word Count: 14,864

→ Type: Oneshot

→ Genre: Smut, Horror, Thriller

→ Rating: NSFW & 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging with this content. Any minors discovered interacting with adult content will be blocked immediately.

→ Main Masterlist: here

→ Warnings: Buckle up bitches this list of warnings is going to exhaust even me. Overall creepiness, descriptions of liminal spaces, tons of mentions of subspace-like trances, Yoongi's mind is not always his own, unexplained happenings, Yoongi being manipulated subtly, written jump scares (like three of them?), nightmares, hallucinations, the cutest and also creepiest fucking little succubus you'll ever see, Succy (succubus reader) really likes Tokyo Ghoul that should be a hint, hints at eating raw meat (bleh), Yoongi turning against his friends, Yoongi feeling sick/depressed in a couple of scenes, Yoongi is literally addicted to eating reader out soiejijrghij, explicit sexual content including, spit play, nipple play, oral (f. and m. receiving), grinding, unprotected sex in multiple positions, cum eating, switch dynamics between the two of them often, subspace mentions, fingering, ass play (m. receiving), just.... so many bodily fluids all the time, mentions of animal death (it is a cat and it's dead body is briefly described), a lot of confusion and pace changes as a style choice, Succy is literally obsessed with Yoongi so a lot of the pet name Kitty, very cringe behavior for some rando Yoongi met at a bar, ambiguous ending. I think that covers it idk this is almost 15k of pure nightmare fuel I will send you my therapists number alright

→ A/N: If I have to write this authors note one more time because 'a wild tumbeast ate my fucking post I will scream. Do better Tumblr please stop eating my content over and over lmao. ANYWAY. SURPRISE THIS IS HERE A DAY EARLY. I have zero self control and @gimmethatagustd told me to post it now so I really said fuck it we ball. I didn't use a beta for this one because I'm insane but I did edit it myself.... so if you see errors..... no you didn't. This one was so much fun to write and I hope you all love Succy as much as I do. She deserves the world she is very... scary and cute.

HAPPY HALIWEEN!!!

Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Published: October 30, 2022

Friday nights are spent blowing off steam from work with friends. Yoongi has always lived a simple life, and he likes his Fridays like this: second person to the bar after Taehyung, a quick shot of whisky to take the edge off the day, followed by a whiskey neat and some fries from the kitchen that will still be a little unthawed in the middle. 

Yoongi loves his Fridays at Serendipity. 

The name is a bit of a joke, Jimin says. He inherited the old, rundown bar under another name from his abusive father after he passed away. Mysterious circumstances, the long-term patrons mutter into darkened ale and frosted mugs. Still, they come despite Jimin flipping the name. It was the only thing Jimin could afford to flip, the floors still the same sticky concrete that collect vomit, spilled beer, whiskey, and perhaps a little piss.

It's an ugly thing, with the vinyl stool covers splitting open to reveal guts of yellow foam, and countertops that need another layer of lacquer to fight the chipping from heavy mugs being slammed down every time Seokjin gets into an argument with one of the regulars. Yoongi tries to avoid the bathroom as much as he can. Jimin spent two weeks cleaning it and stocking it with a nice care basket with sprays, cotton rounds, and other products, only to have someone puke in it on the first night.

Yoongi doesn’t care that Jimin named the bar as a bit of an inside joke. Yoongi knows in his heart of hearts when he sees you that this moment is serendipitous.

Because when Yoongi sees you for the first time, the world ends.

Not really. But it feels that way the moment he turns at the bar. Perhaps he’s meant to see you – or perhaps it was by your design. He tilts backward when the door opens, searching for any sign of Seokjin who said he would be there in a few minutes.

And there you are.

Lights dim. The world takes on a muted feeling, like the two of you exist between murky, brackish water with something lurking just beyond the clouded space that he can’t quite make out. The roaring voices of the bar fade softly into the background until it’s just a buzz of pressure between Yoongi’s ears - or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s the buzzing pressure of awareness pressing on his spine and eardrums. 

It isn’t pleasant but it’s not… uncomfortable. 

It’s impossible to look away from you. He tries - tries to remember where he is. A bar, perhaps? Not this weird, opaque space where the only thing he can make out is the rogue on your lips, a spark in your eye, and the way you walk forward. No. Walk isn’t the right word. Glide might be more appropriate, he thinks. 

As you near him, Yoongi breathes in sharply. Something like cedar mixed with jasmine and amber makes his head spin. The world tilts and Yoongi begins to slide on its new axis until suddenly, the mist surrounding him shatters as his foot comes into contact with the ground, knee buckling under his weight as his hand flies to the bar to hold himself up.

He fell off of his stool.

Yoongi almost doesn’t believe it, except Taehyung is laughing so hard next to him that Yoongi flushes furiously. He slides back onto the stool, brows furrowed and head ducked down to hide his rapidly glowing red ears and face from you.

But then you speak, and Yoongi cannot fight the urge to look at you once more. It’s an instinct pulling him from blushing furiously in his lap to stare at you.

“Hi,” you murmur. Yoongi is a fish out of water, mouth parted slightly, heart racing. Jasmine. Cedar. Amber. It’s all he can smell. His head swims, mind foggy as he tries to string together words. “Is this seat next to you taken? It’s the only one empty.”

Is it? Yoongi can’t tear his eyes from you, but he could swear Old Ass Han had been sitting there before you walked in.

Old Ass Han is the least annoying of Jimin’s customers and sometimes Yoongi doesn’t mind when Old Ass Han rambles about his late wife. Yoongi has no idea how old Old Ass Han is, he just knows that he was ancient even when Yoongi studied as a high school student tucked in the far corner of the bar.

“Um, yes?” Yoongi says and it comes out like a question.

You grin at him and the world ends a second time.

Pleasure-laced fear shoots down his spine. Your teeth are white and straight, but he swears for a split second they were razor sharp. He shakes his head, dispelling a little of the floating feeling as he says, “Of course. Yes. Please sit.”

Yoongi holds his breath and averts his eyes as you slide onto the stool next to him.

It’s suddenly too loud in the bar, a cacophony of voices and chairs scraping against concrete. Yoongi can still smell you, making the world rotate awkwardly as he spins on his stool to find Taehyung staring at him, brows raise and barely concealing his laughter.

“I don’t think I have ever seen you fumble like that,” Taehyung murmurs. He loses control of his laughter and tries to hide it in his cup of cider. Yoongi flushes and angrily stares into his whiskey, hyperaware of you leaning on the bar to call the bartender’s attention. “I mean – she is – holy shit I never believed in faeries or witches before but there's no way she’s human.”

Yoongi opens and closes his mouth. He tries to find a response to Taehyung, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and something tingles along every hair on his arm and neck, a sense of awareness as you lean on the bar, speaking to the bartender.

Again, your voice haunts Yoongi in a matter of seconds. He feels the need to turn and look at you again, but he doesn’t want to be weird. He’s already fallen off the stool once, and he doesn’t plan on further exacerbating his humiliation.

So, Yoongi remains facing Taehyung. Clutches his whiskey glass with shaking hands. Tries to take a breath – it comes out shaky – to calm himself. He has no idea what kind of delirium is threatening him every moment you’re next to him, but he wants to fight it - tries to fight it.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung’s brows twitch, mouth pouting. He ducks his head slightly, trying to find Yoongi’s gaze, but the older keeps his eyes fixed on the wood grain bar. Yoongi wants to look at you again. So bad. Wants to ask you your name. Wants to memorize the curves of your mouth. Wants to memorize every stroke of color in your eyes.

Want want want want.

A sudden throb pulses in Yoongi. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he feels it bloom inside of him, unfurling with warm petals of want want want want.

The urge to turn and look at you gets stronger.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck –

Yoongi grits his teeth. Feels pressure at the back of his head, like there are featherlight fingers pressing into the base of his skull to urge him to turn around and look at you again. His muscles constrict and he feels himself start to turn, hips beginning to swivel in your direction, arms rigidly placed on the bar as if to fight his lower half.

When he doesn’t turn to look at you, Yoongi swears he imagines the light press of fingers turning into a steel grip. His eyes start to water and he clenches his teeth, feeling an immovable force on him pulling, dragging, tearing - and he lets out a small gasp, the grip on him so strong that he -

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says again, voice firmer. Yoongi looks up this time, eyes soft and round, face flushed. There’s a little sweat collected on his brow, and Yoongi feels a dull throb at the back of his head like a fading migraine. “What’s wrong?”

“Um-“ he cuts himself off and clears his throat. The pressure on his head is gone, but the menthol-cool, awareness of you is not. “Maybe too much to drink? It’s been a stressful week, I think I knocked these back too quickly.

“You do look sort of flushed.” Taehyung raises his brows. “Maybe water?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Water, please.”

Taehyung asks for water when the bartender returns with your drink. Yoongi doesn’t look at you, though he can see from the corner of his eye you’re looking at him. He grits his teeth and stares at the mismatched, colored bottles behind the bar. None of its top-shelf – Jimin certainly cannot afford it – but it doesn’t need to be.

A glass of water appears in front of Yoongi in time for Seokjin’s arrival. The pressure in Yoongi’s skull doesn’t return, and the tingling along his nerves like an electric current dies down a little. He still feels shaken as he sips the water, freeing up the dry feeling on his tongue.

Seokjin nestles between Yoongi and Taehyung, ordering himself a drink. Jimin appears around the bar this time, finally done with his bookkeeping in the back, and slides a beer over to Seokjin. Yoongi watches the way Jimin smiles at them before his attention falters and slides to you sitting next to Yoongi, making Jimin blink rapidly a few times.

Irrational irritation flares in Yoongi for a split second. Though his attention is on his friend and watching Jimin reacts to you sitting in Old Ass Han’s place, it occurs to Yoongi that he doesn’t want anyone else to compete with him.

Not that he stands a chance. But for once in his life, Yoongi wouldn’t mind being the one to take someone home. Why can’t it be him? He saw you first. You’re sitting next to him.

Just as Jimin’s eyes glitter, turning to half-moons as he smiles at you, Yoongi spins in the chair, giving you his full attention. Your eyes turn to meet his and Yoongi is falling into them, no end in sight.

“Hi again,” you greet, voice velvet. “You have pretty eyes.”

“All right, hyung,” Jimin murmurs. Yoongi isn’t looking at Jimin, but he can hear the smirk in his voice as Jimin retreats to their friends.

“Thanks,” Yoongi murmurs. He allows himself to drink you in. His head begins to buzz like he’s had too much whiskey, his tongue heavy and cotton-fuzzed in his mouth. “You have a pretty… everything.”

You have to know how beautiful you are. A deity beneath silk-smooth skin. But you duck your head, a shy giggle leaving your lips. You have the decency to look shy, averting your eyes, lip tucked between teeth.

Perhaps later Yoongi will be embarrassed by the honesty. But right now, it’s all he can do to keep his heart rate normal. You are incredible to look at. Taehyung was right – perhaps not human.

An unnatural glow hums under your skin. Your eyes are vivid, drinking him in with a spark that Yoongi swears echoes a deep flame in the pit of his stomach. He wrestles with himself, his hands fighting a magnetic pull to reach over and brush his fingers across the canvas of your skin.

Yoongi won’t be able to stop if he touches you. His thoughts repulse him – you’re a stranger. Someone he doesn’t know. Someone his mind is begging to violate. He fists his pants, flexing the muscles of his hands and willing the strange pull toward you to go away.

He doesn’t even know your name and Yoongi feels like Pandora, watching you with coveted desire and shaking, greedy hands. Fuck he wants to pry you open and see what treasure lurks beneath the surface.

“What’s your name?” You ask him. You stir a beverage straw in your drink – an Old Fashioned. His lips twitch in a smile at your taste in drinks as he offers you his name. “Yoongi,” you repeat back. The way his name melts in your mouth like sugar entices him. “Cute. You’re cute.”

Yoongi flashes you a shy smile, echoing yours. You share a laugh, his rough and scratchy as he chews the inside of his cheek nervously, yours light and floating. It echoes in his ears and Yoongi loses his sense of self, thoughts drug-laced with only you.

And then your lips are on him and once again, Yoongi swears the world around him has fallen to destruction.

It’s hard to remember the order of events. Yoongi doesn’t care. Your mouth is sugar-sweet and hungry, licking into Yoongi’s open-mouthed kisses as he presses you against something firm. He wants to melt into you, your skin like fire under his seeking hands, your breath delicate and soft against the empty air of what he thinks is his apartment as his lips attached to your neck.

Even your skin tastes sugared. A delicacy for him. For his mouth only.

Mine. The word echoes across his mind, but not in is own voice. 

You writhe underneath Yoongi’s hands. He squeezes the flesh of your lips, tongue snaking out to lick a broad stripe of skin up your neck. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging slightly, just enough to make him groan against your skin.

Yoongi is painfully hard. His cock throbs in his pants, the material restrictive and making the ache so much worse. He grinds his hips against yours, mouth sucking viciously at your collarbone, the top of your cleavage, anywhere he can taste you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head thudding against the wall behind you. Panting, you hike up one of your legs, wrapping it against his waist to pull him in tighter to you. Yoongi whines as you connect your mouths again, tongue and teeth, and spit as you grind against him. “I want you so fucking bad.”

“Have me,” he mumbles sucking your tongue into his mouth. You moan, deep in your chest. He swears for a second it’s like a growl. Thinks nothing of it. Just pushes against you hard, cock pulsing. “Whatever you want.”

“Please.”

Yoongi never wants to hear you beg again. Or maybe he doesn’t want you to stop begging. He can’t make up his mind as he pulls you toward a room – his room. Yes, you’re both in his apartment. That’s his slate grey couch that you’re stumbling past and that’s his sheets that you fall backward against.

Licking his lips, Yoongi takes a moment to look down at you. You’re splayed out for him, unfurling in his sheets. He knows tomorrow morning they’ll still smell like you – jasmine, cedar, amber. You look divine, a flower unfolding delicate petals, open for him.

Only for him. Mine. 

You wrap your legs around Yoongi, pulling him flush to the edge of the bed. You release him and press your feet to the bed, knees resting against his hips. You blink at him through fluttering lashes and starry eyes. He’s never seen anything like you. He never will again. He knows it.  

“God damn you’re beautiful,” Yoongi murmurs, the words slipping through his lips, unrelenting.

The stars in your eyes vanish. Yoongi recoils, seeing the fathomless black threatening to eat him alive. He begins to pull away, terror shooting through his chest, sharp and angry. You squeeze your knees against his hips, nearly shattering him. Your mouth is a gash of red with rows and rows of black teeth, churning and churning.

“Don’t speak his name here,” you hiss, words slithering in layers of many different voices. “Never again.”

Yoongi blinks and you’re blushing as you look up at him, knees splayed like butterfly wings, open for him. Just for him. He smiles at the way you giggle and hide behind a hand. “You’re so sweet.”

“You are beautiful. I swear it.”

“Touch me.” Your voice drips honey-sweet on his senses. “I want to feel you, Yoongi. Please.”

There is a prickling sensation like fear at the base of his spine but Yoongi can’t remember why as he smiles at you lazily, dipping down between your legs. He props himself above you, hands planted on the mattress on either side of your head to cage you in.

“Ask me again.”

“Please. Please please please-“

Yoongi swallows your begging tongue first, delving into your luscious mouth.

It’s been a long time since he’s been in his room like this with a partner, much less with someone who looks the way you do, but Yoongi’s hands are confident as they sweep up your sides, pulling the fabric of your shirt up with his hands as they go. You lean upward, letting him pull it off you before it flies from his hand somewhere in the room.

The lights are off in his room, but a silver shaft of moonlight spills through the window to paint you silver. Your eyes reflect the light as you drink him in, his hands brushing up your arms, warming your skin as he traces them to your tits, palming them generously over your bra.

A sigh escapes through your parted lips, red lipstick smeared artfully from the clash of mouths and tongues. He dips back down, tongue hungry for your sugar-warm taste and the liquid heat of your mouth.

Yoongi is dizzy. He’s a little off balance as he breathes you in. Your fingers pull through the strands of his hair, hips canting upward as he reaches around to unclasp your bra, peeling the unwanted layer from you.

Heated, shameless eyes meet his. You tilt your chest toward him, eager for his mouth. He doesn’t miss a beat, placing wet kisses over the tops of your breasts, more tongue and spit than lips, leaving a slick trail to your right nipple. Yoongi’s mouth is possessive, sucking your pert but between his lips and flicking it lightly with his tongue, looking up where your lips part in the moonlight to let out a soft moan.

It spurs him further, plucking your nipple with his teeth, pulling any sound he can from you. He gets a loud whine then and you wiggle your hips under the weight of where his waist is pressed into yours. Grinning, Yoongi repeats the motion, giving a generous suck before pulling away with his teeth, gentling scrapping your peak.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Feels so good.”

Yoongi trails chaste kisses from one nipple to the other, giving it the same attention. He snakes a hand down your body, fingers dancing across heated skin to pull at the zipper on your jeans. His hands tremble, making it difficult to free the first button.

Reluctantly, Yoongi pulls his mouth away from your breast, a glossy strand of spit connecting his mouth to your swollen skin as he looks down, using both hands to pop the button on your pants and tug violently at them.

“These jeans are the fucking devil.”

“Yes,” you murmur, so quietly that he can barely hear you. He gets them to your ankle, yanking one more time and tossing them. He loses your hushed words in the rustle of clothes hitting the floor when you whisper, “I am.”

“Hmm?” he asks.

You silence his question by pulling his shirt over his head, leaning to capture his exposed chest with your tongue and teeth. Yoongi stands between your legs, head falling tilting toward the heavens at the worship of your mouth.

Deep groans leave his mouth. You bite more than you kiss, but Yoongi likes the way your mouth leaves a trail of little teeth marks, your mouth pinching his flesh before your tongue soothes it. You have him trembling, nearly making him double over as your hand presses over his clothed cock firmly, applying the pressure he needs.

It’s not enough.

Every part of Yoongi feels exposed. Even half dressed, the world is brushing against him raw, every touch of your hands like pleasure and torture, every fan of your breath like the coldest breeze on a hot summer day.

None of the sensations make sense but he feels high – higher than that time he and Jimin took shrooms at that one festival in college where the lights had whispered secrets of the forest to Yoongi and where he had tasted something beyond what he could describe.

But under your carnal touch, Yoongi knows that is nothing compared to this. Nothing compares to the way you work his jeans down to his midthigh, too impatient for him to kick out of them before you’re dipping a hand in his briefs and taking his cock into your hand.

“Holy fuck,” Yoongi gasps, nearly toppling backward. Your grip is firm, strokes deft and confident and oh my god he might come like this.

You lean up to teeth at the pulse point of his neck as your tongue darts out to take a firm lick. “There is nothing holy about me, Min Yoongi,” you murmur against his neck. He shivers, eyes rolling behind closed lids as you speak. He can feel the trace of your incisors, sharper than he remembers against his skin.

Stars dance behind his eyes. You pull your hand away from his cock, making him protest. You hush him with a bite against his shoulder, sharp enough that he thinks you break skin. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting his world sweep from under his feet as you turn him and knock him onto the bed.

When the feeling of spinning stops a little, he blinks his eyes open to help you peel his clothes the rest of the way off. You’re fully naked and Yoongi doesn’t know where to keep his eyes. The swells of your breasts, marked with bite marks and spit from his mouth, the curves of your stomach and waist as you climb atop him, predatory and eager, or the glistening slick of your thighs where you’re dripping for him.

“Come here,” he demands. He’s dying to have you on his tongue, knows you’ll taste saccharine. He grabs your thighs harder than necessary, zeroing in on your pussy as he pulls you toward his mouth. “Wanna fucking taste. Bet you’re fucking delicious.”

You hum in delight, a lethal smile on your face as you crawl up to where he wants you, knees firmly on either side of his head. Yoongi lets out an appreciative noise. Your cunt is sticky and glossy for him, the perfect meal.

With gentle fingers, he parts your folds gently to reveal your slick, clenching hole and needy clit. Yoongi is eager, a finger trailing up and down your warm slit as he lets out a moan.

“Fucking wet,” he whispers before leaning up for a long, slow lick.

Stars explode behind his eyes. He hums in delight, shivering at the taste of you, heady on his tongue. He repeats the motion a few times, flattening his tongue for a slow-drag, appreciative lick up your cunt. He feels the way you drip into his mouth, spill on his chin and he can’t help but curse, at how addictive this feels.

You moan when he dips his tongue into your entrance, gathering your essence on the tip of his tongue before he drags it soft-slow up to your clit, circling your bundle of nerves lazily. Yoongi pulls your clit into his mouth with gentle lips, feeling the way it pulses as he sucks gently.

The sounds you make above him spur him further. He alternates between sucking your clit delicately and butterfly-soft tongue flutters, watching your mouth go slack as you watch him. The more you drip into his eager mouth, the greedier Yoongi gets, fastening his entire mouth on you and sucking harshly.

It becomes sloppy and imprecise. Yoongi can’t decide where he wants his mouth most. He can’t remember ever feeling this lightheaded from oral, much less giving. But he’s starstruck under you, sucking and sucking and sucking – fuck he doesn’t know if he’s even taking breaths.

“Feels so fucking good,” you whisper, a hand going to knot in his hair. His scalp tingles pleasantly where you hold onto him, his eyes fluttering shut. Your hips move slowly over his face. “Fuck keep going.”

Pride swells in his chest. Your voice is airy, breaths short and stilted and overwhelmed as he eats you vigorously. His fingers dimple your skin, pressing into the meat of your ass as he rocks you on his tongue, jaw slack, tongue flat for you to let you fuck yourself on his face the way you want.

Yoongi feels you drip down his face, hears the wet-smack of his mouth against your cunt. He moans. Buries his face further, letting you grind yourself on his nose, chin, mouth lips, anything. He doesn’t care, sticky-coated to the jaw, so fucked out from pleasing you that he almost blacks out when you cum.

Something happens.

He doesn’t know how to describe it – it’s like for a moment, everything goes dark. Perhaps he does blackout. Perhaps he wasn’t breathing. He can’t remember. All he knows is that between one heartbeat and the next, there’s a moment of pure darkness accompanied by a laugh that chills his spine.

And then your mouth is on him, spit and cum making the glide of your mouths sticky-sweet.

Yoongi sucks your tongue into his mouth, pressing his fingers gently to the back of your head, pulling you closer closer closer. He just wants you closer, his stomach burning with a sudden hunger for you. He feels on fire, skin too-warm where your chest slides against his, sweaty and flushed.

Sheets stick to every part of him. He’s aware of the sweat that slides down his neck, a cool finger of relief as you press him further and further into the mattress. He feels like he’s sinking, entering a new domain where he’s no longer in his room – he's just with you. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Your fingers claw at his hair, pulling the strands to pin him to the mattress as you lift yourself, looking down at Yoongi. He blinks, stars in his eyes as he starts up at you, looming. Glowing. Beautiful. His hands are on your hips, a sparking current humming just beneath the surface of your skin.

You feel alive and vibrant.

A moan escapes Yoongi’s mouth, pleasure rolling through him as you grind your cunt on his throbbing cock, warm and wet. His eyes flutter, Yoongi squirming under you, legs kicking and twitching as you tease him. Just the glide of you on his shaft makes him shiver, the pit of his stomach clenching.

“Please,” Yoongi rasps. His fingers dig into your hips, begging. Pleading. Desperate. “Please please please please.”

“You look so pretty when you beg.” Your grinding increases and the room spins. His hands fall from your hips to the sheets, fingers fisted tightly in the fabric. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongi. My Yoongi. Mine. Mine mine mine.”

Your words are lost on him. There’s only the firm touch of your hand against his cock, gripped tight at the base as you lift yourself. He feels his cockhead catch on your swollen entrance and he lets out a strangled noise. He doesn’t know if he can stop himself from cumming. He is bursting at the seams with heat, an inferno so intense he swears that the world catches fire as you slide down his cock, warm and tight.

“Shiiit,” Yoongi hisses. He takes a deep breath and holds it, hips twitching where you straddle his waist, letting him suffer beneath you.

“Feels good.” You lean forward, hands pressed to his chest to support your weight. Yoongi’s eyes flutter open. He blinks at you through wet lashes. The room is so dark he can only make out the barest features on your face, but he sees your eyes clearly. Looking at him. Watching. Hungry. “So good,” you repeat. “So fucking deep.”

Nails bite into the skin of his chest. He feels his skin smart. The hot bead of blood that forms. He doesn’t care, watching as slowly, you lift your hips, your walls hugging every inch of Yoongi. He lets out a shaky breath, hands settling on your waist. He plants his feet in the bed, angling himself better as you reach the tip of his cock before sinking back down.

Heaven and hell. Yoongi wavers between both, gritting his teeth to keep from coming, to keep the feeling of you gripping him tight going. He doesn’t want it to end, it feels so good but it’s wonderful agony, fighting the curl in his stomach, the twitching of his abs, the threat of exploding.

Yoongi's eyes are drawn to where you fuck yourself on him, sticky arousal turning silver in the single shaft of moonlight that spills across the bed where you’re joined. He can’t look away, entranced by the wet smack of your ass on his thighs, the way you just fucking take him.

It lights a fire in him more intensely than the solar flare that threatens to send him spinning into his orgasm. Yoongi growls, digging his nails into your skin, half-moons on smooth flesh as he grits his teeth and fucks up into you. You gasp, nails raking down his chest as he jostles you. His breath comes out as stilted hisses behind clenched teeth.

“Touch yourself for me,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you come all over me – please.”

“Gonna,” you pant, head falling to his chest, claws leaving pink lines on pale flesh. You slide one hand down his body, making him groan as he fucks you with abandon. You gasp, hand working your clit between your writhing bodies. “Gonna come.”

“Please - for me.” He thrusts hard, thighs trembling with the effort, holding his breath as his muscles squeeze. He can feel you tense, pussy clenching so tight he curses and stops, letting you pulse around him as you moan and an unintelligible string of curses that sounds... like another language. “Fuck, just like that.”

Yoongi feels himself come apart. His universe shatters and he floats among the stars. Weightless. Happy. Tired. He feels nothing and everything, a soft frequency of... something dancing along his skin. A soft buzz. Pleasant and warm.

He doesn’t know how long he exists in that space. He can still smell notes of cedar, jasmine and amber. It's stronger now, with a touch of something else... something burning. He leans into the smell and it wraps around him, soft hands around his middle and petal-soft lips against his cheek.

Yoongi becomes vaguely aware that it’s you curled into his side, nose hidden in his neck, chest rising and falling against his arm. It grounds him a little. Brings him back into a dark room that is too obscure to be sure it’s his bedroom at all.

As he drifts off into sleep, he remembers the feeling of your tongue against his neck and nothing more. 

-

Cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

It wakes Yoongi up. His stomach feels empty. His hands seek your warmth, palming your ass, pulling your hips flush to his. He doesn’t open his eyes, content to feel your heat. Again, something like electricity thrums under your skin, tickling his wandering hands.

Your mouth catches his. Pulls him further from sleep. He feels his skin ache from your teeth and nails the night before. Feels the weight of something inside of him that wasn’t there before, although he cannot put into words what it is.

Even in the morning, your mouth is sweet. Gluttonous. You suck his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling softly followed by a light giggle. He smiles into the next kiss, sloppy and filled with too much tongue but he lets you taste him.

Yoongi swears there is an echo of your taste from the night before. It’s enough to kickstart desire in him, detaching his mouth to plant kisses down your neck. Chest. Stomach. His tongue licks a trail down your velvet skin.

In a shuffle of sheets and skin, you lay back for him, pliant. He’s awake now, pressing your thighs open, teeth nipping the tender flesh. You giggle and the sound makes him pause, lips pressed to your leg, eyes looking up at you in the dim light of the morning. Or night. It’s hard to tell what time it is, here with you in this bed.

Glowing eyes look at him. Round. Soft. Curious. You watch Yoongi with rapt attention, lip pulled between your teeth. Spread. Eager. Ethereal.

Yoongi drops his gaze, groaning when he sees how fucking wet you are. He pulls you closer, sliding a hand under your ass to provide support. Curious, he brushes his thumb up and down your folds, collecting your essence as he does.

“So swollen and wet,” he mumbles, morning voice deep and scratchy. “You’re always so ready to be eaten, hmm?”

You nod. “Please, Kitty.”

The new nickname makes him pause, thumb resting on your clit. He can almost feel your cunt throb under the pad of his finger as he applies a little pressure, watching you whine and kick your legs a bit. He grins.

“Kitty?” he asks as he resumes playing with you. His thumb dips into your hole, ring of muscles clenching around him. His grin spreads as he pulls it away, watching you fight with the loss.

“You have- ughhh – cat eyes. Pretty. Soft. Smart. Kitty.”

He hums, dipping his head forward to give you a single kitten lick. He shuts his eyes and sighs heavily, your taste heavy on his tongue. You taste just as good as the night before. “Cute,” he murmurs, more to himself. “I like it, baby.”

Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response. He presses in, tongue lapping at you hungrily, refusing to let you drip without his mouth for another moment.

-

Greedy.

You’re greedy. You always are. Yoongi isn’t sure what day it is. It might be the same night as when he brought you home or it could be the weekend or it could be next week. He somewhat remembers the taste of a meal. Some cool water. But he doesn’t recall when he made it or when he showered.

He only knows he showered because he smelled the mint soap on your skin a few moments ago when you had your mouth attached to his throat.

Now, your mouth swallows his cock whole, throat pulsing around him. He curses, fingers twisting in your hair as he listens to you choke. Feels your drool dripping down his thighs. You relent, pulling back with a slick sound. He looks down at you between half-moon eyes, lashes fluttering.

You’re a vision: bruised lips smeared in spit and cum, chin covered in slick, watery, round eyes that blink up at him, innocent despite the fact that you rub the flushed tip of his cock against your abused mouth.

“Fuck,” he swears, watching your devilish tongue snake out to lap at his dark tip. “Fucking cock hungry, huh?”

You nod your head, trailing your tongue along the bottom of his shaft, taking time to suck slopping kisses to his skin. He can’t look away, even as you pump him lazily with your small hand, ravenous little mouth sucking coyly at his balls.

His fist tights in your hair. You look up, tears spilling over rounded cheeks. You look angelic at that moment, weeping before him. He nearly busts right there.

“Does Kitty like when I do that?” You ask softly, voice almost a whisper. Your voice changes, he’s noticed. Sometimes coming out dark velvet, other times tangerine-sweet. “Am I a good girl, Kitty?”

You always call him that. He wasn’t sure about it at first, but with a mouth full of his precum and neck covered in his teeth marks, Yoongi thinks you can call him whatever the fuck you want. He’s never seen a creature so drunk off fucking him before and he’s no better. All he wants to do is fucking live in you.

“Such a good girl,” Yoongi promises. He holds your head with one hand and your chin with the other, pulling your bottom lip down with one thumb. His touch is soft and reverent. You preen for him, smiling around his thumb as he slips it in your mouth and presses on your tongue. Feels the spit and god knows what else there. “Come on, baby. Suck.”

And you do. Yoongi’s eyes roll back in his head. He falls backward on his bed and it feels like he has passed through a portal to somewhere else. He floats. All he knows is your mouth, unforgiving. Your tongue, sinful.

And when Yoongi comes down your throat, and when you pull off of him and smile at him with the slow drip of it, Yoongi feels like he’s in fucking heaven.

-

Monday he calls out of work.

Crunching numbers at an accounting firm seems like hell in comparison to where he is now. You’re bent over the kitchen counter, drooling on the granite as he slowly drags his cock through your drenched heat. He ignores the spilled glass of water next to you. Instead, he watches himself disappear deep into your cunt, collecting cream on the base of his cock every time he pulls out.

Yoongi senses you looking at him. You are, eyes intense and heavy. Your gaze shifts so often he can barely keep up – thinks maybe he imagines the way you go from soft, round-eyed sweetheart to a siren-eyed vixen.

It’s the vixen look at him now. And as though you can read his mind, you slick your tongue out of your mouth, bubble gum pink and eager, eyes dragging down to where he works himself in and out.

Yoongi pulls out slowly, running a finger along your arousal smeared along his shaft, and leans forward, thrusting in hard. You pant, tongue still out and eyes focused on his as Yoongi delicately places his cum-slick finger in your mouth. Presses your cream on your tongue.

Your lips close around his finger, tongue swirling around the digit as you shut your eyes and hollow your cheek, gently sucking your arousal until there’s nothing left.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers, in awe of you.

And you are. There’s nothing you won’t do for him. Nothing Yoongi won’t do for you. So he slams into you, deep deep deep, and grunts until you’re coming around him for what feels like the hundredth time since he’s met you.

-

Yoongi startles awake. He blinks away a dream that he immediately cannot remember. His skin is clammy and his sheets stick to him all over. He kicks them off, heart hammering as he jumps to his feet, trying to get away from the bed.

He doesn’t know why, but he feels danger near him with every slam of his heart.

For a few moments, he’s in total darkness. He can’t make out the shape of his dresser. Or the pile of clothes in the hamper. He can’t see any light filtering through the window. He knows there’s a streetlight out there – why isn’t the light streaming through his curtains?

Panic threatens to seize him. He takes a deep breath and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbing fiercely. He opens them, bursts of starlight blinding him until they fade finally and he can see.

There’s a shadow in front of him, all razor teeth and red eyes.

Yoongi screams, flinching backward. He topples over and feels weightless like he’s falling through time and space. The moment of fear stretches out long – too long – and for a second he thinks he will die. His heart is beating too hard in his chest, his mind is screaming too loud, and the adrenaline threatens to crack him open and spill out on the floor.

He hits the curtain behind him and fists the fabric, ripping the entire rod and holders down backward as he goes. Streetlight pours into the room. He thrashes, blind and screaming among the now ruined curtains, the curtain rod, and drywall dust.

Yoongi frees himself, grabbing the rod to defend himself against the creature in a last-ditch effort to live.

Grey light saturates the room. There’s no shadow creature with teeth and red eyes. There’s just you in the middle of his bed, the reflection of the street light turning your doe-eyes to glowing coins. You’re in a t-shirt of his, soft and crinkled, hair messy. Lip trembling.

“Kitty?” Your voice is small. Almost childlike. “Kitty are you okay?”

The panic beat of his heart slows. He swallows down nausea and realizes his shaking, the remaining waves of adrenaline taking their toll. Yoongi lets go of the curtain rod and nods, pressing his head into the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. Throat dry. You move on the bed – more of a prowl – and you flick the lamp light on. Warmth rushes into the room and with it, relief. “Thank you.”

“What happened, Kitty?”

“A nightmare. I got up and … I don’t know. I thought I saw something.”

You sit on your knees. Hands in your lap, one palm splayed on your thigh, the other lifted toward him. Beckoning. Open. Warm. Safe. He peels himself from the wreckage by the window and walks toward you, feeling as though there is a string between you and him, tethering you to him. Reeling him in.

When Yoongi’s hand touches yours, exhaustion bleeds into him. Safe. He is safe. You smile and there are no razor teeth. Just kiss-stained lips as you shuffle backward, pulling Yoongi back into the bed.

“Come sleep, Kitty.”

“Okay.”

Carefully, he turns off the lamp. The streetlight floods his room now, but it’s comforting, the grey wash of the world enough that he can see anything creeping in the shadows.

Eventually, he falls back asleep with the slow drag of your hand back and forth across his forehead, and your mouth pressing gentle sucks to the side of his throat.

-

“Where are you going?”

Yoongi almost smiles at the pout on your face. You stand in his kitchen, brows pinched, mouth furious. You’re in another one of his shirts – there is nothing else for you to wear. His grin spreads as he comes around the counter, placing his messenger bag down.

Somehow you seem so much smaller in the daylight. Yoongi swears when you’re riding him in the early hours of the morning or when he has you on all fours fucking you deep into his mattress, you’re a force to be reckoned with. A fierce creature feeds on carnal pleasure only.  

But now in the light of day, with your bottom lip jutting out and scowling brows, Yoongi thinks there is nothing more adorable. His perfect baby. You reach out, opening and closing your hands and he laughs.

“Work,” he answers gently, pulling you toward him. You don’t fight him. You never fight him. Yoongi is always your top priority – you’ve made that obvious. He smells the cedar. Jasmine. Amber. His head swims and for a moment, he forgot what you asked.

Moments like this with your skin touching, that high-frequency current that is unfamiliar but feels so good – Yoongi forgets himself. Every time he touches you, he’s somewhere else.

His phone rings and he remembers he’s supposed to leave. “I have work.”

Your scowl gets worse. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I want to be with you.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. When he pulls away, you’re almost snarling, gripping him like iron. He sighs and squeezes your hips for reassurance. “I’ll leave a little early, yeah? For you.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course, I promise.” Your lip wobbles and he leans forward again, nipping you. “Get some sleep. You woke me up very early this morning, hmm?”

You don’t answer, but you loosen your grip.

When he gets in the car, he sees the curtain in his living room shift and he grins. Cute.

-

Work drags. Yoongi’s in a bad mood. His coffee is extra bitter. The water tastes off. The fluorescents in his office are too bright, prompting him to turn them off. When he begins auditing his client’s monthly spending, the numbers swim on screen.

Yoongi takes his glasses off. Puts them back on. He swears that he sees symbols and that the screen glitches, flashing between letters and numbers and… something he’s unsure of. When he rubs his eyes, the screen is just numbers in an Excel sheet.

Sighing in defeat, he glances at the clock. It’s only been an hour.

“Fuck.”

He pulls his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. Your contact information is in his phone, right? The silence in his office is deafening. It presses in on him as he stares at his phone, unseeing. Why didn’t he have your phone number? Shouldn’t a boyfriend have their-

A knock at the door startles him. He drops his phone, mumbling an apology as he bends down to get it before righting himself and looking at his director.

“How are you feeling?”

Yoongi shrugs. “A little off.”

And… it’s true. Yoongi’s head hurts suddenly, a migraine slamming on the confines of his skull. His too-bitter coffee burns in his stomach. The back of his neck feels too hot and his hands shake as he puts his phone on his desk.

“You don’t look too well. Maybe take the day?”

Yoongi nods. Sways a little when he stands up to retrieve his things and turns his computer off. On the drive home, the headache recedes a little. He grips the wheel tight, taking deep breaths as he tries to steady the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

In the drive, Yoongi takes a deep breath. The pressure in his head is gone and his stomach doesn’t feel as rotten as it did twenty minutes ago. He makes a mental note to look up his symptoms when he gets inside – perhaps he has the flu. It won’t do to feel this way before his client’s quarterly financial reports are due.

Thankfully, when Yoongi steps into his house, he feels much better.

Feels fine as he drops to his knees in the entryway, tongue buried hungrily in your cunt as he presses you hard against the door, drinking in every drop. Above him, you tremble and cry, begging him never to leave again.

When you cum on his tongue, creamsicle sweet, he thinks he never will.

-

Pain shoots up Yoongi’s foot as he stubs his toe making his way to the bathroom. He can barely see in his room now that he has fixed the curtains – and put blackout ones at your request – and the floor is covered with his shoes and chargers and boxes of snacks you keep in his bedroom like a nest.

He has never in his life seen someone with an appetite for junk food like you – especially sweets.

Yoongi opens the bathroom, the gentle, white glow of the night light casting a dull halo against the whitewash walls. He glances in the mirror and his heart launches into his throat. His hand slams against the door for balance and a moment of terror bleeds him dry when he sees the shadow behind him, white teeth flashing and red eyes.

Whirling around, Yoongi’s hand shoots for the light, painfully jamming fingers against stucco. He manages to flip the switch while his heart pulses in his throat, terror working its way through him like an injection straight into his cardiovascular system.

Light spills into the room, so bright that he flinches, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them, there’s nothing. It’s just his messy room, covered in clothes, empty and half-full bottles of lube, a generous amount of junk food, and you.

Asleep. Soft against his pillows, lips parted slightly.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Yoongi chastises himself and shuts the bathroom door. A few splashes of cold water from the tap do the trick, calming him down and cooling the red splotches of anxiety blooming on his neck.

When he returns to bed, your hands seek his warmth, making grabbing motions even in sleep. He indulges you, sliding closer. Tucking you into his chest. You hum in your sleep, that vibrating feeling that lives just under your skin ever-present.

Gently you lean forward, mouth seeking as you press your lips against the soft spot under his ear. He shivers as the innocent kiss turns into a soft suckle, pulling skin between teeth your tongue pressed against his flesh. But you don’t wake up. You seem content to lay in his arms with the gentle pull of your mouth against his skin, smelling like cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

And he falls asleep, moment of terror forgotten.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

Time management was always one of his strong suits. As someone who lived an organized little life in an organized little home, he thrived on order, repetition of days, and knowing what to expect each day.

Except now Yoongi never remembers what day it is. He hardly remembers how he spends his day. But what he does remember are moments with you. Bodies against bodies. The press of his fingers in your sticky cunt. Your curious fingers, pressing into the tight rim of his ass, pulling out orgasms so deep that it takes him hours to move.

Now, you’re pressed against him on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. He watches you and you watch the screen, completely focused on the world of Spirited Away. His lips twitch in a smile and he yawns. You snuggle closer to him, nearly attached. It’s second nature to you, to fasten yourself to him. He doesn’t mind, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

When Yoongi’s phone rings, it interrupts everything. You immediately hiss, looking toward the ringing device on the counter. He can’t remember the last time his phone rang but he begins to lift himself off of the couch.

Your fingers dig in. “Finish the movie.”

It’s a demand. He laughs as your brow pinches. “I’ll be right back, let me just see who it is.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why don’t you want to watch the movie with me?”

Your voice has grown small again. Not the sultry purr he is used to in the middle of the night when you mouth at his cock, hard before he’s even awake. Not the demanding crack of a whip when you order him to come.

This voice is tiny, a soft thing that immediately draws him to look at you. He cradles your face, your big eyes looking at him with tears rimming them. His stomach drops and he hushes you, thumbs brushing back and forth.

“Fuck – baby why are you crying?”

“Why don’t you want to watch the movie, Kitty?”

“Hey, Kitty wants to watch the movie.” He croons and you pull yourself into his lap, arms going around his neck and winding in his hair. He keeps a soft grip on your face, eyes searching. That thrum is just beneath the surface, like a beating heart. “I just have to answer the phone, baby. I still want to watch the movie.”

You shake your head. “You don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely recalls one time when he left for work, you had been a bit sad. But ever since he’d started working from home – wait, he works from home? He shakes the question from his thoughts, saving it for later.

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely recalls one time when he left for work, you had been a bit sad. And now you sit on his lap and he hates himself for the way a tear slips down your face, turned into a diamond from the reflection of the TV.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, heart aching in his chest. He leans back. He pulls you flush against his chest. You tuck your face in his neck, your favorite spot to nuzzle and he feels the gentle tuck of your mouth, the tiny suckle of your teeth against his neck. Your comfort.

It isn’t often that Yoongi upsets you. He vaguely -

He doesn’t remember. What was he thinking about? He doesn’t know.

Yoongi loops his arms around you and squeezes you tight. And his eyes flutter shut, suddenly tired and lulled to sleep by the gentle pull of your mouth on his skin.

-

“Come look at this cat,” Yoongi laughs, crouching down on the back porch. The tabby rubs itself between his legs, purring as it twists figure eights. “It’s so friendly, baby. Come say hi.”

Night sky stretches over the city. It’s colder outside – almost Halloween, maybe. Yoongi lost the calendar in his house and he only turns the computer on if he has to sign on for work, which he rarely does these days.

You peek from the door, looking at the cat rubbing its face on Yoongi’s hand. He looks up at you and smiles. You’re swimming in a sweater of his, though your legs are bare. His mouth waters at the thought of tasting you again – he can’t ever get enough, licking the sweetness from between your thighs only to finish by fucking himself into you until he blacks out.

The blackouts happen more after sex now.

“He’s sweet,” Yoongi promises, holding out another hand to you. “Like you.”

Tentatively, you step outside of the door. The floorboard creaks under your step, drawing the cat’s attention. It happens so fast that Yoongi falls from his crouched position, sitting abruptly on the floor. The cat lets out a terrible sound, somewhere between a horrible yowl and a hair-raising hiss.

A blur of claws and teeth, Yoongi yells as the sharp talons catch him, letting the cat go. It becomes a streak of fur and screeching, vanishing from the yard.

You rush to him, dropping down to hold his scratched hands, blood surfacing.

“No!” You look up at him, holding his hand gently to your chest. He feels the strange hum, the heartbeat that… isn’t a beating heart as much as a constant buzz. “Are you okay, Kitty? You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay.” He smiles. The fear in your eyes is heartwarming. You love him – he knows this. He feels it. “Sorry it startled you.”

-

Autumn sun beats down on Yoongi as he goes to peel logs from the stack of firewood in the backyard. As he jogs down the steps, he slows, frowning. There’s a dead tabby at the foot of the stairs, broken body and dark blood smeared underneath.

“Weird,” he mutters, rushing to get some firewood. “I’ve never seen cats here before. Poor thing.”

When he goes back inside the house, he sees you sitting on the counter. Spread. Finger tracing up and down glistening folds, swollen cunt begging for his mouth. Yoongi drops the wood. He zeros in, licking his lips as you spread your legs a little wider.

“What a perfect fucking pussy,” Yoongi grins. “That for me?”

You nod. “Please, Kitty.”

Yoongi forgets about the dead cat.

-

“I want candy.” Yoongi looks up at you, brows raised. You’re standing in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store, chewing your bottom lip as you look at him with hopeful eyes. Yoongi immediately softens. Feels his heart flutter. “Is that okay?”

“Sure.” He looks up at the aisle names. “It’s three aisles over. Can you get what you want while I go back and get milk? I forgot.”

You hesitate for a moment, a moment of fear on your face. Before he can brush away your fears with a simple kiss, you take a deep breath and give him your bravest smile. He preens, proud as you give a confident nod and dart off in the direction of candy.

Yoongi is impressed by you. Leaving the house is hard for you – always has been. The two of you mostly stay inside, locked in your little world. Yoongi likes it that way. Loves knowing after dinner you’ll be nested on the couch, watching him with inquisitive eyes and asking him to put on a new show or to continue the anime you’ve been binging.

Every new experience for you brings stars to your eyes. He loves that about you – loves the way you go awestruck while watching old anime that Yoongi adores, or the way you hum and spin in circles to music he shows you.

Yoongi remembers hearing once that people live many lives. He thinks that if that’s true, you must be in your first life, curious about everything. Surprised by the world. And he gets to watch it over and over, the way you grin when something startles you or when you furiously pout because you don’t like something.

Grocery store trips are new for you. The first time, you’d been stitched to his side, refusing to separate from him. Cagey and flashing mean eyes at everyone. Now, though, Yoongi doesn’t worry as he pulls open one of the glass doors in the cold section, looking for milk.

“Yoongi?” He turns mid-reach for a carton of milk, the cold air hitting him in the face and turning his cheeks pink, glass frosting with the humidity rushing into the fridge. Taehyung is standing behind him, hands shoved into pockets. “Holy shit it is you.”

Yoongi gives Taehyung a funny smile, pulling the milk from the fridge and adding it to his cart. “Why wouldn’t it be? How are you?”

“Dude, how are you? You don’t answer anyone’s calls, I heard you started working at home from some sort of illness, and you refuse to answer your door when we come by.” Taehyung’s face is picture-perfect concern, brown eyes fixed on Yoongi, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “Why can’t you tell us what’s going on? It’s been weeks.”

“What are you talking about? I talked to you two weeks ago.”

Taehyung cocks his head. His brows furrow and an unsettling feeling flips Yoongi’s stomach. He remembers the call exactly. Recites their conversation back to Taehyung, but before Yoongi can finish, his friend is shaking his head.

“We never had that conversation, Yoongi.”

Taehyung takes a step closer. Yoongi’s heart starts pounding. He remembers talking to Taehyung. He had been standing in the kitchen when his phone rang, and you had handed him his phone. Yoongi remembers because he had been half-paying attention to the conversation, transfixed by the way your eyes caught the light and the way you watched him catch up with Taehyung.

But… another thought swirls in Yoongi’s mind. A vision of you slamming the phone down on the counter, shattering it. Yoongi begging you to stop – stop something ­– and then your soft lips on him.

He shakes his head, setting the thoughts free.

“What’s going on?” Taehyung asks, moving past his cart to get closer. Yoongi backs up. He doesn’t know why, but it’s automatic. He feels panic surge as Taehyung pauses. “Are you sick or-“

Maybe he is. Yoongi knows he talked to Taehyung and yet… doubt wiggles into his mind. Eats at it like a worm. There feels like there is a box somewhere tucked in the recesses of his memory, shielded and without a key. If he applies pressure on it, he gets a headache.

Licking his lips, Yoongi places his trembling hands on the cart. Looks at Taehyung. Sees the pleading in his friend’s eyes. Yoongi opens his mouth to ask when Taehyung thinks they last spoke and -

“Kitty?”

Your soft voice cuts the anxiety in half. Yoongi’s thoughts ease as you appear a few feet away from them, bags of candy in hand. Your doll face morphs into unease when you look at Taehyung. Yoongi wonders why that is – you’ve talked to Taehyung plenty of times. You encourage Yoongi to call him.

“You?” Taehyung asks. The vehemence in his voice startles Yoongi. “You’re still around? Jesus Yoongi, have you been shacked up with some girl you met at a bar this entire time?”

Words have consequences. Taehyung’s immediately has an effect, your expression going from soft and sweet to something that makes Yoongi’s hands grip the push-bar on the cart tightly.

“He has nothing to do with it.” Your voice is a layered hiss. A tingle slides down Yoongi’s neck – familiar and dangerous. He has the sudden urge to bolt, but his feet are rooted to the ground as you advance, putting yourself between the two men. “Yoongi hasn’t been feeling well. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“I’m one of his best friends!”

Taehyung is one of his best friends. And Jimin. And Seokjin. Yoongi remembers sitting on a stool at Serendipity, listening to Old Ass Han tell him some superstition about female demons who snatched one of his sons in the middle of the night. Jimin had laughed so hard and made Old Ass Han so mad that Jimin covered his tab for the night.

It was such a funny memory that the next Halloween, Jimin had dressed up as a sultry, female demon. Yoongi vaguely recalls laughing with them into the night, especially when Jimin picked up a guy to go home with that night.

Yoongi is full of those memories – at least he was. He thinks he is.

The little place in his mind that feels inaccessible cracks a little and Yoongi winces, a headache splitting him open. He clutches his temple as a bolt of pain lances through his skull. Then your hands are on him, gentle and cradling his face. You’re saying something but he can’t hear you over the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Colors dance across his vision as Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pant through the pain. The pain doesn’t come from that tiny little box in his mind – it comes from somewhere else. Pulling him away from whatever is hidden there, in that dark little forgotten corner.

Suddenly, it becomes too much and darkness swallows him whole.

The last thing Yoongi remembers is the gentle kiss of your mouth on his neck.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

He’s getting headaches all the time. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night with them, sharp pain digging behind his eyes. It always worsens when he tries to recall the dreams he has before he wakes up – he knows he has dreams. They’re on the tip of his tongue. But the more he thinks about them, the more he tries to draw up what he imagined, the more the pain grows.

The bed sinks as you crawl in next to him. It’s too hot in bed. Sheets cling to Yoongi’s skin. He feels like there’s a furnace under the mattress, burning through and making everything sweaty and sticky. He shifts a little away from you – your body is always warm, skin heated with the thrum of energy beneath the surface.

Cedar. Jasmine. Amber. Your scent swells as you tuck yourself close to him. Not touching, but Yoongi can sense you there, an awareness tingling along his skin. It’s happened a few times, where a second awareness blinks an eye open and Yoongi feels on edge. Like there is suddenly an instinct inside of him that has awakened, one he is unfamiliar with.

That awareness yawns. Blooms at the back of his mind, where that same throbbing ache has settled. Yoongi tries to steady his breathing, but he can feel his pulse against his pillow, thumping faster and faster as your cloying scent muddles his thoughts.

You don’t say anything. You don’t reach out and touch him. You just lay there, silent and omnipresent. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, and for the first time in a very long time, he wishes that you would go to the other room and watch TV. You love watching TV. Sometimes he finds you sitting in front of it on the floor, knees tucked to your chest, chin on top of your knees while you watch a variety of shows.

Though it seems you have settled on Tokyo Ghoul as your favorite.

“Kitty?” you whisper. He holds his breath. Perhaps if he pretends he is asleep, you’ll go to sleep too. Long beats of silence stretch between you, filled only with the sound of Yoongi’s measured breathing. “I’m sorry.”

He pauses. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

Yoongi swallows past a knot in his throat. Every muscle in his body is clenching. His fingers are fisted in his blankets, and he’s curled into a ball. He doesn’t remember feeling so braced. He tries to relax, letting himself melt in the bed a little.

“For what?”

“You… need space.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to hear the tremble in your voice. You sniffle a little. The lamp on his bed flickers, catching his attention. He watches the flicker of the bulb as you cry softly behind him. He wants to turn around – wants to gather you in his arms and tuck you into his chest and yet… he doesn’t.

“A little,” Yoongi admits softly.

“Okay.”

Licking his lips, Yoongi steels himself. He rolls over in bed to look at you. You’re buried in one of his hoodies and the blanket he likes to sleep with on the couch. He can barely make out your cherubic face. Your round eyes blink at him, pools of light in the darkness of the hoodie and blanket.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Okay.”

He softens. It’s not so warm in the bed anymore, so he reaches across the space, finding your hand clutched in the blanket. You let him pry your fingers open and he traces your palm. “Just a little space, okay? I can sleep on the couch tonight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Baby-“

“I’m not tired.”

Your voice is firm. He knows that voice – it’s the one that precedes a tantrum if he’s not careful. He nods, pulling a hand away and sighing, closing his eyes. He is tired. He realizes just how tired he is.

“Good night, Kitty.”

-

Most days it’s easier to placate you.

Yoongi feels like he is worn at the edges. Hot water runs down his neck, his back. Relieves a deep ache that has begun to grow on his bones, pained turned lichen. He feels like a watercolor painting with too much liquid medium, running at the edges and blurring across a once-beautiful canvas.

Sleep comes every night, but Yoongi still wakes up tired. He misses meetings even though he has been working from home for… however long. He doesn’t know where his cell phone is. He lost it somewhere in the house – doesn’t need it much.

Water drips onto the floor as he steps out of the shower. He watches it run down milky legs, soaking into the towel. Steam permeates the air and slicks across the mirror, Yoongi’s reflection as opaque and bleary as he feels.

Yoongi heaves a heavy yawn, wiping a hand across the steam in preparation to shave. When his eyes look up at the three-paneled mirror, a shadowed creature with rows of gnashing teeth and red eyes is behind him.

A scream rips its way out of his throat, the terror is so awful that Yoongi’s knees buckles. He hits the tile hard, head smacking the cabinet. His world explodes into color as he blinks the stars from his eyes, scrambling with damp legs, slipping uselessly on the steamed tile as he backs himself into the corner of the wall and sink.

There’s nothing there. Just an open doorway.

For a few seconds, it’s just Yoongi’s heart pounding so hard that his stomach roils. He fumbles for the toilet, flipping the lid and rolling to his knees to heave the contents of dinner into the bowl. He gasps for air, stinging his vomit-burned throat as he throws up again. Stomach-churning. Lungs screaming.

When he flushes and settles against the bathtub, he hears the TV in the living room. Cool air drifts in from his bedroom. He closes his eyes and takes in deep breaths, counting in for seven and out for seven. There’s the soft patter of your feet on the carpet, and he can sense you in the doorway.

His spine always tingles when you’re around.

“Kitty? Are you okay?”

“Don’t feel good.”

“Oh kitty,” you whisper. He keeps his eyes closed. You slide closer to him and your hands are warm. When they touch his face, he feels a little energy pour back into him and he opens his eyes. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, still. “I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m sorry.”

It feels like you say that a lot these days. Yoongi nods his head and closes his eyes again as you lean forward and press yourself to his side, giving him a gentle kiss.

-

The headache is bad. But he has to know. Lays in his bed writhing in the sheets.

Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts.

Memories crack across his mind, each one hurting more than the last.

A creature of shadow. Blacking out after sex. A dead cat that hadn’t always been dead. Your innocent eyes. Your angry eyes. You smashing his phone to pieces. A doctor forging him a medical note. Blood on your hands and face as you came out of the doctor’s office.

-

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi has energy. He feels more himself. Clearer. He gets up early in the morning and makes himself coffee. He sees you lurking near the fridge, throwing him wary glances. You’re a little more worn than usual: sallow cheeks, bags under your eyes. Your eyes are as starry.

When he asks you what’s wrong, you don’t answer. You duck into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind you. He stares, a little confused and hurt before sighing. You’re touchy sometimes, and on the days like this where you’re more like a feral cat than a preening girlfriend, he knows to keep his distance.

Yoongi shrugs and tosses the sugar packet in the trash, frowning. There are empty bottoms of foam that are stained red - meat packages, he realizes. He doesn’t recall having steak at all this week, but perhaps you’re thawing it in the fridge for dinner.

He shrugs and goes to his office, leaving you to your devices.

A morning meeting kickstarts his day, and Yoongi forgets about it.

-

Yoongi has a problem.

You’re worse. You don’t want to come out of his room and you won’t go near the light. There are harsh lines around your eyes and he swears your teeth are sharper. More lethal. You won’t sleep in the same bed as he is.

Worst of all? Yoongi feels great. Feels like perhaps it was just a depressive episode he was in. He no longer feels like he is melted together at the edges, barely hanging on. But it does mean that he’s getting frustrated with you.

“Feral,” he mutters as he walks into his office after you snarled at him and then proceeded to cry because you wanted him to take the day off. “Sometimes I swear she is feral.”

-

Soft lips wake Yoongi up in the middle of the night. He stirs, feeling a tingle run down his spine. He can smell cedar, jasmine and amber and smiles. You’re pressed against him, mouth seeking his delicately, though there is some urgency behind your kisses.

Yoongi opens his mouth to you, an invitation. You suck his tongue into your mouth greedily and arousal shoots to his cock, your mouth doing wonders on his tongue. Fuck he knows you like to suck him off like that too, all greedy and sloppy and spit-slicked.

Your hands pull at his shirt and you kiss him with more fervor, lips becoming teeth, moans becoming hisses. When Yoongi rolls onto his back, pulling your hips on top of him, the dynamic changes.

A gasp escapes his kiss-bruised lips, eyes flying open as you mark his throat. Harsh stings of teeth followed quickly by lavish licks of your tongue. It’s messy and you leave a trail of spit dripping down his neck, making him squirm underneath you, cock tight against his pajama shorts.

“Fuck,” he moans when you suck that spot under his ear he loves. “Greedy devil.”

“Yes,” you shoot back, voice firm. Your hands seek his, pulling them from where they massage your ass to pin them above his head, your grip iron. “Please.”

There’s no way she’s human.

Taehyung’s words flash through Yoongi’s mind when he looks up at you. Your pupils are dilated, two black disks that absorb the barest hint of light in the room. He shivers, afraid of falling into your dark eyes and never finding his way back home.

Have your eyes always been that soulless? No, he thinks.

“Please,” you say again. “Please let me have you.”

He frowns. “You can always have me.”

You shake your head. “Not always. Too much. I take… I take too much. But now not enough. I just…” Your lip trembles and where you hold his wrist begins to ache. He whimpers and you hush him, your fingers loosening a little. “I just need some. Not a lot.”

It’s hard to understand what you’re asking for. Yoongi is lost in the sensation of fluttering in his stomach and the way blood rushes through his body. He feels high when you dip one of your hands below the waistband of his pajamas, taking a hold of his cock in your hand, thumb brushing precum from the tip.

You always take care of Yoongi. His eyes flutter shut as he feels a steady static build in his brain. Your touch is careful but deliberate, each stroke of your hand and squeeze of his shaft sending him spinning. His hips twitch under you.

When you shift down his body, he lifts his lower half off the bed, kicking at the sheets and letting you tug his bottoms down. He’s shaking and eager, unable to look down at you when you take him fully in your hand, tongue tasting the stickiness at his tip.

“Fuck,” he whispers. His hands are still above him, twisted in the pillowcase. He leaves them there, helpless as you tongue the head of his dick before sucking it into your mouth. Your tongue is gentle and your mouth is warm, the barest of sucks making him whine. “Don’t tease me.”

You hum and the vibrations make him speechless. His head rolls to the side, mouth parted, panting as he sees stars. You suck him eagerly, messily. He hears the wet pull of your mouth, the choked cough of your throat when you take him in deep and swallow.

Gentle nails scratch down his legs. He feels like he’s disconnected from the rest of the world, a single strand tethering him as he floats. He babbles as you take him in deep, a hand reaching down below his balls, a single, shy finger pressing against his tight rim.

Everything inside of Yoongi goes taught. He comes immediately and without warning. Spills in your mouth and the world fades away. There is nothing where he goes. No memories, no thoughts, no anxiety. It’s just Yoongi and he feels good – the kind of warm from a bubble bath laden with creams and salts.

Eventually, he comes back down. Opening his eyes, Yoongi sees you blink down at him. You smile, brushing light finger strokes over flushed cheeks. He grins up at you, elated. Hypnotized. You’re so… he doesn’t know the word.

There’s no way she’s human.

That phrase makes Yoongi’s smile falter. You are exquisite. Shrouded in darkness. Yoongi feels the press of unfamiliar air. When he looks beyond you, there’s just darkness. There is nothing. No light streams in from the window again. There is no soft hum of the nightlight in the bathroom where he usually leaves the door open now.

It’s just you.

Yoongi’s heart begins to speed up, panic rising.

You kiss him softly. It’s sweet and his anxiety melts away. Feels the weight of you on your hips, wet pussy dripping on his thigh. You’re being patient, which surprises him. Usually by now you’re needy, grinding your cunt on his thigh to seek friction.

“I want more,” you whisper against his mouth, fingers pressed into his cheeks. “Will you give me more?”

He nods. You lick his mouth, sighing contentedly as you roll your hips on his thigh. He moans, feeling the glide of your bare folds against his leg. You are always so ready for him, eager to take him. Easy to please. Excited to take what you want.

Shaking above him, you bury your face in his neck. Yoongi slides his hands from their position above his head, resting one hand on your thigh and sliding the other between your legs. Sticky arousal greets him, his fingers brushing up and down your cunt as you stop grinding, letting him take control.

“Kitty,” you beg, words muffle in his neck. He grins, eyes half-lidded as he plays with you. “Please, Kitty.”

Yoongi sinks two fingers in your greedy hole, feeling the way your walls flutter around him. It doesn’t matter how many times he buries his fingers, cock or tongue in you – every time is divine. Feels like something holy, taking him somewhere else.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers,” he murmurs, pressing a thumb to your clit. “Come on, baby. Wanna see you make a mess on my hands first.”

“Want your cock.”

“Fingers first, baby. Come on, you can do it.”

A growl rips through your frame. Yoongi stills under you for a moment, heart skipping. But then you move your hips and he hears your soft breath. Feels the drip down his hand. He grins, feeling you swallow his fingers as you work yourself on him, his thumb circling your clit lazily.

Nails dig into his thighs as you lean backward, spreading yourself for him. He can barely make out your figure in the darkness, but he can see the swell of your chest, the line of your neck as you toss your head back, his name falling from flushed lips and floating up to the ceiling.

When you come, it’s wet and loud. He hums, pulling drenched fingers from your legs. He surges forward, surprising you and moving you backward, letting your head bounce near the foot of the bed as he cages you in, stealing a kiss.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging and whining and rubbing against his thigh again, begging sweetly. No one has ever wanted Yoongi the way you do. Ever. He cannot recall a single time someone has been as vigorous in their pursuit.

It makes him hard again, the rush in his veins igniting once more as he slides into you. He pushes in to the hilt, settling there for a moment. You clench around him, clawing at the back of his neck and thrashing under him. Begging for more. Always wanting more. Swearing you just need a little more.

Yoongi sets a slow pace, stroking deep with a purpose. You gasp every time he fucks all the way into you. He grins against your sweaty neck, tongue licking a stripe up your salty skin. You turn your face and catch his mouth with yours, swapping more spit than kissing, moaning into one another’s mouths.

An orgasm winds tightly in Yoongi’s stomach. He feels it at the base of his spine this time, a second sense tingling as he picks up speed, slamming into you until you’re crying under him, babbling again in something that sounds like a language but isn’t quite.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck –“ He grits his teeth and the moment he comes, you squeeze him like a vice, shouting and pulling him into an orgasm so hard that he feels himself fall on top of you, the energy leaving him as quickly as his orgasm had gathered.

At some point, he falls asleep.

-

Hell on earth is waking up battered and torn at the seams. You’re out in the living room, enjoying an early morning episode of Tokyo Ghoul again. He hears you giggle at the TV and he lifts his head in the shower. The rush of the hot water is loud, but the sound of you laughing is in his head.

It always feels like you’re in his head.

Yoongi stumbles when he gets out of the shower. His feet are heavy and there is pain behind his eyes. The throbbing kind that makes him turn the lights out and shoot a text to work telling them he needs a sick day. How many sick days has he had this year? He has no idea.

Yoongi stumbles to the mattress and collapses into the sheets. Everything feels heavy like he is made of glass bones with the weight of the world threatening to break him.

Sleep comes and goes. It doesn’t make him less tired. Yoongi places a hand on his forehead.  He is not over-warm, but he wants to cry, the ache in every muscle so real that it takes him several tries to say your name.

You appear immediately, hovering at the edge of the bed in his hoodie, wrapped in a blanket.

“Are you feeling sick, Kitty?” He nods and you sniff. “I’m so sorry, Kitty… do you want some water?”

Yoongi nods again and you vanish. He rolls onto his back, groaning. He reaches for his phone. The screen is cracked from some incident or another, but it’s mildly legible as he searches his symptoms online.

When you come back with water, he thanks you with a sweet kiss and smiles when you lick his nose affectionately before darting out of the room again. He hears the show start again.

Carefully, Yoongi tries to sit up a bit. The water is cooled with two cubes – just the way he likes it – and it helps staunch the thirst. He drains the entire glass, but still, he aches with exhaustion that has no name.

Every combination he can think of brings Yoongi undesirable results. He has the fatigue of many different illnesses, but not any of the others. Mono seems the most likely, but still, it doesn’t feel right.

Yoongi considers and then types a new search: constant exhaustion after sex.

The results make him roll his eyes. He knows he’s going to get several ads for erectile dysfunction medication, but he scrolls anyways. Maybe he’s just fucking you that hard. But he does remember blacking out after sex and… well he never feels great the next day.

Slowly tapping through pages, Yoongi sighs. There’s nothing that provides much thought beyond Yoongi knowing he’s had too much sex. You’re a starving little thing, constantly wanting –

A word catches his attention: succubus.

Yoongi snorts when he opens the article. It’s a weird string of evangelical stories and musings, and overly sexualized depictions of female demons with generous breasts, shapely figures, and cute little bat wings.

The succubus needs sexual desire and energy to survive. He scoffs and wonders what heterosexual male wrote that dream.

Repeated sexual activity with a succubus will result in a bond being formed between the succubus and the host.

“Romantic,” Yoongi deadpans, scrolling up to close out the article. But a drawing catches Yoongi’s eye - a shadowy figure with rows and rows of teeth and red eyes. “Huh.”

Clicking on it, the page loads to a Reddit thread. Yoongi curses when he has to download the app, but his fingers move of their own volition, tapping across the screen as he creates a login and reopens the thread.

There are streams and streams of comments and links on the thread, a little overwhelming. As expected, it sounds like most heterosexual men overly-sexualizing women or asking about roleplaying – and yet, there’s a thread with a lot of upvotes that he clicks on.

Loss of time. Constantly exhausted. Nightmares of shadow creatures following me. Yoongi licks his lips, feeling his mouth go dry as he continues. Blackouts after sex. Not able to remember life before meeting entity. Dead animals –

“Kitty?” Yoongi flinches, dropping the phone on his stomach, hand covering his chest as his heart pounds in his ribcage. You blink in surprise, cocking your head where you stand in the doorway. A sense of dread draws a slow finger down Yoongi’s spine as he stares at you. “Do you want to come watch with me? We can put on Spirited Away.”

Loss of time. Constantly exhausted. Nightmares of shadow creatures-

“Kitty?” Yoongi has waited too long to reply. He nods his head and clears his throat. He wants to laugh at how ridiculous he’s being, shoving the phone away from him as he slowly peels himself out of bed. You grin and hold out a hand. “Thanks.”

-

Like a cat, you’re curled on the couch. Yoongi gives you a wide berth as he walks to his office. Night has passed into morning, and the flash of the screen lights the way as he opens the door, slipping through a tiny crack before he closes it softly and firmly behind him.

While watching movies, Yoongi could not help but think about the thread he had seen. He doesn’t turn the light on, too afraid of it showing under the door and tipping you off where he is.

Fear settles in the pit of his stomach. His hands are shaky as he wakes up the mouse, the computer light nearly blinding in the dark room. He jams the settings on the keyboard, turning it down a bit as he settles into the chair, taking a few breaths.

It feels ridiculous. You’re his girlfriend, not a sex-craving demon. But Yoongi finds the thread again anyways, clicking through and going back to that original subthread of people claiming to have survived an encounter with a succubus.

Time doesn’t seem to pass as Yoongi reads. He leans on his hand, eyes burning as he clicks through story after story.

Met at a bar – she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I never remember going home with her, but my life was suddenly consumed by her. I lost my job and my friends. Felt good at first, but started getting headaches any time I would try to remember something. And she was always around, always lurking around every corner.

Yoongi clicks on to the next one, stomach flipping nervously.

- I ran into a friend and she swore we hadn’t spoken in months. I remember talking to her but it felt like… they were false memories. Like I didn’t really do those things. It was strange, but I forgot again after a while.

Taehyung’s face flashes in Yoongi’s mind. His palms get sweaty as he navigates the mouse, leaning closer toward the screen. A nervous beat starts to drum up in his heart as he pours over the words and the accounts of others.

The evidence is damning, but it can’t be possible, right?

Yoongi thinks of Old Ass Han telling the story of his son being swept up by a she-demon. Yoongi doesn’t think the story is very funny anymore, and the thought of Jimin dressing up as one makes him nauseous.

Carefully, he navigates to another thread.

I was lucky. She didn’t want to kill me, but she was constantly hungry for more energy that I didn’t have. She would get cagey and feral, hissing at me and hiding in the dark, like she was weaker in the sun when she wasn’t fed. I would find packs and packs of meat rotting in the garbage like she was trying to get her fix elsewhere.

I hope that you take this thread seriously. They are real. And while they look and talk like people, they aren’t. They might grow attached to you, but they don’t love you. You are a meal – and if your succubus is only feeding off of sex, it’s only a matter of time before they need more.

Think Jennifer’s Body, people.

Yoongi has never seen that movie before. He clicks away from the thread and pulls up the trailer. It seems a little ridiculous, but he gets the idea. Sex, eat the guy, move on to the next. But you certainly have never tried to eat him.

So Yoongi clicks back to the thread and searches for something new. How to get rid of a succubus.

He leans back while the page loads, switching to a white screen. This bright, the monitor reflects what’s in front of it, Yoongi’s round and tired face, pale from lack of sleep, and a looming shadow behind him. His stomach plummets and he goes rigid in the chair, frozen with fear.

Yoongi smells cedar. Jasmine. Amber.

"Kitty is looking at bad things,” you sniffle. Your shadow grows in the computer monitor and Yoongi swears he sees the white flash of teeth before his world turns red. "I loved you, Kitty."

[cheatdeathsarchive]

META: six post sierra madre.

note: canon divergence. any npcs mentioned are in direct reference to the storyline i use for six when i write her alone, and is not what i anticipate or expect out of the rpers who portray said characters.

upon coming back to the mojave, six is traumatized, which... i mean, obviously. the first thing that six did upon coming back was beeline to the brotherhood bunker, express she had news about father elijah, and used the opportunity to infiltrate the bunker to blow it up. upon returning to the lucky 38, she is a mess.

the sierra madre jumpsuit, a bruised and chafed neck. her hair is matted, uncombed, and dirty, and she’s covered in dried blood and dirt with makeup that was applied and ruined at least a week ago. mr. house did not care about any of this when she went to see him, which was the very second thing she did. six then gives herself about a week to recover, feigning that it’s just because she wants the injuries where the collar had been around her neck to go away, but even as it’s gone she deals with much more beyond.

it takes her a bit of time, but six is able to bury deep all the trauma, heal from it some, and eventually move on best that she can. she finally closes the book on it all when dean domino makes his way to new vegas and starts performing at the tops, and when she happens upon god/dog in jacobstown who is healing and doing better as well not too long after. seeing both of them moving on makes six finally feel like maybe she can, too. both dean and dog/god’s arrival to the mojave occur post dam.

before then, however, six challenges her traumas head on thanks to knowing that it isn’t “normal” and it would definitely alarm the people who know how she tends to behave. things like walking by the king’s school and seeing the speakers outside terrifies her, for example. her usually enjoying the radio but shooting the one in her suite soon as she gets back another. she doesn’t like the way people look at her during those moments of panic.

those things are not normal, and so six spends quite some time coping in private ( that week she grants herself ) before allowing herself to go out and feign normalcy again. it is also is helpful that the war for hoover dam occurred so soon after she didn’t really have time to keep hiding away. she had places to be, things to do. she had to be there, and that distraction helped pull her back out of the sierra madre to the mojave.

i’m trying to not jump around too much. here are the main areas that affected six the most:

killing: while she has killed out of necessity and self defense before, for quite a while after returning six keeps a cosmic knife close to her at all times. she is not strong, has not been strong, nor will ever really be strong, but after killing raiders, fiends, and the ceasar’s legion assassins who tail after her, she methodically and extremely detached from herself mutiliates the bodies with the knife. it’s a reflection of the ghost people who, to her horror, kept on coming back. it was paramount to destroy their heads, and it’s something she does basically on autopilot. it just... needs to be done. it’s a reflex to ensure survival.

addiction: sleeping was unsafe anywhere the toxic cloud was. because of this, six comes back to the mojave dependent on psycho, steady, and other uppers to keep her awake. she is also addicted to sierra madre cocktails. with the help of julie farkas she is able to curb the addictions with a lot of fixer and detoxing, though she denies that sierra madre cocktails have addictive properties and continues to knock those back even after she has curbed her addiction to the others. she hides them everywhere. eventually it comes out that they are addictive, and six dumps the rest and has a very ugly time recovering from her dependency on the rat poison dorito blend.

the radio: six cannot stand the radio for awhile post return. her radio in her room she shoots until it’s a smoking mess. she makes victor take all the radios off the floor that the presidential suite is on until she misses music so much that she recruits help in someone turning on the radio and letting her take a few steps towards it, holding her breath, and seeing that it won’t blow her up. she runs dozen upon dozens of tests, disassembles and reassembles every radio in the lucky 38 she can get her hands on, and to this day the sound of radio static leaves an unpleasant feeling in her heart that takes a few moments to shake after it’s gone and music replaces it.

the collar: six does not like things around her neck, does not like people touching her neck, and does not like having her neck exposed. for a long time after, even once the physical injuries are gone, six has a small habit of holding her neck in her hands and rubbing the skin there, a soothing reminder she does not have a collar on.

her pip-boy: six paid someone to get her as many pip-boy supplies and mick and ralph would sell her. because of how elijah took away so much of her freedom with those collars, and how he spoke out of her pip-boy, a large part of her felt hypervigilant and paranoid about what might have remained in her pip-boy. she also spends a few nights, still high on things to keep her awake and alert, on breaking her entire pip-boy apart, making sure it wasn’t bugged, tampered with, etc. she finally feels comfortable enough to not do this any longer after the third time of doing it and seeing nothing had changed.

veronica, christine, and the others: this is the big one. without thinking six took vera keyes’ dress, the one from her suitcase because she had a feeling veronica would think it was beautiful. despite meeting christine and putting it all together, she didn’t tell christine that she knew about any of it. post elijah’s death, all who had been brought together by elijah met up and sort of... made sure they were all on the same page about things being safe. that the collars were not working. they took inventory, made sure that six promised up and down that elijah was dead, and then all went their own ways quietly.

six gave dean a business card to the tops and the one gold bar she could carry out. she gave dog/god a map to jacobstown. and christine, she gave elijah’s pip-boy, a kiss, and an apology that the brotherhood in the mojave was wiped out -- that ncr did it after they failed to hold poseidon energy and as the ncr was finding their footing in the mojave.

not all of it was a lie -- and the parts that were lies that six could correct she did upon immediately returning.

something else to add but doesn’t deserve it’s own whole category is that it only reinforces her absolute fear of the dark, people sneaking up behind her, and loud booming noises.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - light nsfw, stalking, and mild spoilers for chapter 6.

Idia has a few specific videoes he likes to watch when he's in a bad mode. You feature in all of them, of course.

His small collection's grown over the past few months, ever since you let him install 'security cameras' in Ramshackle. He used to be able to get by on a few scraps - a second of you in the background of some NPC's magicam livestream, a few candids he stole as you passed him in the hallway - but he doesn't have to be so sparing, anymore, and he can't imagine ever going another day without being able to watch you wake-up in real time, or listen to you hum to yourself as you cook, or jerk himself off while you take advantage of one of the few nights you have the dorm to yourself. He has a backlog of recordings he likes to go over during dry patches, and there are about a hundred hours of your voice stored on his phone, little clips of conversations with whatever side character you'd been talking to cut out. And that's without counting what he has locked away in his private collection, obviously.

He knows it's not a great hobby. You probably wouldn't like it, if you knew, and he's self-aware enough not to brag about the things he's seen you do (although, admittedly, he doesn't really have anyone to brag to). He never drags Ortho into it, even if a second pair of eyes would make his life so much easier, and he's careful abut safe-guarding his collection, labelling every file something innocent and innocuous and encrypting every folder to the best of his exceptional abilities. He doesn't plan on blackmailing you, or spreading any of his videos around, or doing anything the cliché stalker character in some half-assed survival horror visual novel might would, and he knows better than to make a picture of you undressing his phone's background or start spreading rumors about the kinds of things you like to send people, no matter how much he wishes you'd actually show him any of this willingly. He's not stupid, and he respects you. He'd never embaress you like that... well, not unless you asked him to. Not unless he thought it'd bring you that much closer to him.

It's not like he's hurting you, either. You clearly don't know how much time he spends with his hand around his cock, edging himself as he watches you grind against your pillow and imagines how disgusted you'd be if you knew what he was really like. You still smile when you see him in the hallways, still talk to him during Housewarden meetings, and you're still as sweet to him as you are to everybody else, which might be why he finds himself drooling over the thought of you being a little less nice to him so often. You're just so cute, so oblivious. It's hard not to fantasize about how condescending you'd be if you ever found out about his special interests, if you ever find out what a pervert he is. Or, when you find out, rather.

He's going to tell you, one day. After he graduates, after he takes over STYX, after he manages to find a way to keep the one thing that makes his life bearable by his side for another few years. Ortho will understand, once Idia finds a way to explain how he feels about you, and you'll get used to it too, even if he knows you won't like it, at first. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to that, if he tried to make it seem like he'd never considered how your hands would feel wrapped around his neck, how your voice would sound as you called him all kinds of dirty things. It'll take years, but he's willing to wait. He'd be willing to do anything, for you.

In the meantime, he has a few videos that might be able to tide him over.

[dirtyhecker]

the morning after

I’ve got the Quarry brainrot, as the kids say. Since I can’t sit through that whole-ass podcast at the end of the game, I thought I’d try writing some brief epilogues. I’ve only done Dylan since he’s best boy, but maybe I’ll do others. No promises though 😆

***

Dylan wakes up to the steady blip-blip-blip of a heart monitor, head muzzy and body feeling like it’s weighed down by bricks. It takes him a long time to even manage blinking his eyes open, and when he does he can feel his pupils contracting painfully. The room he’s in is dimly lit--the only bright light is gleaming in through the open doorway, and it makes his eyes water.

He lifts his left hand, forgetting for a moment under the haze of whatever drugs are dripping into him from the IV hanging by the bed. So, he’s in the hospital, and--oh. Right. His arm ends in a stump, stopping short just where a hand should be, but isn’t anymore. Weird, that he can still kinda feel it there. It’s like, what’s it called? Phantom limb syndrome. Like the ghost of his left hand is haunting the rest of his body.

This strikes him as vaguely funny, but he starts laughing like it’s the greatest joke he’s ever told. And like, it’s up there, sure. Ghost hand, that’s solid comedy right there. But it’s not this funny. Still, he feels pretty good. He feels…safe, warm. Contented. So what if he’s down one hand? He’s alive, right? That means he came out on top, he fucking survived the horror movie. Dylan Lenivy, the real life Final Girl, only--only everybody else is alive, too right? So, like, one out of nine, basically. Same difference. 

It’s a good feeling; the relief of having made it through the worst night anyone’s ever had is a bigger high than the drugs. That is, until he tries to move his right hand.

Clang. Something tugs at his arm, and he lifts his head just enough to look down. There’s a gleaming band of metal around his right wrist, and at first he doesn’t understand, because it doesn’t make any sense. But there’s another band snapped around the bed supports, and it’s linked to the one around his wrist, like--like--

“What the fuck?” he mutters to himself. 

Why the fuck is he handcuffed to his hospital bed? A dim sense of panic strikes him, and begins eating through the pleasant fuzz of morphine-induced euphoria. Why is he handcuffed to his hospital bed? He tries to wrack his bran, tries to move his hand again to rub at his temples, but of course--he can’t. Because of the handcuffs. Right. 

What does he remember, from before being here? There’s the lodge, of course, he and Kaitlyn trying to avoid one of the fucking werewolves that had been hounding their asses all night. A glimmer of sunlight through the kitchen windows, the cold metal of a cast iron pan in his grip. He’d found Kaitlyn in the mess hall, and a naked Caleb Hackett huddled in the fireplace. Then…then the whoop of a police siren, and the sudden onset of horrible, bone-searing pain as the last dregs of adrenaline evaporated from his battered meat-suit. 

Did he remember…shouting? Get on the ground! Hands behind your head! He’d been so out of it by then he couldn’t form a functioning thought. He also vaguely recalled the ground rushing up to meet him, and then…

Then he was here. With one hand missing and the other chained to the bed. 

“Oh. Fuck.”

That about summed it up, right there. The fuckedness of his situation. Why handcuff an unconscious, badly wounded teenager unless they thought he’d done something unconscionably illegal? Dylan hadn’t done anything, though. All he had done was run for his life for about eight hours straight. Oh, and gotten his hand chainsawed off after being bitten by a goddamn werewolf. What kind of cop was gonna believe that, though? 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. A figure suddenly fills the doorway, and the lights click on. Dylan flinches, blinking rapidly to clear the bright spots from his vision as a heavy-sounding tread fills the room. When he can see through the wet in his eyes, which is only partly caused by the lights, there’s a cop standing at his bedside. An absolute unit of a cop, that is, a bulldozer of a man with a steely grey moustache and a stern expression that would cow a charging grizzly bear. 

“Dylan Lenivy?” he asks.

“Uh. Yes?” Dylan says, though he’s not exactly sure he wants to be, at this very moment.

“I’m Officer Parsons. I’d like to ask you a few questions, son,” says the cop, pulling out a tiny pad of paper and a pencil, just like on the police procedurals Dylan’s mom loves to watch. 

“Oh, okay,” Dylan says, because, like what does one say to a cop who’s looking at you like you’re already guilty? 

Dylan’s a straight A student with a 4.0 GPA, so he’s not exactly used to authority figures mean-mugging him like this. Whenever he would goof off in class, he had earned enough good will from his teachers that they’d just roll their eyes, or even trade a few quips with him. Even when he was at his most sarcastic this past summer, he’d never been outright mean to anybody. Well, not usually. So, why did he have a sneaking suspicion that this cop thought he was some sort of lowlife scumbag?

“What is your relationship to the Hackett family?” asks officer Parsons.

“Well, um. I worked at the summer camp. Mr. H…Chris Hackett is my boss, and Kaylee and Caleb came around to hang out sometimes. I don’t…I don’t really know the rest of the family.”

“Where were you last night, roundabout midnight?”

Dylan doesn’t know how to answer this. Time basically stopped having any meaning for him, right around the point when Ryan gave him an emergency hand-ectomy via chainsaw. 

“Uh, am I under arrest, officer?” Dylan asks slowly. His voice sounds weary and strained to his own ears. 

“Not at this very moment, no,” says the cop.

“Then…why…?” Dylan shakes his right hand, rattling the cuffs.

“It’s just a precaution. For your own safety, son,” Officer Parsons tells him, which makes absolutely zero sense. Because, his safety from what, exactly? Did they think he was some kind of Agent 47 who’d come straight out of a doped-up nap and sneak out of the hospital to do assassin shenanigans? He wasn’t exactly in fighting shape right now. Even with both hands, he didn’t see what sort of trouble he could have gotten into. Hell, he’d never so much as thrown a punch in his life. 

“That’s…,” he begins, trails off. Another thought occurs to him. “Are my friends okay?”

“I’m asking the questions, here, all right?” the cop says sternly. “Where were you at midnight last night? And around three AM, for that matter.”

“I…I don’t know, I…” 

He’s not under arrest. They haven’t read him his rights, but this asshole cop is still grilling him. Use your goddamn brain, Dylan, he tells himself. In the cop shows, asking for a lawyer always makes the suspect look guilty, but he knows that’s bullshit. Copaganda. He’s not answering any more questions. He shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, but morphine’s a hell of a drug, apparently. Even now, he still feels dull and hazy and he’d really, really like to go back to sleep, and tell this cop to lay off of him. 

“I’m…I think I’m gonna remain silent on this, actually,” he says. “Y’know, like how it’s my right to do that? And, I want a lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest, I’m not obligated to call a lawyer for you,” Parsons practically sneers.

“Then…Then I want my mom,” Dylan says, and he can’t look at the cop anymore, his voice shaking. He suddenly feels very small and alone, like a little kid waking up from a nightmare, calling out for his mommy. Have they even called his mom yet, told her what happened? Why isn’t she here? Where…where are his friends? Are they all sitting in cold interrogation rooms, getting brow-beaten like he is right now? Do they know they don’t have to say anything?

“Fuck,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He tries to bring both hands to his face again, like a complete idiot, and metal jangles on one side, and on the other he’s greeted by pristine white bandages and an invisible hand. So, he says it again, more softly but with feeling. “Fuck.” 

[ofherbalisms]

   𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑨𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑬𝑹𝑼𝑷𝑻𝑺 from behind the duo, radiating the party's vivacity, Reuven feels a dawning of new exhaustion with it. The introvert's achilles heel is always this: a weathering of energy by stimuli only. He feels the preceding weeks had been too full—he had seen too many things, and spoken to too many people, and had not spent enough time in his solitude with the plants or books to offset it. Still, he, much like Santiago, cannot resign to sleep for his own body will betray him. Sleep, now, comes only as a chain thrown secure around neck, dragging him to his knees. It is a surrender to the night and to the pitfalls of humanity. At night, he dreams of sparkling rivers and bustling streets; of waiting in line at restaurants and office hours spent reassuring a near-failing student; of back pressed firm against blown out wall, and motions towards his inferiors to wait. He dreams of a life he used to complain so readily about, and yearns so desperately for it now. The concept of the dead morphing into some other folklore thought never before possible might be more humorous if they all had not roamed the earth hiding from those demons, so animated and wretched. He wants to comment about how horror movies couldn't compare, but it catches in his throat, as he imagines, fleetingly, a life where they might all tell their grandkids about the time the dead ruled the world.

    But he knows that there will be no grandkids. And if there are, this life will not be some nostalgic story to report on, far removed from their present. It will be front and center, and those they birth will be smack dab in the middle of it. A grim prospect nonetheless. "Yeah, pain in the ass," he echoes and worries for how much annoyance will morph into genuine trouble in his coming years. He is only a decade away from Omar's age. Will he be able to protect himself as he is now? Or will he die the inevitable come pounding on the door; come ripping him apart alive, when his body begins to fail him? And when, when will that be?

    Lately he has been asking himself why. For years, he believed he had been robbed of everything; he had nothing left to lose. Those days were the darkest of his existence, and in them he thought of his ancestors, and how they had survived horrors he could not fathom. He wondered of starvation and confinement, and terror and agony, and how and why. Ultimately, he understood that he had not lost everything after all. He still possessed his dignity, and if he were to continue he would do so as his ancestors did and why they did. He survived if only to honor their fight, for how could he and how dare he give up when they survived so that he could breathe? No, he thinks of undead werewolves and does not truly resign to the concept as unwinnable. He thinks of his current life and knows that to fight for his place in the next day's existence is to pay homage to his ancestors, and to feel the generations of survivors coursing through his veins, and to know that even though he might joke or worry about some unconquerable force ripping him from this earth, that he would never go gentle into that goodnight. It wasn't in his veins. "You think they would match the lore? They got zombies pretty far off in the comic books... Uglier son-of-a-bitches in real life."

it wasn't much of a surprise when pretending to be in the celebratory mood hit its exhausting limit, but rather than call it an early night and head home, santiago stepped outside to take a few quieter moments to himself. as appealing as going home instead sounded, the reality was he would likely spend his time tossing and turning before inevitably heading back out to aimlessly stroll until his body was too exhausted to do anything other than sleep. while that was the norm on most any other night, it seemed somewhat disrespectful to all the hard work everyone had put into making the evening special for omar and maybe to omar himself. then again, maybe no one would actually think too much of it, especially when santiago's efforts weren't all that successful at masking his lingering worries.

before he can spend any longer contemplating how to spend the rest of the evening, the shuffling of the other pulled him out of his thoughts. "fuck." his curse wasn't really directed at the other. after all, it wasn't entirely the other's fault with how on edge santiago had spent the last year. and in a strange way, he was almost thankful to have something bring him back to the present. he shook his head, "it's fine. i just wasn't expecting things to be that much quieter out here." as if on cue a thunderous choir of laughter erupted back inside — only slightly muffled through the door.

the following comment got a small eyebrow raise from santiago. "would it make much of a difference?" he didn't think it would. the undead and werewolves both wreaked havoc with whoever they'd once been having no say or control in the matter — that particular detail echoing a conversation he spent many nights trying to forget. "i mean, i guess if anything they'd be a bigger pain in the ass to get rid of, silver bullets and all." the comment was tacked on in a small effort to humor the idea rather than continue to dwell on things that couldn't be changed.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: M for mature. Blood, more blood, heavy language, seriously lots of blood. Literally the bloodiest/most detailed thing I've written. Genre: Super angst with some fluff to ease the pain. We're talking putting honey in your cup of poison to make it taste better. The ending is split, with both a happy and a sad ending. Warnings: Minor surgery (technically?) while the patient is fully awake (that's the reader, btws), blood loss, graphic depiction of a wound and how said wound is taken care of. Possible trigger for self-harm, as the reader is performing part of the surgery themselves. Also brief mention of cannibalism in the bad ending. This may very well be a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat sort of thing. Notes: While I have more medical knowledge than the average person, due to my Girl Scouts training + having a mother as a nurse, I am in no way shape or form a medical professional, and do not suggest that the methods of treatment used in this fic be taken seriously. If you find yourself seriously injured, do not attempt to replicate anything you read here. Only a portion of this is based on a real-ass incident I went through, the rest is based on a dream, and what I experienced was not what you want to do in an emergency.

{Wounded Love}

This was a mistake. Blood stains your leg, your fingers, and bruises start to form all over your exhausted body. And for what? Why had you, a tiny, fragile human, dared to pass through this damned, lycan-infested forest? Because a woman who didn’t even love you asked you to. Now you were going to die, body certain to get left out in the cold or reduced to a pile of gnawed bones. If you had more strength remaining, you might have slammed your hand into the ground in frustration, or screamed until your lungs burned from something other than frost.

But that wouldn’t get you anywhere. Wouldn’t help you get back to the castle, wouldn’t ease the racing of your heart. So you settle for the only thing that might do any good: One quick motion pulls the scarf from your neck, sending a chill down your spine that you promptly ignore. Even with shaky hands and numb fingers, your experience is enough to let you wrap the cloth around your leg, tying the ends in a knot to secure it. The pressure hurts, just not enough for you to prefer bleeding out. A test step reveals that walking is mildly more difficult now.

“I’m going to haunt her,” you muse, under your breath, tears starting to freeze at the corner of your eyes. Still, you are as quietly determined as ever, and so once more you limp down the path. Every time you put weight on your injured leg it protests harder. If not for the snow and ice covering the ground, you might have quickly searched for a walking stick. “What could be so important about this damn package? Couldn’t Doug or whatever-his-fucking-name-is deliver it? Man can practically teleport, and here I am, watching as blood loss and hypothermia race to see who can kill me first.”

Gods were you angry. Why had this happened so soon after you had settled in? Finally you had been comfortable in Castle Dimitrescu, no longer as frightened of the residents, even finding them… charming, in a way. Then the Lady of house called to you for what she claimed to be a simple errand. You had believed her, even when she explained that you would have to leave the relative safety of her home. What a fool you had been.

“What a fool she must be,” you murmur, “to think me safe here. To think I could outlast wolfmen prowling the village outskirts.” Would she even care if she saw you now? Would she be surprised, disappointed? Would she do something to change your fate? There was no reason for her to do so. It didn’t matter how much you had helped her, how much she claimed to appreciate what you did (heavy lifting, repair of clothing, massages). You were as replaceable as any other Maiden there was. And that, that was what made you have a double-take. It came to you in that moment, a thought so painful that you could not deny it was the truth. “She never thought I would survive.”

Bitterness coats your tongue, like blood in your throat, and your brain demands that you destroy your cargo, the very thing that got you sent here in the first place. You almost do it. Feet stopping, arms shrugging the carrying straps off, bloody hands taking hold of it. Tears fall, just two, and hit the package. At that moment your plan changed. This new idea would be far, far more satisfying… as long as you succeeded.

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

Spite was one hell of a drug. Enough of it and you could march your warm corpse right back to the castle, fist banging on the front door with everything you had. The path had been shorter than you thought, thankfully, but it had still taken so much out of you. Now you were leaning against the door, sliding down it, unable to support your own weight. Nothing inside the castle stirred. Were they ignoring you? Was Alcina really going to let you die inches from your “home”? Fuck that, you thought.

“Alcina!” You scream, loud as you can, startling the birds in the distant trees. The word echoes around you and rattles inside your ribs. It’s not enough. “Damn it, I am seconds away from dying, get out here now so I can look you in your fucking eyes!” Something tears a little in your throat, turning the last of your words into a hellish screech, leaving you to gasp and croak in the snow. You go to wipe your tear-filled eyes with your hands, only to remember just how much blood they’re covered in.

Sobs overtake you in just a few moments. You’re blinded by tears, deafened by sorrows, and numb from all the cold. In the aching seconds before you black out, you can only barely make out the silhouette of someone rushing to your side…

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

The first thing you feel when you wake up is mind searing pain. You try to jolt upwards, only to find a pair of strong, gloved hands holding you down. Someone shouts something, but you can’t make it out, and you feel another hand gently squeeze one of your own. Pained gasps escape your throat one after the other, but whatever is hurting you doesn’t stop. It takes a full minute for you to adjust enough to make sense of where you are. At last, you understand what’s being said.

“-it’s okay, shhh, please, we’re trying to help,” says none other than Lady Dimitrescu herself. She’s the one holding your hand, doing her best not to hurt you with her grip, trying desperately to calm you down. One the other side of you, Cassandra is positioned to hold you down. There’s a tight-lipped scowl on her face, and her brow is furrowed, but she’s not looking at your face, but rather eying somewhere in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, you find her older sister is sitting near your injured leg, and is undeniably the source of some of your pain. In one hand she holds a bottle of alcohol (notably not the wine her family produces), the other holding a wet cloth to your wound. No wonder it stings so much.

“Shit, shit, stop,” you growl, barely getting the words out. But all anyone does is look at you. Alcina’s mouth opens to speak, only for you to cut her off. “I’ve got medical training, for the love of Mother Miranda let me help! How long have I been unconscious?” This time Bela stops, glancing at her mother for direction. The grip on your torso grows looser, with Cassandra evidently heeding your words, and you take the chance to sit up, careful not to move your leg. At this point you realize that there’s a needle of sorts in your arm, attached to a tube, which trails up into a blood bag. It’s clearly been improvised with equipment from the “wine-making” part of the castle.

“Fifteen minutes at most,” a new voice chimes, from somewhere behind you. “I got that cloth you wanted, mother, but something tells me I’m not done fetching things.” Ah, Daniela Dimitrescu. Was the whole family helping you?... Why? As much as you wanted answers, there wasn’t (currently) time for questions. Not when one glance at your leg tells you that some of your flesh is rapidly decomposing. The wound was made only an hour ago, and already it was getting deadlier than you could even process.

“I need a sharp, clean knife, a needle with thread, a glass of water, and someone needs to put a metal tool, sterilized, on the stove, right now,” you said, finding it easier to talk now that no one was cleansing your wound. Without hesitation Daniela dispersed into a cloud of insects, heading towards the kitchen, while Cassandra stood up and moved towards the stairs.

“Guess I’ll get the needle,” she said, sounding rather unenthusiastic.

“What are you planning?” Alcina asks, more concerned than you had ever heard her before. Attempting to reassure her, you manage a small smile before explaining.

“Got scratched and slobbered on by a lycan. Whatever they have, it’s infectious. If I want to save my leg, or at least have a chance at surviving, I have to take measures to reduce the likelihood of an infection,” you say. Now Alcina is slowly stroking her thumb across your hand, eyes narrowed with concern. There’s a look on her face that you can’t quite parse, something she’s not saying. For now you ignore it and continue going over your plan. “The best thing would be to amputate. The tourniquet might have helped prevent the saliva from getting further into my body- and I do mean might- but I can’t keep it on forever. Problem is… I don’t want to lose it. God, I’m terrified of that, and with what we have in the castle I… I’d be more likely to die of shock than not. So, well, forget that idea.

“I’m just going to remove the wound. By making a bigger wound. It’s crazy, I know, but this will kill me if we do nothing. It will probably kill me if we do. The technical term is some shit like ‘de-bride-ing’?... No, debridement, I think. Except normally the poor fucker getting cut open is asleep for the procedure.” By the time you’re done, Lady Dimitrescu is looking at you with horror. Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the idea. “Look, if this is too much… if it’s not worth saving me, if you’d rather give me a quick death, I understand. If I were-”

“Don’t be foolish, dear. You will not die, not as long as something can be done about it,” Alcina replies, quickly, eager to stop hearing you talk about dying. It’s… strange to hear her sound so confident about saving you, even stranger to realize what she called you. As if reading your thoughts, she shifts in her seat, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Shyness didn’t suit her, and you imagined it was more about her finding the right words. When she speaks, she’s looking right at you again. “I have hesitated to tell you the truth, and now I find the world playing a cruel trick on me, trying to take that which I adore. But I don’t want to aggravate your stress right now. Please, think nothing of what I have said.”

Before you could reply, footsteps reached your ears, and soon enough Daniela returns. In one hand she holds a large pitcher of water. In the other? Several knives, of various sizes, one of which you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Cassandra playing with before. As soon as you see her your face lights up, glad to be able to start the procedure.

“Oh thank fuck- or, I mean, thank you, Lady Daniela,” you stutter, reaching out as she offers you the items. Thankfully Bela had already made room on the table at your side, where she had set the bottle of alcohol down. For a moment you had forgotten that she was there. Had she already known about her mother’s feelings? Based on her lack of reaction, you could only assume that she was well aware. “I’m gonna scream, B-T-dubs. Just, uh, cover your ears?” You offer, already holding your chosen knife (big enough to be effective, small enough to offer precision).

“So… you’re going to do this yourself? Didn’t think you had it in you, red. Try not to cut anything important. Wouldn’t want to have to clean that mess up,” Daniela teases. As soon as she’s finished she has to shift into a swarm, as Bela flat out throws a knife at her. For a moment you freeze, watching as Alcina rises to her full height, staring her eldest daughter down. Behind her, Daniela reforms, clearly using her mother as a shield. “I was just trying to relieve the tension, jeez. It’s like you think she’s already dead.”

“Don’t speak another word!” Alcina snaps, sending a frightening stare towards Daniela. You cough, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Bela is pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, clearly tired of dealing with her sister’s sense of humor. “No one will speak a word until this is finished, unless my dear needs something, understood?” Both the girls nod at that, neither feeling a need to risk any further ire.

“I’m just going to start working now,” you awkwardly chime, taking a deep breath before leaning in towards your injured leg. On closer inspection you can see a strange, dark residue in the wound. They’re specks, scattered along the length of it, and they seem more common the closer you look to the gash’s center. Gross, you think. Half curious, half checking for legitimate reasons, you bring your other hand to the cut and gently spread both sides apart. It hurts like hell, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. But sure enough, the residue is practically solid at the deepest point of the wound. “Those lycans really should be on leashes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daniela exchange looks with Bela, but neither of them disobey their mother (yet). Shaking the thought away, you finally get to the brunt of the task at hand. Your hand moves slowly, reluctant to inflict such damage against its own body. As soon as the tip of the knife touches your skin, you start to doubt your ability to do this. It takes looking at Alcina, seeing the way she watches you with equal parts concern and tenderness, to remind you why you’re doing this. Death just wasn’t something you could accept right now; not after what she had said, what she had implied.

The knife is fantastically sharp. Hardly any pressure is needed before your flesh gives away, cells letting go of their neighbors like it was a casual affair. You start at the left side of your injury, digging down a little, trying to only go as deep as you needed to. Tears formed in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away. As the first of many screams leaves your mouth, you turn and twist the knife, cutting to the right, then up. Like scooping the seeds out of a pumpkin. Fresh blood springs from the wound, starting to fill up the crevice. Quickly you discard the skin you removed by tossing it into the same bowl that Bela had put a bloody towel in earlier.

“Yes,” you shudder through gritted teeth, “this hurts so fucking bad. No, I don’t need someone to take over yet.” At this point neither of the present sisters are looking at you, seeming oddly uncomfortable at the sight of you cut up like this. Hadn’t they done worse to your fellow Maidens?... Whatever, the thought couldn’t last long when you still had work to do.

Next you take a fresh, damp cloth and dab at your injury, ignoring how it throbbed beneath your touch. Then you resumed cutting, forced to press the knife deeper in order to remove the spreading residue. If you had been a scientist, this would have been utterly fascinating to observe. Whatever had been in the lycan’s saliva was slowly eating at your flesh, but not outright dissolving it. No, it simply left the skin where it was, but killed and rapidly broke it down. Yes, it would have been fascinating, if not for the fact that there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to outpace the bacteria.

With this in mind you force yourself to hold in your next scream, hoping to make it easier for you to focus. The knife continued to cut, going lower, setting nerves alight as it did. Your vision starts to blur, and for a few seconds you think you’re going to black out. Someone says something you don’t hear, and then suddenly there’s a hand on top of your own. When your vision clears you see Bela is responsible, her grip keeping you from dropping the knife. She doesn’t let go until you give her a clear nod. Even then, she seems reluctant to let you continue.

Around this time is when Cassandra returns. Her footsteps catch your attention (it’s your understanding that carrying objects is much harder in swarm mode), and you spare her a quick glance before getting back to work. A few moments later she’s placing a set of needles and a long spool of thread next to you. Ironically, they’re the same tools that you’ve used to repair and adjust Alcina’s dresses over the past year. Hopefully they work just as well on flesh, you think. Your next thoughts are canceled out by unbelievable pain. More cries leave your lips, and your hand starts shaking. Panic is settling in fast, your movements getting sharper, leading you to make a brash decision: Time to care less about precision and more about speed.

“Distract me, please,” you gasp between grunts. No one responds at first, and you know they need clarification. Speaking is getting harder by the second, but you do your best. “Brain can’t process many stimulants, same time. Just- fuck- trace skin around wound, touch hair, anything.” Somewhere between your semi-broken sentences and screams, Alcina gets the message. She’s moving closer, now, behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing gentle circles on your undamaged leg. Across from you Daniela is too busy pacing to help, though you can hardly blame her.

“Should I get the metal thing from the stove?” Cassandra asks, silently hoping that Dani hadn’t assumed someone else was going to handle that part. You’re still in too much pain to talk, so you half nod half grunt in response. Not bothering to say anything, the middle child takes off, swarm moving at what might be a new speed record.

As much as your hands are shaking, you still manage to cut away another strip of flesh, tossing it aside with even less care than before. This time Bela wipes the wound for you, practically reading your mind. The moment her hands are completely out of the way you start cutting again, crying out, throat shredded to pieces from all your screaming. Alcina sounds like she might be close to sobbing, but she doesn’t stop her movements, doing her best to distract you just like you had asked. Even Bela helps, now, tracing spots around your injury whenever she knows she won’t be in your way. The effect is minor, in the end, hardly making a dent in how much pain you’re processing.

If you survive this, though, you’re hugging every daughter as tight as you can and showering them with affection… but only after you finish doing the same for their mother.

“You are so brave,” Alcina murmurs next to your ear. It’s even clearer now how close she is to crying, her voice seconds away from cracking. Hearing her like this almost hurts as bad as the initial lycan attack did. “You are so strong. No other mortal could ever be your match. Do you understand, my dear? You are blessed, divine, and I love you so much.”

In any other setting, her words would leave you melting in her arms, radiating affection so strongly that you might as well have been radioactive. Instead, you are unable to respond, or even look her way. All you can do is press the knife to your skin again, showing your own feelings by destroying yourself for her.

The blade is starting to find more resistance, and you’re having to pause more often, spots appearing in your vision. Going faster only makes things worse, your hand threatening to slip. You’re determined to finish this, no matter what, but your need to control the situation is gradually making things worse. Alcina notices this before you do, and acts before you have a chance to protest.

“Bela, the knife,” she says, then tightens her grip on your waist. Your confusion shifts to panic as your arm is carefully, but forcefully, pulled away from your wound. “Can you finish the job?” It takes you a few moments to realize that Alcina isn’t talking to you. No, she’s speaking to her eldest daughter, who doesn’t hesitate to take the knife away from you. It’s so easy for her, between her strength and your weakness. “Don’t struggle. Let us finish this.”

Protests rise from your throat and die in your mouth. Pain flares harder now that Bela isn’t distracting you. Once more your vision goes dark, but this time there’s no pause, no hesitation. You are suffering, horribly, and the Dimitrescu family refuses to make you hurt longer than necessary. It’ll be over soon, you think, not knowing whether you refer to your pain or your life itself.

Something wet drops onto the back of your neck, then darkness overtakes you…

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

“Damn those lycans, I should string Heisenberg up myself! They’re his responsibility, after all,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Now that you’re unconscious, unable to hear what ails her, she feels free to voice her thoughts. “The damn things should never have come close to the path to the village.”

“What if she strayed from the path? Wouldn’t that explain it?” Bela suggests, even as her hands work to remove what seems to be the last piece of dead/infected flesh from your leg. She hates how the words feel in her mouth, hates suggesting that you of all people might have betrayed her mother’s trust. But it makes sense. After all, this whole mess, with you leaving the castle to retrieve a mysterious package, was all a test to see if you would try to run. It hadn’t been her idea, and Bela admitted to herself that she thought it was unnecessary.

“On the way back? Why would she bother getting the package if she intended to run?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, right as Cassandra returns. The middle child is practically juggling the metal spatula she’s carrying, irritated (not harmed) by the heat it produced. One of her brows perks up when she hears the conversation, but she keeps any thoughts she has to herself.

“Just a thought, mother, I didn’t quite believe it myself,” Bela chimes, after a pause. With that said she holds up her hand with pride, clutching between her fingers the last of the decaying flesh. The way the others react, one might have thought that a miracle had been performed. Daniela clapped her hands together, giggling a little, and finally stopped her pacing. “Don’t celebrate too much, now,” Bela reminded her, taking the spatula from Cassandra as she did. “There’s still plenty to do. It’s a good thing she’s not awake for this part.”

A good thing, indeed. She uses her fingers to spread the remaining skin a little, giving a quick examination, then deciding that she had successfully removed all remaining residue. Keeping her fingers where they were, she pressed the side of the spatula to your skin, putting the most pressure at the center of the wound. Three seconds passed, then she lifted her hand. A pause. She pressed it back into place, keeping a close eye on the affected area. This repeated several times, the gaps being necessary to prevent unintentional damage. Once the wound seemed properly closed she set the spatula aside.

“Is that it?... Did we save her?” Daniela asks, opting to finally sit down in a nearby chair. Something about her word choice makes both of her sisters scoff.

“I could sew it closed, as a precaution, but there’s no way I’d do it the way she had intended. It might be best to just give her time to rest, and see what she thinks when she gets back up,” Bela answers. For a moment her words hang in the air, but eventually Alcina gives a little nod and a hum.

“Very well. I shall carry her to my quarters, where she won’t be disturbed. Please, let one of the Maidens know to bring some food up this evening,” Alcina says, gently taking you into her arms as she does…

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

BAD ENDING: It’s been six hours, with no sign of you waking up. Your other wounds had been examined, cleaned, and bandaged. Food had been carefully prepared and brought up to you, though it now remained on the bedside table, untouched. Alcina has gone to call Mother Miranda, intending to speak to her about the growing unrest of the lycans, as Heisenberg hadn’t answered his phone. For the first time since you returned you are alone. It is now, of all times, that you awaken. A gasp sends you into a coughing spree, forcing you into a sitting position. The space around you feels like it's moving, and your vision blurs. Blood spills from your mouth as you finally regain the ability to breathe.

Seconds later your vision clears, but what you see is enough to make you wish you couldn’t. The blood that spilled onto the sheets is a dark red… with even darker spots scattered throughout it. All at once you know what happened: Residue had hidden from you, or gone deeper than your wound, infecting you before you ever stood a chance. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but something deeper starts calling to you. Something older. Darker. It drags you to your feet, ignores the pain of your wounds, and sends you out the bedroom door.

Your mind is racing, thoughts never quite clear enough for you to understand. It doesn’t feel like you’re in control of your own movements. Was something else in charge, or were you operating on an infection powered autopilot? Answers weren’t coming, just bloodshed.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed yet!” A voice calls out to you, making you turn to investigate. On the other end of the hallway is a maiden, one you instantly recognize. You’ve worked with her before, plenty of times, tag-teaming more tasks than you could count. She was like a sister to you. When she sees the blood staining your clothes, she gasps, then moves to support you. “Please, Lady Dimitrescu will be so upset if you-” her words melt into a blood curdling scream. For a moment you don’t understand.

And then you swallow, a chunk of hot meat slipping down your throat, and the scream dies down.

“What?...” You whisper, finally tasting the blood in your mouth, watching as your friend’s body falls to the floor. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from her neck, and the dots connect themselves in your head. You did that. Every part of you wants to scream, wants to cry out and beg someone to come kill you. Instead you fall to your knees, hard, uncaring. Your hands move themselves, grasping at the still warm corpse. Something has made you stronger, or at the very least removed the mental limits that kept you from destroying yourself. Flesh gives under your touch, tearing like paper, and you start crying as it reaches your mouth.

Footsteps approach, thundering fast, and you want to warn whoever it is. When you turn to look, you feel your hands let go of your meal. Your gaze meets that of a stunned Cassandra Dimitrescu, then drifts to the sickle in her hand.

“Kill me,” you growl, voice distorted, practically echoing. “Kill me now!” Not needing to be told a third time, Cassandra moves lightning quick, swarm-jumping forward before manifesting behind you, sickle dragging across your throat in one smooth motion. But it’s not enough. She realizes this, though, and slams her foot into your back, sending you tumbling forward. It’s enough to prevent you from countering, which gives her time to advance again, this time pulling a knife from her boot and driving it into the center of your back. When you scream, it’s not with your own voice, but that of a monster.

“Fucking fuck, what the fuck, red?” Daniella asks as she rounds the corner, eyes immediately landing on your bloodsoaked mouth. She’s quick to take in the scene, drawing a conclusion easily, even if it breaks her heart a little. Your vision fades as she approaches, and you know that it’s finally over. If only you had expired a few seconds earlier… because the last thing you hear is the startled cry of your would-be lover.

“No! No, darling, what happened-” Alcina finishes her sentence, but you do not hear it. You do not hear anything, anymore. You do not know it… but there will be hell to pay for your death.

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

GOOD ENDING: When you awake, you find yourself in the softest sheets you’ve ever touched, a warm and familiar presence next to you. The first thing you see is Alcina’s sleeping face next to your own. She’s on her side, one arm around your waist, the covers pulled up to her hip. Warmth fills your chest as you take in the sight. For a few moments you just… appreciate this. Never before had you imagined that you would get to wake up next to the woman you loved so much. A sigh, one of bliss, leaves your lips. Slowly you move forward, gently placing a kiss to Alcina’s cheek. Seconds later her eyelids flutter open, and she tiredly takes you in.

“You’re… awake,” she murmurs, hardly awake herself. But her fatigue doesn’t last long. As soon as she’s fully processed the situation her eyes go wide. Then she’s pulling you closer, careful not to hurt you, and peppering little kisses over your face. “I’ve been so worried, dear. You scared us so much.” The hurt in her voice leaves you restless, making you curl up against her, desperate to soothe her worries. Moving hurts a little, but not enough to dissuade you from your goal.

“I’m sorry, love,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m okay, I’m alive, the plan worked out. You don’t have to fret for me anymore. I won’t leave you, I promise.” Slowly but surely, Alcina calms, exchanging kisses for softly running her fingers through your hair. There’s such love in her eyes that you can hardly believe you aren’t dreaming. “You’re amazing, Alcina. I could stay like this all day.”

“Maybe we should,” she offers, chuckling a little. Once again you give her a quick kiss, unable to resist the urge. “I should have never asked you to leave. I should have just trusted you.” The words give you pause, and you tilt your head in confusion. Realizing that you still didn’t know the full story, Alcina frowns. “The package is worthless, just a bundle of straw and a few rocks for weight. It was never what I cared about.”

Tension builds in your chest, and for a few seconds you have no idea how to react. It takes a minute for you to think, to connect the dots, but once you do it’s a tad bit easier to breathe. A scowl twists your lips as you think of what to say.

“If I had known that Heisenberg was forgoing his duties, I never would have sent you outside,” Alcina adds, the silence taking its toll on her.

“You shouldn’t have sent me either way,” you respond, bitterly, thinking of all that you had seen and heard on your journey. “I would have done anything to prove to you how I feel. There are other ways to show devotion- far less dangerous ways, at that.”

“I know, dear. You have every right to be angry… and watching you suffer has taught me all that I need to know,” Alcina says, still playing with your hair, trying to ease the tension. As upset as you about this recent revelation… it’s not enough to change how you feel about her, and you want her to understand that, fully and completely.

So you lean into her touch, let your eyes drift close for a moment, then softly place one of your arms around her as best as you can.

“We’ll need to talk about this more… just not right now. Right now, I need you, Alcina. I need to hold you, and be held by you, and just know that you’re here. That I’m here. That neither of us are going anywhere,” you say, resting your forehead against hers. “I need to feel safe, and your arms are the safest place I can imagine. Stay here with me?”

“It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.”