#this is like word vomit and I don't know if it's repetitive or not very easy to read but i hope you like it

[impossibleheartflower]

Stained glass windows are made out of broken pieces of glass, technically they're glass pieces that were purposely cut to be that way but I always think that stained glass windows are even more beautiful when it's just broken glass that needs a little of repurposing. Y'know just taking a bunch of random broken glass with their own little story that just needs to not disappear but kinda just needs to be rearrange to be made into something gorgeous.

Stained glass windows by their nature find beauty in the broken, that's why I love them so much, when comparing people to stained glass windows the person typically has a lot of scars and their mental state kinda changes to try to adapt to scars but overall they are beautiful. They are perfect because of their flaws, because of scars, and because of their beautiful mind that had to change in order to survive, do you know why? It's because they are what makes them *them*. I want to know every part of them, the good the bad and the ugly, I want to get to know every scar, every bruise, I want to trace the map of scars and help them paint over the broken pieces but not to make it seem like the scars (both mental and physical) are not there but to make the pain just a little more bearable. I want to see how even after their mind falls apart that they still are able to put themselves back together because that kind of strength is amazing, resilience is amazing and I'll always admire it.

Scars are just a reminder of what we've been through. Scars might fade but they'll never go away and I don't like the fact that people had to go through that much pain in order to get those scars but the fact that they survived and decided to stay here in this is what I find beautiful. I like the little bit of lead that keeps the glass together because it's like when a person decides to heal and work on themselves, it's like say "hey! I'm still here regardless of the tragedies that has happened to me! All the broken pieces are still here but I've made them into something different, not good or bad but just different because I'm different" and I think that's remarkable.

The lead is what finalizes the transformation of just a pile of broken glass to a work of art and when comparing someone to stain glassed art the lead strips is them healing and chosing to not hurt anyone else the same way the have been hurt. Comparing someone to stained glass art is like saying "hey I might not know what's going on in your life or if your a good person or not but I would very much like to know because I think that your scars represent hope and strength, not destruction and pain, I just want to know you all of you"

You can help people with with broken bits and make them all pretty by helping them with the colors and whatnot but at the end of the day they have to put the lead strips to make the piece of art, when it comes down to it the other person has make the choice of forgiving or healing or whatever it is for them to change for the better because there is only so little that we can do. A part of making stained glass art is that it's a long (and expensive) process much like healing from trauma but in the end it's still breathtaking and peaceful

I mean when you look at a stained glass window don't you just have a sudden urge to admire it? To study every inch? Or at the very least just be able to see what the final product is? It's amazing and I love them

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ꜱᴛʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʙᴀʀᴇ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again - great for feeding. But not for fucking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, all except for Severen. Of course. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It immediately sets you on edge. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nah not those. " 

"Then what looks exactly?" 

"Like you wanna fuck me." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" You snap heatedly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is just you and him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You did not-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[critical-birb]

Random things I feel people outside of Scotland should know about Scotland.

-Kilts are formalwear. You only wear that kinda thing to like - weddings and funerals and stuff usually, maybe a fancy party. You wear a sporran with a kilt, it's like a little pouch that's usually fuzzy.

-If you live in Edinburgh/Glasgow/Aberdeen you probably hate bagpipes because everywhere you go there's buskers with bagpipes. They just....appear. you'll be trying to work your 9-5 and suddenly there's a bagpiper on the corner by the office and for the next six hours you have to listen to it. There is only one song that is played on the bagpipes and it gets real repetitive real fast.

-I am ruining the joke for everyone but as an autistic person who would be super confused by this unspoken rule in another country I need to share - literally everyone in Scotland will try to convince you as a foreigner that the wild Hagis is a real animal that lives in the Highlands. Every single museum has a Haggis exhibition with like a weird taxidermy animal that's usually a mash up between like a hedgehog and a bird or something. People will, with a straight face, talk to you about how they were hunted to near extinction. Zoos and safari parks will have empty exhibits with signs saying there is wild Hagis living in there hiding. This is the most widely known Scottish joke that literally every Scottish person is in on.

-Haggis is lamb, fat and oats boiled in a sheeps stomach with a bunch of spices. It's unironically good actually if you give it a chance. It's basically fatty spiced meat.

-Other popular foods in Scotland include Cullen Skink, which is a rich cream based soup with potatoes and fish. Black pudding, a sausage made with blood - great for iron deficiency. White pudding, a sausage made from oats, grains, herbs and spices. Stovies, which is basically potatoes/onions/meat boiled together and usually eaten with bread, Neeps and tatties which is mashed potato and sweed. We are also known for deep frying anything, any corner shop chippy will deep fry a chocolate bar for you. Somehow we are obsessed with sugar and fat but at the same time we also put salt on our porridge.

-A Ceilidh is a group dance - a similar concept to square dancing if you're in the US. Except a lot more violent. Someone will usually briefly teach everyone the steps and then you are thrown into chaos and the music gets faster and faster. Someone will inevitably be thrown into you at high speeds and you will break a bone. It's extremely fun. Often done to accordion music. Lots of larger pubs do ceilidh nights you should go to one if you can, it's good if you go alone because they only work with an even number of people and 99% of the time they're begging for a single person to join to make up the numbers. You'll make a lot of drink friends and possibly get vomited on as you're thrown around at high speeds and kicked in the shins laughing like a loon.

-The more North you go the less you will understand people. I'm from Edinburgh and live near Glasgow and for the fuck of me I can't understand a word anyone says here. I went to Aberdeen once and I swear they were talking gibberish. They felt the same about me. The dialects are too strong.

-We also have a rich history of language including Gaelic and Doric and a few others. Scots is what you probably think of when you think Scottish people - it is technically its own language but is very similar to English just with lots of different terminology. Our native languages like Gaelic were outlawed by England when they colonised us and it's only in recent decades we have started to try to reclaim them.

-We dislike England. Don't ever call a Scottish person 'British' rather than Scotish, it opens up a whole can of worms I am not about to go into right now.

-Iron Bru (the bright orange soda that tastes like a candy store) is more popular than Cola here. Scotland is the only place worldwide where Coke isn't the most popular carbonated beverage. Iron Bru is the lifeblood of Scotish people and it is literally everywhere.

Anyway there's your Scotland facts of the day

[that-sweet-thief]

just finished binge-watching season 2 of shadow and bone. my thoughts are mostly in disarray but the cringe is real.

this was an off-paced, haphazard fanfiction. it'd be just fine if the writers weren't paid for it but they actually are, so it's just... wow. I'm at best mediocre when writing in english and i reckon even i would do a better job of writing dialogue.

anyway, here's a list of my thoughts on the show, though it's more of a word vomit than a comprehensive series review:

no ivan or fedyor. immediate downvote for that alone. ivan should've survived so we could have a heartbreaking moment between him and fedyor across the two sides of the battlefield. i guess they thought there were too many characters and couples to juggle already. or maybe the actors weren't available, who knows.

costume design took a surprising turn for the worse: for example, nina's and zoya's dresses were eyesores. how anyone could make these two very attractive women look that frumpy i've no idea but they've managed. i liked sankta neyar's costume, sturmhond's coat aaand that's about it.

the settings were more varied, so glad we've seen a little of bhez ju. the introductory map-to-location shots were very helpful for people who haven't read the books, namely my gf who fell asleep halfway through the show. also, if the music had any tracks that weren't already from the first season i'll be incredibly surprised, it's that repetitive.

they've messed up nikolai as a character mainly because the actor misunderstood his assignment, though i don't know what else he could've done with the mess he was given. while he's still sympathetic, lovely and witty, paddy's nikolai thinks of sturmhond as just another disguise, rather than who he really is, to the point of gifting said disguise to mal. that's irreconcilable with my understanding of nikolai, whose real mask is the bastard prince.

tamar & tolya were better realised than expected. along with the exclusion of the soldat sol cult, their zealotry's scrapped which is a big win for them. i enjoyed their scenes, great casting too. though, as an ardent kanej fan, i cannot in good conscience support the blink-and-you'll-miss-it tolya/inej moment. tamar/nadia had maybe a minute of screen time but better than nothing.

sankta neyar was a pleasant surprise, great idea to show how powerful durasts can also be. people often disregard materialki so this was refreshing. what i liked about her is how formal, collected, old-fashioned she both appeared and acted, as if her manners and speech style were leftover from a few centuries ago, kudos to her actor tuyen do.

the crows' arc was... lacking in some way. maybe it's because pekka rollins' attitude towards kaz and his group is very different than how it was established in the books, here he was way too proactive and less secure in his position in ketterdam for some reason; anyway rollins' framing of the crows felt off to me.

the crows' character dynamics are interesting and the saving grace of the show, all kanej and wesper scenes were great. seriously, the tension of kanej & cuteness of wesper nearly destroyed me.

they did helnik dirty, of course, but that was a given.

freddy carter outperformed everyone this season, i really think out of all of them he's given the best performance, sometimes even better than ben barnes and that's practically heresy coming from me, his devoted fan since ages ago when i first saw narnia.

i kinda dig that they brought in a tidemaker (fruszi) who's practically an early version of zoya for the darkling's side but her death felt cheap. i mean, the crows arriving to help out nikolai and his team at the very last second was already eye roll inducing, but then nikolai shoots her in the neck? cheap. also, if she and zoya came to face off that'd be interesting since they share so many similarities. i personally don't think it will but if the series continued along with the darkling's canon resurrection, i wish she'd lived and replaced elizaveta, she certainly seemed devoted enough.

david and genya made me cry. that's all i have to say on them.

baghra... where do i even start with her? baghra's nonchalance, her one-eighty about deciding to help alina find more amplifiers is stark raving bonkers imho. yet at least most of her scenes weren't as bad as they could've been, her proving to mal he was the firebird and her saving genya as well as alina actually came across better than the ultra passive, constantly berating version in the books. her death felt less dramatic but more spiteful, though aleksander's reaction to her death was appropriately heartbreaking. ben & zoe sold it so well, my eyes actually welled up.

speaking of sasha, his death is soooo badly executed, it's impossible not to be pissed off at the way they filmed it. even the books were more sympathetic to his demise and alina herself showed much more empathy for him at the end. it's genuinely disturbing how they framed it, makes alina seem more like a villain than the reluctant hero she used to be. i guess it fits with the surprise ending: how she kinda becomes what she sought to destroy, poetic irony and all, but still...

aleksander's whole arc this season makes him seem more desperate and pathetic and so, less of a tyrant: he doesn't even take control of the country or more than a small group of grisha let alone become tsar, instead the apparat rules over ravka on behalf of the lantsovs till nikolai is coronated. he and his people constantly lose to some clever last minute thwarting by alina's allies. the only thing scary about him is the nichevo'ya, the shadow monsters, which in the books are entirely under his control and that of course makes it all the more terrifying. here though, sick and tired and dying, he's merely desperate and fearful. the lack of wins on aleksandr's part really defeats the purpose of the writers' continuous attempts at making him simply the most terrible, horrifying and supreme villain of gregverse.

nope, can't get over it, aleksander practically died in her arms in the books, here she just looks down at him like she's the villain. i guess she now is. oh and mal's retort to sasha about dying in her arms was somehow a foreshadowing, see, but sasha doesn't get that because he's evil, see? gosh, so patronising.

since they've constantly emphasised this season how it was the fold's and thus sasha's fault that grisha were persecuted (not that this explains the ceaseless mistreatment, endangerment and more often death that grisha face everywhere they go, of course, nor does it explain his backstory) i gathered they'd go for a retcon but i didn't imagine they'd exonerate baghra, the apparat and tie the border wars with shu han and fjerda to the fold's existence entirely. the reason the war broke out in the first place was because those countries' fundamental approach to grisha was to kill them or worse. that is what grisha persecution meant. and now... what, the war is over, just like that? i have no words.

also, the exclusion of the "don't let me be alone" line. now that I think about it, those writers should be fed to nichevo'ya.

alina, alina, alina... sure, she's a self-insert, so her motivations don't make sense anyway, but as sweet as jessie is and how hard she tries, show!alina is now an equally awful mess as book!alina. the two things i liked about her this season were her manipulation attempt through the tether and the ending where she goes a bit darkling. the latter, i really like. i wrote a fragment of a power reversal fic before but never put it up, might just do that now.

i'll admit: it's rather funny how mal dumps alina after losing his amplification because he doesn't feel the same way anymore. he doesn't know if it was him being an amplifier that made them love one another. see how easily he turns away from alina? if i were aleksander, I'd be laughing at her from the grave.

[mimiteru]

I ACCDITENTLY PUT MY NITARA HC OUT OF THE DRAFTS WHAT I DIDNT EVEN FINISHED WRITING 😭😭

dude this is what happens when you have shity internet Dx i know there was a option to edit but before i realize that i deleted the post 🔫 idc anymore i'm gonna write it again

how tf does this app work i'm sorry mutual who reposted my draftJDKS

ANYWAYS MY NITARA DELULU HC LETS GO

tw: death of a character, mentions of vomit

• Remember Kahil? You know the vampire who once was user of the datusha/kriss and bc of it's power he kill most of the Vaeternus, moments later he commits suicide trapping the sword with him?

Well lets put more emotional damage and say this was a relative to Nitara, maybe a brother why not

(i rewatched the Nitara intros and her mother also died damn, that's rough buddy)

they had a really strong bond, so Nitara was broken and devastated by his brother's tragic end, and after a long time of grief, this "revelation" as she would say, came to mind. From this time she tries so hard to save her so no Vaeternus could face the fate of death

And you know, "trying" is a strong word, the coven at this point are kinda tired of her all the time visiting them and bringing her failed ideas

The coven are like: "yeah yeah you know why don't you go and try to take over outworld or something" as a joke just to get rid of her.

And she did go to Outworld so..

• Now, her voice... It's not the best, it's so monotone and she doesnt realize it

But now i can't stop thinking about her with a valley girl accent, the way she would say the word "like" repetitively in one sentence is insane

There were times when Havik just rip of his own ears to not hear her, she talks a lot

She likes to do monologues, i feel like it's normal for Vaeternus to have this... Theatrical way of speaking, that goes on and on

Nitara does not know how to lie, if you dig enough she would accidentally say the truth or let out her plans without knowing

• At first the interactions Nitara has with Rain were harsh but later he starts to understand the big problem that the Vaeternus were living in, so maybe these two will be allies in the future??? Please??

Tho at this point she is trying to persue ppl to help her cause, whether it's from the good guys or the bad guys, and not even god itself wants to make a solution to help the Vaeternus yeah she's fucked

With the fictional dead family i create around her it makes a little bit of sense when she's trying to make Smoke a vampire too, Nitara sees herself since the guy also lost his mom and sister

or instead he sees her brother in Smoke, which is kinda creepy and dark but thats how my girl copes <33 /j

• The Vaeternus have a way to go to Earthrealm from centuries ago, this could mean that the vampires have more noledge of human traditions, slangs and even technology than Outworld does

This can also includes Earthrealm pop culture, influencing the way they dress or act, there could be Vaeternus who moved to Earthrealm permanently, hiding in the shadows

Imagine miss girl tries to make chitchat with Havik, Darrius and Sareena making a Earthrealm references and everyone just look at her like "wtf r u talkin about?"

This is chronically online comunicating with normal people

Nitara finds Earthrealm movies about vampires fascinating by the way of how they portrayed her kind, bc sometimes those movies are so wrong and sometimes they are so accurate its scary

She finds the "familiar" character to be very useful, she will have it in mind and maybe find one of those to help her look for food and other plans

• There was a time when the vaeternus didnt need blood to maintain their survival (idk if it was on Liu Kang or Geras intros) and there was were other things they could have feed on, but little by little vampirism began to be part of their nature that it was impossible to change their ways, condemning their own species.

Trying to get back to a normal diet probably would take another millenia

And if they eat or drink something no blood related i imagine them vomiting A LOT and with a horrible stomach pain, not the best moment for a vampire

• Her eyes glow in the dark

Once Nitara tried to sleep upside down bc she saw it in one of those movies, and she find it so comfortable??? It's kinda embarrasing for her but she keeps sleeping on that position from now on

She's a failure, she's a loser, and i think that's beautiful

Yeah i don't have more to say, also

WWDITS MENTIONED‼️‼️

Yeah that's it bye

[hamstermastersamster]

I really wish I knew what to feel about FFXVI! Have a bit of a jumbled mixed-feeling very wordy word salad about it.

I've finished it, including available DLC. I liked it, overall (excepting the ending, which was . . . egh). I can confidently say there were no times that I LOVED it. Most of the time it was just kinda all right?

It took about half the game to feel like I wasn't in the tutorial area anymore, which I think is a consequence of its very linear and didactic construction. A great deal of forward momentum is driven by people telling you to go and talk to so-and-so, go here, do that, running through connected areas in a short sequence and then back to the 'hub'.

Lots of games are like this, under the hood. But FFXVI does a bad job of hiding its bones, somehow. It feels linear and, unfortunately, sometimes tedious and repetitive as a result.

BUT . . . the game's simplicity, straightforwardness and forgiving nature make it such a stress-free gaming experience that I can kinda appreciate it for what it is. Unlike big overwhelming open worlds with a million parallel objectives and map icon vomit, I didn't have to think very hard about where to go and what quests to do in what order:

you always just do new sidequests and marks pretty much as soon as they appear, and before you progress the main plot; they get predictably spoonfed to you in small doses between big plot events and are basically unmissable because they get highlighted on the map (to the point that the Alliant Reports function for finding quests is basically redundant).

You can, in a limited fashion, explore the big areas that are currently open to you but the game won't let you off-path until it wants that. Fast travel is available and free.

You can't fuck up your character build because you can reset and rebuild at any time for free, ability-by-ability, as often as you like.

Gear choices are limited to no-brainer best-in-slot decisions and, while accessories can apply different effects, they make almost no noticeable difference to 99% of combat.

It's impressively accessible - even if you don't play on 'story' difficulty, there are accessories you can choose to equip that give you an easier time of e.g. dodging in combat

If you die (which, honestly, should be a really rare occurrence on normal difficulty), you can come back with all your potions and high potions refilled at no cost.

You get big warnings if you're about to advance the plot to the point that you will miss stuff.

Lots of people will hate this, I guess, but as someone who can find overwhelming busy complex games a bit ennervating at times, I have enjoyed completely switching off my brain after work to play this one. You don't have to make any decisions.

Still, it does lead to a game world that feels designed for the player and the game, instead of something that lives and breathes on its own. You can explore and find potentially-interesting locations but until the game says it's allowed to be interesting, you'll find nothing there. One of the worst examples is finding a memorial to a very important person to Clive in normal world exploration, but until the end of the game, you can't read it or interact with it at all so you (the player) don't know what it is. But it was there all the time! USE YOUR PRETTY BLUE EYES, CLIVE-

The combat, which at first I thought was fun (and at its best/toughest, still can be fun), rapidly becomes very repetitive. Once you've killed one type of enemy variant, you've basically killed them all. One giant guy with an axe/hammer is much the same as every other, strategically.

My mind boggles at the fact that you're given all this diverse elemental power and . . . none of the enemies even have elemental strengths/weaknesses? :\ You can kill a bomb with fire attacks! I mean . . . come ooooon xD There's also no concept of a status effect besides a brief stun, which completely neuters malboros/"morbol"s. Man, if they had let you switch between all your eikons and given enemies elemental attributes . . . feels like it would have been exciting.

Along with a half-baked, barely-there crafting system that really only upgrades your one basic sword and 2 armour slots in terms of Numbers Go Up, it means there isn't a lot of depth to, well, anything combat oriented. There's also no incentive to really swap and change your ability loadout for different fights since you can find 3 eikons and 9 abilities that work for you and just spam them for the whole game in the same rotation with plenty of success. Being limited to 3 equippable eikons makes it too much effort to experiment.

There was one fight against a notorious mark that I attempted underlevelled and was difficult because of the damage output, and I had to really learn the enemy moveset and dodge and parry at all the right times, and that was the closest to a Good Time in a late-stage fight that I got. Makes me think a playthrough on the harder difficulty might actually make the game more engaging.

(Also I'm really bored of stagger mechanics, there MUST be something else out there Dx Game Devs, please save us!)

Soundtrack has a few nice tunes (the 'dark' Prelude/crystal theme is poignant) but most of the ambient stuff was forgettable. I really loved some of the combat themes - On the Shoulders of Giants and No Risk, No Reward in particular! Unfortunately they got stuck in my head at the same time I came down with a virus that put me in a high fever and I spent one delirious night with them playing at max volume constantly in my addled brain which would not sleep. This has given me some uh, complex associated feelings about the tunes >_>; Not the game's fault though.

I liked a bunch of the ideas and vision for the world of Valisthea, but I'm not totally sure they pulled off the grimdark Game of Thrones vibes they wanted (just throwing blood spatter on everything makes you look like DA:O, not GoT xD). It was like they wanted to be soooo dark, but it only ever felt like they scratched the surface of all these horrible events they were trying to portray, and sometimes it was hard to take seriously.

The dedication to non-RP British accent VAs was a delightful treat, however! Hearing JRPG characters say 'ta ra' gave me warm fuzzies. (It is so weird hearing Cid when Salvage Hunters is on TV though, lmao - there is simply no mistaking that deep, rough Yorkshire accent xD).

I did really warm up to most of the main cast by the end, even if I think most of the characters in this game have the most boring designs I've ever seen. It took a long time, but the Hideaway folk became fond friends. I started to enjoy running around listening to all the updated conversations with people after major plot events - one of the few player-directed explorations you can really initiate.

I would die for Gav >:[ Every game protagonist should have a little geordie sidekick who primarily exists to be wide-eyed and say "fuck me" when shenanigans are afoot.

I enjoyed soft-spoken raspy-voiced himbo Clive a fair bit, too. I will keep him. He can be a blorbo, as a treat <3

[memelovescaps]

For the writer thing: 🍉 🍭 🌈

(I didn’t read the promos just looked at the emojis ngl)

Hellooooo!! Thanks for the ask!! Yeah the emojis are so much fun lol!

🌈is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

I know I sound repetitive but my longest story "In Need" is the one I'm proudest of but it's also the one I battled the most. Not only with the plot and the character arcs but also with the technical parts. I'm still learning stuff, but this is the one I tried to not just type words onto a word document.

I looked into psychology and trauma response, I researched age regression, I researched how a person like Severus Snape might react to trauma and how he could begin to heal. I watched countless videos of therapists and counsellors who talk about childhood trauma and how to deal with it into adulthood.

And that's just the "plot" part. I also invested in a couple of books for writers, the one that saved my ass was "The Emotional Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Character Expression". With this fic, I think I can say I began to take my writing much more seriously, and make it as good as I could make it. It's a learning process though. 🍉in what ways has writing helped you process trauma and/or navigate through your own life?

Great question. I'm not at a point where I can turn pain into something artistic and beautiful, when I'm in pain I do write but it's mostly journaling, talking straight from my heart and vomiting my thoughts onto the page that then I close and never open again, as if it burned.

However, writing creatively is an escape for me. It's a way to connect to the characters I love and the themes and stories I love, and give them everything they couldn't have, everything I could never have. Very often it feels like I'm in a trance when I write, laser-focused on the words and the document, and that's as therapeutic as it can get. So, I'm not sure exactly in what ways writing has helped me process trauma, but it definitely has made me more connected to my own feelings, and being able to have a type of sensitivity that I wouldn't have had otherwise.

🍭why did you start writing? I don't remember, I've just always been a person that has always written. When I was a kid I used to change up the dialogues of movies I saw, or created stories of my own. It's just always been a part of me.

I even remember in class in high school, instead of taking notes, I was writing my own stories. I don't remember why I started writing, but I do remember that there was a point it felt like I had no time to write, and couldn't carve out time to do it. And when I haven't written for a while, I feel antsy. So, I don't know why I started writing but I do know why I keep writing.

THANKS FOR THE ASK!!!

[pqlaertes]

Migraine does not mean "bad headache." Migraine is not an intensity. Migraine covers a cluster of symptoms often including head pain which is often just on one side of the head. They can be disabling or they can be mild, and they can be disabling without any pain.

So, in the hopes of helping people who, like me, thought they were mysteriously sick or food poisoned or injured because they didn't know that migraine causes all this weird stuff and had been told it was "a kind of headache"...

Symptoms I have had most frequently, with and without head pain:

Cyclic vomiting (today you will vomit every 90 minutes no matter how empty your stomach is, so drink water because vomiting water is blissful compared to your body being determined to vomit something that isn't there).

Light is unbearably bright.

Suddenly being unable to think or function because you are experiencing a repetitive sound as if it fills the world.

Difficulty speaking, having to state each word one at a time carefully and slowly.

Also nausea, neck pain, confusion, dizziness, red eyes, nosebleeds...

My migraine head pain is also different from the couple times I've had a headache. It generally starts as a sharp stabbing pain in the forehead, in line with the inner corner of an eye, or a blunter but still puncturing sensation, like a piece of rebar has been shoved through my temple. There is also a balloon of pressure that inflates as if out from the tear duct to cover the upper side of my face; this feels a lot like a very bad bruise being pushed on. Mine are not always one-sided but the intensity often flips back and forth between sides.

Sometimes I experience the pressure balloon of pain as being outside my head, floating away to a distance of several feet. It still hurts me, but feels like it is outside, in the same way a sound can seem to come from a specific point outside your head when you are wearing stereo headphones.

Sometimes this pain is absolutely disabling and sometimes it's just a nuisance that makes me a little bit distracted and irritable. I'd rather have mild migraine pain than cyclic vomiting with no pain any day.

There are other types of headache such as cluster headache that apparently have consistently worse pain but aren't migraines (and don't have the other migraine symptoms).

Migraines are a frustrating, confusing chronic condition. Please don't use "migraine" to mean "bad headache". It makes it even harder for migraine sufferers to figure out what's going on and get help. It also makes it harder to be taken seriously as people with a chronic condition (So many times I have been unable to convince to people that no, I don't have a hangover headache, because that's the only thing they've ever heard "migraine" used to refer to).

Okay so I may have been struggling under a miscommunication issue

[quintential]

Ramblings of a 20 yo

I'm writing because, even though it feels like I'm squeezing my mind through a ricer like a potato and just creating- I don't know, mashed potatoes, I guess,

I'm making the choice to write. Because I can't let myself want to write all my life and keep giving up because it doesn't sound right, or it's not coming out right, or it's not good, or things like that. I can't do that to myself. 

Raina believes she is doomed, it's too late, she's fucked it all up already, etcetera. I'm here, still fighting, because I am resilient, to tell her she is wrong. She is not doomed. It is not too late.

She is 20, - i am 20 

years

old

for fucks sake,

I AM YOUNG AND ALIVE, SEE ME WORLD! I want to scream at the top of my lungs to everyone.

This is the fire in my soul that keeps me going. Is that against all odds, I have hope. I try, every day. I will persevere. The world is not easy. We hurt each other. I'm pissed at my roommate. This is ok.

This is word vomit. That's also perfectly ok. When the gates of the mind open, for the first time in a while, don't be surpised when a tidal wave of stuff comes pouring out. I am pouring out!!!

SO, there are some things of focus in my life. A to do list, shall you say.

do cool stuff alone! I want to get into san francisco. be free, explore. may go to the MOMA tommorow.

go out on dates. Even though I'm scared and they may suck, I want to try. I want to try, and try, and try.

make friends. I want to make new friends here. I will compliment people as much as I can, strike up conversations as much as possible. People want to be my friend too. I look cool, so i will start conversations when they compliment me!

make my art. I need to make art! I will make art.

forgive myself.

forgive others.

Pretty good list, huh? I am the vibrancy, the thrum. I also may have a teensy-tiny self obsession problem. I love looking at myself in the mirror, all the time, pictures of myself all the time, etcetera. People are obsessed with me too because I am strange looking and beautiful. See? Self obsession, because I am the center of my world. I want to fall in love so I can let others in too. I let people in... where are they??????

I am always filled with hurt and love always always always.

/later

filled with melancholy,

and other feelings of similar dread related to the usual "who am I " where am I " etcetera, dissasociation,

feelings of complete

aloneness,

loneliness,

it's hard to feel as though i'm apart

when i feel so different from everyone-

of course, this exists in tandem with the knowledge that everyone feels different and that what should bring us together, but...

I reflect back on my conversations with roommate last night,

unpleasant and battleing I was not good either but I she reminded me of my mother too much and I was upset angry and looking to push buttons and fuel the divide between us

and what a divide it is, she and her on one side and me on the other, rooms hand in hand and me apart. 

It's so incredibly hard to feel close to people for me. Usually,  I'm floating on clouds above-

superior and self deprecating all at once it's a bad combination I know

I miss

I always say i miss and then cannot point to when or what i miss. Perhaps it's feeling I read about and see

the silly couple giggling on the street the friends twirling hands the teammates hugging

Yet I cannot let myself be a part I will seperate my heart

sever the tendons

that pulses between us

let you bleed out, you can take care of yourself

sew myself back up

I cannot live- we - cannot live without other but I am very talented at tricking myself into believing

I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine

I cannot even get over a goddamn volleyball game. 

I need to learn I must change I have to be 

better

be

better

be

better

be

better

you cannot shame yourself into changing

can you love yourself ? Please?

You will change for the better I promise.

fuck, what's the point and i know this is getting repetitive but i can't help it that's what life is over and over and over again which is ok but whats the point there is so much bad in the world fuck fuck fuck

[lord-pigeon]

A month late to finishing Dawntrail cause I was waiting for Certain Things to update, and honestly, it was alright? Obvious spoilers under the cut.

Nonsense rambling btw, don't expect a thesis there I'm just word vomiting

The strongest part was everything with Sphene, by and far. Zoraal Ja was a completely different character between Part 1 and Part 2 and people keep overlooking that to whine about Wuk Lamat. Ironically, I feel Wuk Lamat was the second strongest part of the expansion.

I came into the expansion as "WoL's funky summer vacation in not-Mexico" and that def helped my opinion about it, cause WoL is meant to be chilling while Wuk Lamat is having the character arc. Sooo I'll guess I'll start with the positives?

Wuk Lamat I felt had a significantly better arc than Lyse did. Probably helped by the fact I play in JP so I don't have the "she sounds so monotone all the time" issue people in ENG had. So you could actually hear her gradually grow in maturity when she goes from yelling 90% of the time to taking a lower tone and calming down.

I dunno, she has a very strong personality and I found her engaging. She was most of the fun I had in the first half, so I guess I got lucky there.

Second, obviously, was Sphene. Kinda Walmart Emet, kinda her own thing. I saw her final boss status coming from a mile away, but like, her background was my speed for an antagonist. Sad old robot you gotta put down cause she's too far gone, path to hell paved with good intentions. That kinda thing, very melancholic.

As for bad, well, uh, I guess mostly that the expansion felt like it was split in half? With two different writers for each half? Like Zoraal Ja of part 2 wasn't even close to Zoraal Ja of part 1, even their motivations were wildly different (inflict war to people who forgot it in peacetime to remind them of what peace is vs daddy inheritance issues)

Also where the shit did baby Garool Ja come from. Who is the mother. Did he just reproduce asexually cause they're lizards? Artificial creation? Kid literally showed up so suddenly out of Nowhere I deadass thought it was like a Miquella/Saint Trina situation where baby Garool was actually a manifestation of Zoraal's innocence/peace-loving nature.

But nope he's just deadass his kid? I guess? I might've missed something but god everything with him was so jarring it drove me fuckin' nuts

Also I do agree with the repetitive nature of the first half. Like, I had fun with it, but Yoshi, Yoshi I know padding when I see it. Aetheryte starvation? Huge areas? Get five bear's asses? Always talk to 3 people randomly sparsed around the said-large map? Running back and forth?

I see the padding you can't hide it from me.

Since everyone's comparing it to Stormblood, I'll do it too. Like I had recently redone Stormblood before Dawntrail came out on an alt (that's now my main l m a o) so I can kinda compare them easily.

Call me bias (<- incredibly bias) but Yotsuyu was a much more compelling first arc villain, while Sphene was more compelling on the latter half. And this is from a Zenos simp so take that as you will.

Day 500000 of me not being over his death still, my copium up until the end of the Zero patches was intense.

Soken didn't miss a single time tho, king of all time

Solid 7/10. If it was all about Sphene and the beginning was more cut down, and Zoraal was consistent, I'd probably have put it at an 8.5.

[slaaverin]

Hi! its me the tarot 2021 bluemoonpunch anon, and i wanted to thank you so much for your answer, it does make sense to look at it that way too (or atleast i want it too as well) , and i feel like maybe my perspective of things were a bit skewed and i was seeing them from a a very one dimensional very non personal manner (just like two people a and b) prob bc i also became an army in 2021 july to be exact(- and really i found them in the perfect time) so i also didnt know much about them as well i think, also as a baby army i admit that i cam across way too many weird accounts on twt at that time (not related, but somehow i feel the hate has gone crazier over the past two years esp with the minheejin situation), so i literally had to watch everything originally to form a seperate personal opinion. and i havent really gone back since then. So this was a nice explanation, Thank you for that.

Though if you dont mind me asking (and this is going to sound a bit repetitive, hope you can excuse that) i remember this part (and i dont why it wont leave my head still) where it said that in km relationship that jm viewed jk as a replacement of sorts of his brother (which makes sense, since they are from busan and the age diff is similar) it felt a bit weird to think about their maybe relationship which cld be romantic (or not we dont know). (i know you talked about it briefly) but this just seemed a bit wierd along with the fact that in one of the readings of thier relation it was said that somehow jm wanted to take care of jk so jk was stopping himself from growing up in a way to make a balance. it also said once that thier relationship has a future? of coming together and helping/guiding and then also diverging (For a bit/forever/or may converge again idk , cant remember that line clearly)

Idk if you may even remember this, if you dont Its fine !! , you can skip this ask. Thank you for even reading the word vomit i just put out 😅. But i though to just ask if you might have any thoughts or interpretations about it. (idk but i remember this sort of clearly bc i sort of obsessed over tarot readings for a while 2021 and found bluemoonpunch literally the most chill legit account on tmblr, or atleast one of them) again i am sorry it got so long! thank you again

Hey,

You know I love tarot readings, I am also a reader in my personal life, it's a very useful tool to learn about psychology and energy and to explore the psyche, yet I want to disclaim that readings should really be taken with a grain of salt. To me bluemoonpunch is an immensely talented reader, and I don't doubt that, but even her readings are colored by her own interpretation, a reading can never be 100% accurate. In truth we don't know what the members have in their heads. Could be this, could be that. It's always interesting to try to analyse, but in truth it doesn't mean we really have the answers. So the only thing I would say would be not to get hung up on such tiny details like this. Personally I base my belief over jikook with what we can see with our eyes. Then the readings just sometimes expand a bit with info, but it's just to make us think a bit. I think the thing we need to trust is what jikook are telling themselves first and showing. That's my opinion.

I think that's all I have to say about this!

Take care anon 💜

[lilacknights]

So idk if you know this but there's this superstition where if you point at a tree and don't bite the finger you used to bite you'll get cursed (idk by who I forgor💀)

So how about any obey me character getting cursed cause of that

Obey Me Headcanons: Filipino Superstitions

ALTERNATE TITLE: Don't fuck with Asian superstitions, it ain't sexy.

CHARACTERS: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Asmodeus, and a very tired Filipino gn!MC

WARNINGS: obligatory implied dirty joke in Asmo's but nothing too explicit.

FOREWORD: Thank you, I've been laughing at this request for days. 😂 And I think the word you're looking for is "Namatanda" or "Nanuno". I leave in the province and let me tell you, getting cursed here is not sexy at all.

And I'm really sorry that I only did four of the brothers! I've ran out of knowledge on local curses and didn't want it to be repetitive. Maybe I'll write a part 2 if anyone is interested <3

✄ ——————————————————–

MC warned them. They warned the demon brothers who tagged along with them to watch their actions when they visit the province, especially at night. They told them that they shouldn't point to the dark, because they might offend local spirits and creatures. They told them to bite their finger right after if they accidentally pointed at a random direction. They told them to say "Tabi-Tabi po" when passing through vacant lots or areas with no residents.

But did they listen? NO.

—————————–

MAMMON was (obviously) the first one to go down. The demon had come running from inside the denser forest area after sunset, pointing at the direction where they came from. He screamed about something with huge wings flying above him in the dark, ironically scared of something with bat wings. MC smacked his hand down, telling him to bite his finger before he gets cursed by a dwarf or a spirit in the woods. Offended and petty over the way he was ignored, Mammon didn't bite his finger and called the superstition "stupid and harmless".

It ain't so harmless anymore when he woke up yeeting his dinner from last night right into the toilet, quickly followed by his lunch, and then the rice cake he definitely didn't steal from Beel.

They had him checked for stomach virus something something that he might've gotten from human food, but every medical spells and check ups came back negative. MC, giving in to their worry over the demon, told Mammon to grab water and start sprinkling the land he pointed at last night???

In normal circumstances, Mammon would have called it ridiculous but he was desperate. The mofo was back to his healthy self and was rivaling Beel in the dinner table immediately a few hours later. His brothers laughed at him and how pathetic he looked like, taken down by some local superstitions... but they weren't laughing for long.

That same night, Levi was very begrudgingly knocking on MC's door. He was trying to do an overnight marathon of a new anime series with good reviews online, but his vision kept spinning and he can't focus without almost vomiting. It was a miracle he even reached their room without breaking his face. (But he did break a vase or two on the way there.)

—————————–

LEVIATHAN was next, mainly because Mammon was claiming he should be scared and Levi milked the fear by doing the exact same pointing that Mammon did. Mammon tried to stop him but eventually went 'You know what? Learn it the hard way, too.'

LUCIFER has laughed when MC told him the story on why his younger brothers had been crying on how they want to leave the human world right now and have no plans of going back. When MC told him to be careful, too, he again laughed. That one annoying, deep, sexy laugh that makes him sound like a dilf but child-less.

He was quick on following whatever weird human ritual he was told to do, all because he had a sale in Akuzon he needed to catch this morning and he will not be late.

—————————–

"MC, I am one of the most powerful demons in Devildom, did you really think a mere and most likely fake superstition can harm me?"

It can and it did.

MC wasn't exactly sure what he did to be cursed, but Lucifer finally gave in and admitted that he had been burning with a fever, something that not even his demonic immune system can fight off. It's been hindering his work and so he eventually caved and asked MC for their opinion on what to do. UHHHHH, let's just say he didn't like it one bit.

ASMODEUS also asked MC for their help but it wasn't for him. He asked if it was possible to pass down the curse to someone else?? Because he apparently passed it to a woman he knew??? The woman allegedly "hurt her lower back so bad that she can't walk straight".

"I'm sorry... Did you just say you'll heal me with saliva?" "Yeah, I need to rub it on your stomach—" "Get the hell out of my room."

—————————–

MC immediately got suspicious so they brought the woman and Asmodeus to a local shaman, an Albularyo. The shaman did a little ritual, using a block of ice and putting it in a small basin filled with water. They did their prayer, held hands with the supposed "cursed" people there and waited for the ice to melt and form a different shape. The shape of the ice was supposed to tell them what exactly harmed the woman in question.

...MC walked right out the room when the ice turned into a PHALLIC shape.

The shaman looked at Asmo, and sighed. "Son, your friend wasn't cursed. She were fuc—"

——————————————————– ✄

FUN FACT: Asmodeus' scenario was based on a real life event that happened in our neighborhood. 👁️👄👁️ 🌷

[sukunasun]

How do you write so well? I also want to write and find my own style but i always end up deleting my works because I can't bring myself to like them. They are too simple or too repetitive. It would be great if you could offer me some advice. (If you don't mind.)

hey anon! thanks for reaching out, hm...honestly, i struggle with liking my own work too, i guess we're all our own biggest critics :( and i can only speak from my own experience so my word isn't law haha but ive compiled some of my thoughts on this + some citations i think could help add perspective:

read as much as you can and study the writing you like: goes a very long way. if you like distinctive styles of writing like with prose and such then find writers who are known for that, off the top of my head—proust, joyce, brontë, tolstoy, cervantes, etc etc. but always explore, read non-fiction, read a script, read poetry. analyze themes, characters, dialogue ...or don’t? sometimes reading is an experience, not mental gymnastics, but take in how you feel about the stuff you read and digest them. 

“The first, of course, is to read. It’s surprising how many people think they want to be writers but they don’t really like to read books… — From 'This is Octavia Butler’s best writing advice.' by Vanessa Willoughby. Read on LitHub / 'An Interview with Octavia E. Butler' by Randall Kenan. Read on JSTOR "You need to study what writing requires. Writing has rules, conventions, requirements. There is form. Writing is more than your thoughts about characters. Drama has structure. You can learn." — Excerpted from Miss Chloe: A Memoir of a Literary Friendship with Toni Morrison by A. J. Verdelle. Read on LitHub

observe: listen to conversations around you, the way people talk and react to things, the way they interact with one another. expressing and repressing. or watch films, what do images and scenes look like in your mind. i learned a lot about transitions and flow from movies. take things from the world around you. find what inspires you to write? i usually listen to music!

characters: if writing fanfic is your thing then take the time to think about the characters, their motives, desires, weaknesses, etc etc. read the source material or read hcs and form your own opinion.

"Events, in and of themselves, have no meaning. Lightning striking a vacant lot is pointless; lightning striking a vagrant matters. When an event adds a character, suddenly nature’s indifference fills with life." — Excerpted from CHARACTER: The Art of Role and Cast Design for Page, Stage, and Screen by Robert McKee. Read on LitHub (read this once for a creative writing class and thought it was really helpful)

it’s all in the little things: have fun with the details, think about the way a room is lit in the afternoon, or the way a ripe mandarin orange tastes, smells, you could also describe it in action—citrus and pulp and a zesty rind that spits from beneath your fingernails—fill in the blanks with texture and colour and give them a life of their own.

"If you are going to describe a spoon or a chair or a tv set, you don’t want to simply set these things into the scene and let them go. You want to give them some weight, connecting these things to the lives around them." — From 'An Interview with Raymond Carver' by  Larry McCaffery and Sinda Gregory, 1985. Read on JSTOR. (finding the balance between vomiting out descriptions and knowing when to leave things as they are is a struggle for me haha, i get caught up way too much on crafting atmosphere when all the scene calls for is like a sentence or two... i guess its about knowing which is more important, keeping in mind pacing and such too. but im a big believer in instinct, you’ll know whats better for a scene when you read it like fifty times and think... 'maybe geto’s internal monologue and a valid ‘heart beating wildly in his chest’ is enough..’) <3

re: writing styles: ultimately has to do with your personality and how you see the world/the scene you're conveying to an audience. i suppose style stems from the way you weave and thread words together, how you place one word after the other. i think it’ll come to you the more you write, rather than aiming for style, start with the story and the way you look at things.

A unique and exact way of looking at things, and finding the right context for expressing that way of looking, that’s something else. . . . Every great, or even every very good writer, makes the world over according to his own specifications. It’s akin to style,... but it isn’t style alone. It is the writer’s particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. — From “A Storyteller’s Shoptalk,” by Raymond Carver published in The New York Times in 1981.

let your writing be something else, just not yours (in the best sense): sometimes the hardest thing is knowing that your writing will forever be tied to you, there’s a sense of ownership there, like a mother who’s birthed a child after a whole nine months, you’ll work on something for the longest time and not want to give it to anyone, but it has to sort of...get out there. and not every piece of writing will be a precious baby, sometimes it’s just an onion in your garden you found and thought to use in a stew, but the point is that eventually, it’ll belong to the world should you choose to post it. letting it go is catharsis. when i don’t have to look back on it, i can just write the next thing. even if you don’t intend on posting it, i find that i could always just leave things in the drafts, in a document folder, in scraps of paper, and move on to the next thing. i know i can always come back to it. 

i guess...you just have to write? one word after the next until you’ve filled up a page or more. the difference between crafting a beautiful sentence you’re satisfied with and a repetitive, simple one is a whole lot of trial and error + practice (and suffering).

“The only sentence that matters is the one you’re writing.” Do not look ahead two or three sentences, thinking, Oh, but wait, I have to get through two or three more of these sentences before I can get to the really good stuff. Make the sentence you are at the place you are at, and make it a place of stone and steel, not a place of sand and clay. Fashion this sentence out of what has gone before on your page, always moving forward by looking back. Turn, swerve, torque and twist upon what you have written, finding new ways to render your object, and through these maneuvers, finding the way to write your heart out. — From 'The Gordon Lish Notes' by Tetman Callis. Read here.

eventually, you’ll look at the stuff you hate and find ways to make it better, and even then maybe you won’t be completely happy with it but i think it’s important to note that it’s a rather harrowing thing because you’re staring at it wondering if it’s something to be shared...that’s a lot. ultimately i feel it’s perfectly fine to write because you enjoy it, of course, some might say it doesn’t have to be perfect, but because you want it to be good, there needs to be a sense of care and responsibility to make it so. 

You write as well as you can and hope for good readers. But I think you’re also writing for other writers to an extent—the dead writers whose work you admire, as well as the living writers you like to read. If they like it, the other writers, there’s a good chance other “intelligent, adult men and women” may like it, too. — From 'Raymond Carver, The Art of Fiction No. 76' by Mona Simpson & Lewis Buzbee for The Paris Review

sending you love and cheering you on! i hope you find this helpful in some way!

[nnatsume]

hello! as i can see u are a switchp hehe... iʼve read some of your posts and ur writing is amazing,, may i request first kiss w natsume? ///

a / n : thank you <3 very polite!! i appreciate it. and yes.. anon, i am a switchp, unfortunately.. how did you find out? i tried to hide it so well.. *kicks username and half of my post history under the carpet*

fun fact. i used to. be a hard switch anti. i was actively calling natsume fugly and tsumugi a discord mod incel. i tolerated sora. and one day my old best friend said to me "you called me a smelly cockroach when we met.".. i made the biggest realisation of my life. now we're here. <3

anyway, here's some word vomit! i hope you don't mind that it's a ficlet.. usually i try to make my reader as passive as possible so it's more for everyone, but i couldn't really avoid it in this case.. oopsie..

✦ first kiss with NATSUME !

your work was finished—all your papers were sorted neatly into their folders, tucked into their shelves, all the mail has been written and sent. everything laid just as it did when you arrived. it's a somewhat boring routine, so repetitive that you could do it in your sleep. at the end of the day, when the sun sets and you push your chair back into the table for the last time, you always feel a little melancholic.

that day was no different. you sit up, pick up your belongings, push your chair in to the table and take a look outside to see the sun already going to sleep under the horizon. as much as you would like to go to sleep with it, there were things you had to do instead of admiring swirls of cotton dancing on orange and purple velvet.

the velvet you had to admire at home was stubborn and slippery and left you with ugly holes poked into your fingertips. such is the work of a producer, you guess.

with a shake of your head, you reached for the doorknob, only to feel it twisting already. you jumped back a little, feeling the blood leaving your face. to your knowledge, there shouldn't be anyone in the house anymore, other than the student council, who has no business with you.

defensive, you pulled your bag up to your chest, stepping back.

the door cracked open just a bit, a bit of light arriving through the gap.

your grip tightened.

a head of red greeted you.

"what is this supposed to be? is the bunnyrabbit plotting an execution?", natsume asked, brows raised. he looked so smug, as he allowed himself into your office, taking a seat against the edge of your desk.

"i am now.", you bit back, dropping your belongings onto the floor. "aren't you supposed to be home? school closed a while ago. and i'm going home as well.."

natsume pondered, pushing himself off to saunter towards the window. "the secret room provides a safe environment for my utmost.", came the explanation. from that sentence alone, and the fact that he turned away from you let you know that that was not all of it.

"then why are you here?..", your impatient question resulted in a shady side-eye from the magician. his way of dodging the full truth sometimes gave you headaches. you wondered how many headaches he got from thinking of such elaborate answers to all of your questions.

he cleared his throat turning back to look into the light. how cinematic, you drama king. "..and yet, as safe as that environment may be, there seems to be a missing piece to complete the perfect conditions.", the redhead continued. he's still not looking at you—that's not all of it. he wants something.

your face fell. did he get those big, fancy words from his sakuma friend? the probability was high. but this extraordinary ability to procrastinate feeling was uniquely natsumes. "oh..", you sighed, "so what will.. create the perfect conditions?"

hook, line, and sinker. by the way his shoulders jumped and stayed up, you knew you caught him, holding a metaphorical dagger to his throat. you're cornered.

"you..", he spoke through grit teeth. you couldn't make out what he said before, but you could hear conflict ravaging his voice. one more hit and natsume would turn to ash, you feared.

but that didn't hold you back. he promised you once that he'll be more honest with you. a promise accompanied by a little bundle of almond flowers, so small and fragile you were sure that the april wind would carry them off if you didn't hold onto them with all of your force. it was something you had to protect and treasure and sometimes even push for.

that agreement had you digging further. you hummed in question. "hold on, what did you say? can you repeat that?"

his hands trembled slightly as he ushered you over with a wave of his finger. "come closer. i'll.. tell you.", natsume growled impatiently, "just come here already."

hesitantly, you stepped forward. it was like walking on eggshells—natsume was unpredictable, but exactly that was what left butterflies in your stomach every day. as much as you would like to know, and even though he swore honesty to you, you'll never truly know how he gets his ideas, how he thinks those thoughts and how he really weighs his judgment—you'll only know what comes out of his mouth, and that is so little of him, it keeps you yearning for more.

a sudden pull on your collar had you falling forward, snapping you out of your thoughts.

in a flash, natsume was so close, his nose almost touching yours. from so close, you could see all of his blemishes, all things deemed imperfect that came together to make him so beautiful. endless pools of molten gold and honey and mystery stared back at you, hypnotizing.

"you're so annoying. can i kiss you already?

[collaredattachment]

Unstoppable Force, Meet Immovable Object

Wanda Maximoff/Reader

Word count: 1569

I imagine that having a person around with the ability to make you see what she wants would be pretty beneficial for your mind if it has a tendency to trap itself into an unending loop. (I tried to keep it pretty generic for maximum relatability™)

TW: Graphic depictions of obsessive intrusive thoughts, ocd relapse and panic attack

* * *

It's like a match, sitting in a puddle of gasoline. All it takes is one tiny spark, just one thing out of place, and it's off. The flame has turned into a wildfire and there's no stopping it now.

You can feel it. That shift in perspective, as if the world's suddenly upside down and you just didn't notice it. You glance at the room, watch everyone talking to each other, but Tony's words are muffled as the wheel starts turning, and as for Natasha, you can't hear what she says at all.

Your stomach flips, over and over again, while your limbs go numb, and you launch yourself into a dimension of your own personal hell, served to you by yours truly, no less.

Okay, we've been through this. Many times. Just breathe.

Isolation is a bad idea. You're much better off not being by yourself, but god, the sheer humiliation of showing someone - anyone - the vulnerability that's about to hit you makes you want to vomit. Leaving is a decision born out of anxiety, and you shouldn't follow through with decisions born out of anxiety. It's a shitty idea. The shittiest.

"I'm going to get some air," you say, stumbling over your words as your tongue, as if glued in place, does it's best to twist it's way into forming the required syllables. You watch your own body get up and leave the room without asking for your input, and though you want to kick and scream and not leave, you're already out the door and under the dim lights of the hallway.

It's an intrusive thought, based on obsession. It's not founded on anything true.

Nausea makes your stomach roil, forcing your breath to rush in and out faster, harsher, in an effort to not display your breakfast on the carpet. It's not really working.

It's not true.

Your steps are slower, but you're so goddamn close to your room. The stinging in your eyes is starting to get unbearable, and even though you keep telling yourself no, your sight still grows blurry. A high pitched breath in, quick and erratic, followed by a slow, controlled exhale that's fueled by the rational part of your brain attempting to keep control.

It's not true. It's not. It's not true.

You're not being aware. You're not thinking rationally. You know. But the cycle starts anyway, even with you fighting it tooth and nail.

It's not true, it's not true, it's not true, it's not true.

The shit-filled carousel of your mind turns, faster and faster, but you find a sliver of comfort in the pattern, the repetition, the familiarity of it. Its very nature of being an immediate reaction, a response coded so deep into your brain that it feels like it's part of you, lets you breathe for just a moment.

You know you can't be that far away from your room, but you don't want to risk walking in case your legs decide to quit without warning. You slide down the wall, trying to breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out. Just like that. Your fingers dig into the carpet, and you can feel dirt crawling under your nails.

It's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true

Images flash in your mind as you desperately try to remember what's real, what you actually feel, how you've felt before. It's got to be in here somewhere, right? And what if you change the thought? How does that feel? Is it better? Or worse? Why is it like that? And what about another memory?

Something bad is going to happen and you should leave, you need to be alone and think this through, because the only thing happening here is logic, and logic means that there's an answer, and there's proof of that answer, and you know you can find it, you just need to find the right thing, the right image, the right idea, and then you'll be fine, you'll know for sure, and if you don't, you can always just find the stairs that lead to the roof and jump, because you deserve to-

It stops.

You see a beach. A long stretch of golden sand glittering under the unrelenting sun, interrupted by a strip of grass flourishing beneath apple trees. The sky is blue, and unmarred by clouds.

Everyone's there. Steve and Natasha are wrestling in the shallows with Bucky and Bruce as their audience, Tony stands by the grill with Pepper and Clint, while Vision seems to be fascinated by the fish that come close to the water's surface.

"You know," Wanda says from her spot right next to you and lets her book rest on her crossed legs. "When they said recreational team building day, this isn't exactly what I imagined."

You smile, amused, but you can't deny her sentiment. Usually team building included beating each other to shit, or beating someone else to shit, but together. Beach party wasn't very high on the list of possibilities.

"I'm not complaining though." Wanda stretches, her arms reaching for the low hanging branches of the trees above you, before she settles on her back, red hair contrasted against the grass so strongly that it looks like Wanda's on fire.

"Do you think they'll manage to make us something edible?" you ask, nodding towards the grill, where Tony is currently debating Pepper over something.

"I wouldn't put too much faith into it," Wanda replies, the corner of her mouth drawing up into a crooked smile. "I saw Clint pack sandwiches for us, though, in case they set everything on fire."

"Sneaky," you reply, grinning. Wanda watches you for a second, and you feel your face heating up, warmth crawling across your neck all the way down to your shoulders. You avoid her gaze, and focus on Natasha and Steve's match instead.

"I think I'd like to get to know you better," Wanda says, her voice slightly quieter than before. Your eyes find hers immediately, and your brows are drawn in confusion as you try to really register what she just said.

"I, um," you start, and inwardly congratulate yourself for your eloquence. "Thank you?"

Wanda snorts, and her laugh makes something stir in your chest. It's like a bell, twinkly and light. "This is the first time we're talking like this. Just you and me. I like it."

Your flush grows deeper. You just know it. You smile, nevertheless. "I like it too."

Wanda grins at you one more time, before picking her book back up. You focus on the horizon, Wanda's words spinning themselves over and over in your head, settling in like a bird entering its nest. It feels good. A rare moment, unclouded by fear and anxiety. It feels safe.

Wanda feels safe.

"Remember that?" her voice sneaks into your ear, but it's not coming from the memory. The illusion, to be more precise. You turn your head to face her, kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over your temples. You nod feebly. "You told me that if this happened I should ask you questions. Can I do that?"

You nod again.

"Alright," Wanda says, gently rolling the r. "What are you experiencing right now?"

"In-" you start, but are interrupted by a panicked intake of breath. Exhale. Slowly. In and out. "Intrusive thoughts."

"Good, very good. Because of what?"

Another few breaths. "Obsession."

"And you trying to figure it out is?"

"A compulsion born out of that obsession."

Wanda smiles, and just the sight of it is enough to make you burst into tears. No one should have the right to look so kind. You feel the corners of your mouth trembling, attempting to mirror her, but it probably looks more like a grimace than a smile.

"They don't reflect how I actually feel. I'm safe, and I'm okay. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"There we go," Wanda whispers, and gathers you up into her arms. Her sweater smells like spices, like she's just been cooking. You can see her working in the kitchen, but your stomach lurches. How does it make you feel? How does it actually make you feel? Why? Why doesn't it ever stop? "Hey. Hey, don't go disappearing on me, dear."

You blink, harsher than normal, and try to feel the threads of Wanda's sweater under your palms, the breath moving in your lungs, the weight of her arms around your shoulders.

Intrusive thoughts. Obsession. You're safe.

You're safe.

For a fraction of a second, it feels like there's a small ray of light peeking through unpenetrable darkness, slipping past all the shit and the garbage, reminding you that it's okay. It will be okay.

"What do you say we have a movie night?"

A weak laugh passes your lips, and it makes Wanda smile all the brighter.

"I'll even let you pick this time," she whispers, her tone conspiratorial as if she's letting you in on the worlds greatest secrets. "Should we invite Natasha?"

You nod, more enthusiastic this time, and feel the tight coil in your stomach unwinding a little. Wanda comes closer, and her lips press against your temple so softly you're uncertain as to whether they were there at all.

It'll be okay.

It's scary. So scary you're scared it might kill you, but it'll be okay.

You're safe.

[marvelbbyx]

I wanna be your girlfriend! (Carol Danvers x Fem! Reader)

Request: @anon “Carol x fem reader where you show the profession of them turning from bffs to lovers and realizing their feelings.”

This imagine is inspired by the song i wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to do this song since I love it so much. Just tweaking the lyrics a bit to fit in with the story.

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

Oh Carol

I wanna feel you close

Oh Carol

Come lie with my bones

You first met her in the hangar during your first year there, you were admiring the jets and she came up and surprised you. She wore the regular flight uniform, her golden hair tied was back into a tight bun, and she wore a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. She was gorgeous. Your knees buckled when you saw her grin at you, standing next to you and touching the nose of the jet you had been looking at.

“Like it?” She asks with a smile.

“W-What?” Your eyes fluttered over to look at her.

“The jet,” She laughs. “I saw you looking at it.”

“Oh, yeah, i-it looks great,” You stammer, mentally punching yourself for acting like a fool in front of her. “Better than the ones I’ve seen back at Patrick.”

Her smile widens when she looks to you. “Yeah? Well, that’s a compliment I’m willing to take.”

Your eyes widened. “This is yours?”

She nods. “Yup, that’s my baby. Why do you ask?”

“I’m the new mechanic,” You say. “And yours is the best looking one I’ve seen today.”

She beams at you, making your heart flutter. Taking everything within you not to melt all over the place. “I like you already, mechanic. You got a name?”

“Y/N.” You say softly.

“Y/N,” She repeats, taking off her glasses and revealing her earthy brown eyes. “I’m Danvers.” She extended her hand to meet yours.

You grabbed her hand, feeling the callused and raw skin on her palm, like she’d had a difficult life and worked twice as hard. You who worked with your hands found it very shocking. Your eyes locked with hers, coloring your face a very prominent shade of scarlet.

“Well, Y/N the mechanic, will I see you around?” Danvers asks raising her eyebrows.

“Absolutely,” You smiled up at her, feeling your heart thump violently in your chest. “I’ll be here.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing you again.” She grins before taking her leave.

You tugged at the bottom of your lip. “M-Me too.”

In the two seconds after she left, you desperately needed her to come back to you. Just the way that she carried herself and aura that she projected made you want to be around her more, lighting a fire inside of you. Something that you never wanted to cease.

The rest of the day passing in a blur.

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh Carol

Don't look away

Oh Carol

Just look at me the same

You loved jets. You loved everything about them, but you were just too scared to fly in them. Your infatuation was just enough to admire and study them. Fixing up jets and other aircrafts was something that you were born to do, it was your passion and a lifestyle that you couldn’t see yourself not doing. Starting off small by fixing up cars, then working your way up to trucks, and then airplanes and jets alike. You were pretty much a master when it came to working with your hands.

It had already been your second year, your first year went by faster than a freight train. Earning yourself a reputation for the fastest working hands on the entire base, hence your new nickname “Speedy”. Everything was going well, you had a good job doing what you loved, you were always home early, and you actually had friends here than you did on Patrick.

You only had three, which you didn’t mind at all. Carol, another pilot named Rambeau that you had met through her, and Rambeau’s daughter Monica, to whom you absolutely adored. You two would play multiple games of Uno, which Monica normally won. You, Carol, and Rambeau made it a weekly tradition to go to Pancho’s every Friday to drink and sing your hearts out at karaoke. More often than not, you would catch yourself staring at Danvers, imagining things you really shouldn’t be imagining. Especially of your best friend.

And it’s wasn’t that you didn’t like being her friend, it’s just that you wanted something more from you two, something a lot more than a friendship. You would push your thoughts aside for the sake of your job but one way or another, they would find their way back to you. So you were constantly tormenting yourself over what could never happen.

You were in the hangar, elbow deep and fully covered in grease in one of the engines before you felt a pair of hands cover your eyes. “Guess who?” You heard a familiar voice whisper.

You rolled your covered eyes, placing a thought finger to your lip. “Cher?”

The voice chuckles. “Close, but equal in looks.”

“Joan Jett!” You say with a dramatic gasp.

A sigh of defeat came from the voice, “Really, Y/N?”

You laughed, removing Carol’s hands from your eyes and turning to look at her. “I was joking, I knew it was you the whole time, Danvers.”

“Cher and Joan Jett beg to differ.” She jokes.

You crossed your blackened arms over your chest. “What do you need?”

“Nothing, just wanted to see your pretty face.” She says with a toothy grin, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“Cute, but what do you need?” You ask, trying to mask the flush that crept up your face.

“Well, Rambeau can’t come tonight since Monica has the flu. So it’ll just be you and me. I mean...if you still wanna go.” Carol says rocking back and forth on her heels.

Your blush only went deeper, now making it even harder to cover up. “Y-Yeah, I’ll still go, I’d feel bad for Rambeau since she’s going to miss out on all the fun.”

She breathes out a chuckle. “So you don’t mind?”

“Nope.” You say with a smile.

“Perfect, I’ll pick you up later at 8.” She grins, hugging you tightly realizing shortly after that you were still covered in grease. She pulls away to see black patches on her uniform. “Oh...”

You shrugged. “Sorry.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't wanna be your friend

I wanna kiss your lips

I wanna kiss you until I lose my breath

You sat quietly in her car as you two drive home from the bar. Your voice was hoarse from all the scream-singing that you two did, you were also very buzzed from all the drinks that you chugged down. You looked to Carol and gave a half smile, scanning her up and down while her eyes were fixated on the road. She wrapped you up in her jacket since the car was freezing. You then leaned your head on the window as the car rocked you to sleep.

You felt the car turn into your neighborhood and stop in front of your apartment complex. Carol steps out of the car and taps on your window. You picked your head up and smiled weakly before going back to sleep. She sighs and opens the car door, peeling you out, and walking with you to your apartment.

“Which one is it again?” Carol asks you, walking down the hallway, scanning around for your apartment number.

“2..23.” You slurred out. “You need the -hiccup- key?”

“It’d be nice, yeah,” She chuckles.

You patted yourself down until you found your key tucked away in your back pocket. Carol unlocks the door for you and takes you inside.

She lays you down on your couch, sitting down next to you. “You’re ridiculous.” She chuckles.

“How are you not that -hiccup- drunk? We drank sooo much.” You drawled out.

“I’m not a lightweight like you.” Carol answers with a light laugh.

You snorted. “Y-You’re funny...and you’re really cute. Like sooo cute...”

You needed to stop talking. Like right now. But you were too busy embarrassing yourself without even realizing it. All because you thought that she was sooo cute.

Carol looks at you, her eyes growing large. “What did you say?”

You scoffed. “You’re not listening? I said that you’re -hiccup- cute. Pay attention, D-Danvers.”

Oh no.

“Okay, let’s take you to bed.”

“I don’t wanna go!”

“Come on Y/N.”

~~~~~~~~

The look in your eyes

My hand between your thighs

Oh this can't be real

It's all just a dream

The next morning you felt awful, like a metal iron was repetitively bashing into your forehead. You sat up in your bed, stretching your arms above your head and yawning loudly. You brought your arms down and scratched your chest, slowly feeling the fabric of your shirt. You slowly looked down, any abrupt movements would make you vomit in your lap and all over...Carol’s shirt?

You leapt off of the bed, falling to the floor and landing on your butt. You scrambled to your feet, making your way to the door. You opened the door and found yourself face to face with Carol, wearing a sports bra and her jeans from yesterday, she was holding two hot mugs off coffee that she made for you and her.

“Good morning.” She says with a chuckle.

“H-Hi,” You breathed out.

“Did you sleep well?” Carol asks.

“Y-Yeah, um...where did you sleep?” You ask forking your nervous fingers through your hair.

“On the couch,” She says pointing to the couch with a tilt of her head. “I wanted to leave you alone in your bed so I took the couch, now here, take your coffee.”

You took the porcelain mug with a shaky hand. Then took a slow sip out of it. You say back down on your bed, Carol sitting down next to you.

You laced your fingers around the mug. “Carol?”

“Hm?” She hummed.

“Why am I wearing your shirt?”

She smiles to herself after having a sip of coffee. “You don’t remember?”

You froze. “Remember what?”

“Yesterday, when I was putting you to bed you puked all over yourself, so I gave you my shirt and put your dirty ones in the wash.”

“Oh, and here I thought I did something embarrassing.”

Carol looks at you with raised eyebrows.

“Oh god, I did?” You tucked the mug between your thighs and covered your face in embarrassment.

“I didn’t even tell you what you did yet.” Carol smiles.

“I’m scared to know.” You say.

“Well, you said that I was cute, or in your words ‘sooo cute’. And you’re not wrong, I am pretty cute.” She says confidently.

You uncover your face. “Oh. That’s not bad, it’s embarrassing but not bad.”

“Mmhm,“ Carol nods. “Y/N...”

“Yeah?”

“Do you like me?”

“Yeah, of course you’re my best friend.”

“That’s not what I asked,” She sets down her cup and turns to look at you, she takes in a deep breath before she says, “Monica doesn’t really have the flu, it took a lot of convincing, but I just had to get Maria to leave us alone so that I could tell you something.”

“T-Tell me what?”

“I like you, Y/N. I mean really like you...much more than a friend and I wanted to know if you...felt the same for me.”

You jaw fell open, a gasp stuck in your throat. You’ve waited a long time to hear those words come out of her mouth and finally she was saying it. You couldn’t process it, you just sat there frozen looking at her with your mouth agape.

“Y/N?”

You grabbed both of her cheeks and pulled her close, slamming your lips against hers. Carol was stiff at first but then relaxed shortly after. One of her hands went to your hip, while the other one was lost in your hair, both settled there and pulling you in closer. Her lips were a perfect softness, you tasted a mixture of whiskey and coffee and eagerly savored every inch of her lips.

You both pulled apart slowly, leaning your foreheads against each other and panting heavily. You bit back a smile, while staring into her eyes. “I like you too.”

I don't wanna be your friend

Lose my breath

I don't wanna be your friend

Lose my breath