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lily-bisque · 1 day ago

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ＷＡＹＯＵＴＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume eight — interstate love story

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, mental health and depression struggles, suicide, blood and violence, mentions of war—pls remember that this is a fictional work inspired by a comic and i am not using this to rewrite history or treat any tragedies unseriously! tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: hi my lovely lovelies. apologies for this slower-than-usual update, motivation was running the slightest bit low but ya girl bisque know's where home is! (with sukuna up that hill...) anyway, enjoy and see you guys at the end <3.

✦ ── word count: 4.1k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - interlude - volume nine

art by outdmilk on twt

Your fingers were curled around the handle of a sticky syrup bottle, watching the maple honeyed liquid dribble from the spout with a slow deliberation onto your short stack of buttermilk pancakes, coating it in a thick and treacly brown layer. The sight and scent was more than enough to make your stomach audibly grumble with want.

Sukuna wasted no time himself, digging into his hashbrowns and side of scrambled eggs like a man starved.

It was an oddly comforting sight, not to mention a familiar one too.

“This is how you do pancakes,” you started, eyeing the spread of berries you’d requested on top, slicing a triangle heap of your entree with your knife and shoveling it into your mouth.

“Agreed,” he grumbled, and you felt yourself still.

You carefully lowered your utensils, leaning back against the red leather booth of the shoddy diner he’d brought you to, eyes dropping to the three plates before Sukuna. “A cheap shot at my cooking expertise?”

That seemed to have spurred him on, a minute tug at the corner of his lips. “Guilty.”

Your foot found his shin in a hard kick that he hadn’t forseen, the giant man flinching and butting his knee into the bottom of the table.

“Cut it out, brat,” he gritted through clenched teeth, claret eyes set ablaze, the piercing glare sending daggers through you.

You simply feigned a gentle grin. “Cyanide is tasteless.”

“For potential tenants, you’re on the chopping block.” He quickly remarked back.

“Gosh darn. Looks like I’ll have to give it up to granny with the ogling eyes,” you whispered with a delighted grin, shielding your mouth with your hand not-so-inconspicuously and bobbing your eyebrows past Sukuna.

He frowned, warily peering past his shoulder and scanning the fairly busy diner. Quickly, his eyes landed on an elderly woman, maybe somewhere around sixty years old, stirring her steeped tea with a rusted silver spoon and giving Sukuna what he could only describe as “bedroom eyes.”

He turned back to you, scoffing and continuing to scarf down his hefty stack. “Wouldn’t be the first time I opened my scope to the geriatric circle.”

You dropped your hand, and your smile with it, praying that your appetite hadn’t been snubbed thanks to his vulgarity and the frightening image.

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

With hunger came deliriousness, which meant that now that your bellies had been thoroughly satiated, you were both a hell of a lot more clear minded.

If it weren’t for Sukuna’s nasty habit.

Your nose scrunched, wrinkling with mild anticipation, throat stinging and eyes watering. “Could you put that out?”

He rolled his window down, flicking his cigarette out the window along with a puff of smoke dissipating with the afternoon heat. “Uh, yeah.”

His crimson irises flickered over your form reluctantly every couple of minutes or so, and you could feel the unadulterated amount of convoluted confusion radiating from him despite his adamancy on remaining tightlipped even after teasing you during breakfast.

You winced, cracking your knuckles before tossing him a glance to break the stifling silence only coupled with the quiet hum of radio tunes. “You ever play 21 questions?”

The two of you had a lot to catch up on.

He cocked his head slightly, focused on the road before him. “The hell is that?”

You splayed out weakly in your seat, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Well. We’re going to play my own version of it, anyway… that’s basically nothing like the original but semantics…” you swiftly blurted out, mindlessly drumming your knuckles atop the passenger side window like it’d give you the courage you were racking your nerves for. “I ask you a question, and you have to answer honestly. Then you ask me a question and I have to answer honestly. We keep going until we’re both satisfied.”

He huffed a breath, a sound akin to a derisive laugh. “Doesn’t sound much like a game.” You shot him a glare that he shook off, adjusting his long legs in his worn leather seat before complying after a few contemplative moments. “So how’d you find the ring?”

You shut your eyes, feeling like you’d just stepped into a trap you’d cleared the land for and placed atop the dirt—wincing and wondering if it was better to yarn or tell the truth for the sake of your slowly untethering dignity.

You settled on the latter after your mind drew blank in search for an excuse, releasing a shaky breath.

“I, uh. Came by the mill to bring you a sandwich… which I ended up eating, but that’s besides the point. Was gonna do the whole talk over lunch with you but as you can see my plans ended up turning out for me one way or another,” you chuckled dryly, promptly shutting up when his lips thinned out. “Your coworker, Shiu? He invited me after I told him that I knew you.”

Sukuna eyed you quietly from the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering while the other rested on his open window, halted at a red light. The warm afternoon air raked through his unruly salmon tresses, a golden light cast on his skeptical expression, deep lines trailing across his tatted face that colored him disappointed. You fiddled with the frayed hem of your jean shorts, one sneakered foot tapping against the rubber covering of his car floor—the mannerisms of a child being scolded by a parent.

“City girl,” he grumbled out in a disgruntled tone after a few suffocating moments. You were holding your breath like your air was tethered to his. “You’ve known me for, what? A week? The fuck are you thinking?”

You nibbled on your lower lip, feeling your chest coil in agitation. “That’s two questions…” you muttered under your breath, a weak attempt to settle the tension.

He slowed at a stop light, turning his head and frown pointed at you as his boot lowered against the brake. “So… what? Gimme something to work with here,” he grunted, wrenching the steering wheel in one palm.

You folded your arms strewn with a thick tension, peering out of the window like the gentle sway of mighty pine trees could distract you from this conversation, caging yourself in your hold.

“I hate the city.” You spoke flatly, lulling backwards as the car moved in motion again.

He scoffed at that. “Prissy girl got sick of all the noise.”

Annoyance flashed in your eyes as you whipped your head towards him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Or what?” He rolled his eyes lazily, rolling a knot in his tense shoulder, caused by his lack of resignation to sleeping somewhere proper.

Sukuna knew practically nothing about you—not about your familial life, work life, social life, none of it. He’s here making baseless assumptions off of nothing and you wouldn’t sit here and take it.

You opened your mouth to spew some sort of curse at him, but hesitated, lip trembling before you sank back into your seat and sigh exasperatedly. There was still something you needed from him, so rising to the bait wouldn’t be in your best interest lest he use it as a reason to turn you down. “What’s the story with the tattoos?” You blurted to change the subject, tone bitter and dry.

Sukuna stiffened, then cracked his neck to distract his stammering heart. “Not sure that’s a story you wanna hear.”

“Well I wouldn’t have asked it if I wasn’t interested,” you pushed back with choler, teeth gritting against each other like tectonic plates with a personal vengeance.

He prodded his tongue against the inside of his cheek, keeping his foot steady on the gas, allowing the beam of the sun winking in the sky to keep him settled in reality. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Your prickly gaze dragged over to him as he spun the radio off, clearing his throat uncomfortably over the droning silence. He dragged a hand over his face, letting out a sigh before he started. “Uh, you remember that dog tag of mine you found?”

You nodded slowly, fingers pressing into your biceps.

He hummed. “Well, got that during the first war I served in,” he murmured under his breath.

Your head spun towards him, eyes saucer wide and piercing him incredulously. “What?”

He glanced at your sideways, before staring out of his rearview mirror. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You shook your head, dismissing his crass comment. “You said your ‘first war?’ Christ, how old are you?”

Sukuna itched the back of his head, as if he were really contemplating it. “Not sure. Stopped countin’ years ago,” and the admission had you dizzy.

“Huh,” you breathed out, eyes dropping to your lap. “Then you were born around the same time as the first mutants, I’m guessing?”

He nodded at your realization. “Must’ve been the early 1800s but it’s been so long I can’t remember the date.”

You were silent for a few minutes, before Sukuna heard a sniffle from the passenger seat, head spinning towards you so quickly that he almost veered off the road. “The hell you cryin’ for?” He spat, knuckles paling under the pressure of his clenched fists around the leather wheel.

You wiped the backs of your hands against your damp lashes, sniffling and shaking your head. “S-sorry. It just made me realize how long you’ve been alone…” you trailed off, holding back yet another sob.

Sukuna cringed, rolling his eyes and nudging your head lightly with a couple of his fingers. One second you’re pissed off at him, the next you’re feeling sorrow on his account. “Pity me again, brat, and see what happens.”

You ignored his baseless threat. “So do you remember your b-birthday?” You whispered, teeth nibbling and tearing at the skin on the inside of your cheek.

Sukuna was quiet for a few moments, crimson eyes narrowed, windswept wisps of pink locks falling over his forehead. “Nah. It’s trivial after a certain point. And what’s there to celebrate anyway?” He growled, almost in annoyance at your ridiculous worries.

But was it really ridiculous? Was he so far gone that the celebration of life had almost no significance to him?

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and trying to suck down the tears threatening your waterline away. “Fine. Today’s your birthday, then.”

“What?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“You heard me. If you can’t remember your birthday, then I’m appointing today as your birthday.” You tried to sound annoyed, but your heart was battering against your ribcage.

And then it was quiet again. Sukuna didn’t offer a reply, drumming his finger against the gear shift mindlessly. But his face was pulled in taut lines, like another word from you would unravel every tightly knit nerve.

“We’re here,” he huffed, and effectively tugged you from your wandering thoughts.

You glanced up, gaze meeting the impound lot in town, a dingy and near dilapidated building with a rusty red exterior that’d long fallen into a state of disrepair. There were hundreds of cars going past the building, some recent models and some looking as if they’d been sitting here well before Sukuna was born (which isn’t quite realistic but who are you without your dramatics?)

You pushed the rickety passenger door out, climbing out and missing Sukuna’s gaze lingering on you. You padded over to the front door, mind swimming with borderline irritation with Sukuna’s defensive nature, but a sense of understanding.

You still didn’t know the story behind his scars, but with how long he’s been around and the plain fact that he was born a mutant, was enough to tell you that the guy had it rough.

One day, you’ll ask. But for now, you didn’t want to tread in territory that could very well be a wound he hadn’t closed up yet.

“What can I do for ya?” An older man quizzed, coveralls covered in grease and soot.

You were about to speak up, Sukuna’s presence behind you looming, but he took matters into his own hands. “Her car was towed. We’re just here to pick it up.”

The older man chuckled, wandering over to rest on a stool and brush his hands onto his knees. “You ain’t teach yer girl where to park.”

You stiffened. “I’m not his—.”

“Not yet.”

You peered up at his jarring interruption, eyes locking onto his, but his expression was unreadable. He tugged out his wallet, thick fingers parsing through massive wads of bills.

There’s no way in hell he’s paying for your idiocy. “Wait—.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, lovebugs,” the older man jeered, standing up to file through a giant cabinet and tugging out a document that you assumed was for you to fill out. “Gonna need some proof of ownership, insurance, and a valid driver’s license.”

You swallowed thickly, glad for the distraction that had your heart rate pick up, rummaging through your bag and stepping towards the counter. You ignored Sukuna’s huff behind you, seemingly irritated with the system of things, but nonetheless stayed quiet.

It only took about fifteen minutes to get everything sorted with the old man, before Sukuna slipped a wad that was probably far too much to the older man and stomped towards the door. “Be waitin’ in the car,” he grumbled before disappearing.

Your gaze followed his retreating figure, shoulders loosening once he was gone and releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding. What the hell was that?

“How long?”

“Huh?” You squeaked, wide orbs flashing towards the voice.

The old man was now squinting at you with a mirthful gaze that made you shuffle nervously. He laughed, low and easy, before tilting his head towards the door.

A knowing look coloring him that made your eyes go wide.

“Oh! No… we’re not… no,” you dismissed the notion with a wave of your hand, feeling heat bloom in your chest that you tried to dryly laugh away but it was futile. Wonderfully unfurling with no respect for your denial.

The old man slowly nodded his head, pursing his lips as if he was trying to convince himself at your adamancy. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

You plopped the feathered pen in your hand into its respective jar alongside its set, brushing your clammy hands down your thighs in an attempt to steel your nerves. “Hm? Why’s that?”

You tried to sound apathetic, though it came out squeaky and nervous.

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest to give you an once-over.

“Well, because he looks at you like you’re magic.”

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“How long ‘till you can pick it up?”

You pulled the door shut, adjusting in your seat and avoiding Sukuna’s bleak gaze, voice laced with chagrin like you were a nagging tick despite a certain stranger’s observation. “Just a couple of days, so until then, my cars all theirs. They just need to process my documents,” you breathed out, hoping what was slipping through the cracks of your skin wasn’t perceptible.

Sukuna started up the engine, seemingly unaware of your sparking nerves. “Right.”

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“How the fuck are we supposed to carry all of this up the trail?”

Sukuna watched as you loaded his truck bed with your plethora of things from the motel room you’d been staying in, eyes narrowed and arms folded over his chest as you actively committed a disservice to him.

You really had just packed up your entire life to move into the woods.

You shrugged, shuffling through a duffel bag and giving him a lazy appraisal. “You’re a strong guy,” you walked over to him and patted his bicep. “You’ll figure it out.”

Steam was practically puffing from his ears as you settled back into the passenger seat with a sly grin on your face.

The drive back to the bottom of the mountain wasn’t long, thankfully not far from your motel. The two of you hopped out, you pulling a visor over your head and stretching to prepare yourself for the trek ahead and Sukuna folding his flannel sleeves up he’d snagged from his spare collection.

He rounded to the trunk, taking a look at your baggage and sighing deeply.

There was no way he was subjecting himself to two hours of dragging this shit up an elevated trail.

“Nah,” he warily sighed, shaking his head as he took a step back. “Not carrying this.”

Your head spun towards him, heart rate steadily picking up. You hurried over to his side to peer over the back of the truck where he was currently frowning towards. “It’s, uh, not that much,” you weakly convinced, rocking on your heels as your trepidation steadily rose. “Plus, you’ve carried me up and I’m way heavier, so.”

You peered up, eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight, a golden light casted over your features that made his mind spin.

“Please? I’ll do anything,” you sighed out, placing a hand over his bicep and pouting.

And Sukuna short-circuited, eyes dancing over your form that bobbed up and down nervously, motioning towards your things like they were the most meager things he could carry with the curl of his pinky.

“Sure,” he cut in, not quite sure why his mouth suddenly decided to speak for him before his mind could logically grasp the severity of the situation.

It would be like hauling you up the mountain all over again, though it’d be a lot less soft—.

“We goin’ or what?” You quizzed like a perky dog, and if you had a tail, it’d be wagging wayward behind your back.

He felt the air leave from his lungs in irritation as you cracked your joints, twisting your neck as if preparing yourself for a treacherous trek. Though, he should be the one bracing himself because he nearly hadn’t survived the first run with you.

He grabbed your two satin duffels that were bound to wear away with time but he made no comment, tossing them over his shoulder, then motioned for your suitcases and grabbed the clasps before tugging them along. He wasn’t even going to have you carry anything up because with your luck, you’d probably wear yourself out, slip on a rock, then meet an early demise.

The first twenty minutes were a breeze, the heat was forgiving and the elevation wasn’t too bad. Though, he was starting to feel an ache coil in his left shoulder from where one of your bag straps rested, rolling it out every now and then.

“How’s your ankle?” He quirked out of plain boredom, gaze falling down to your sneaker for a moment before meeting your eyeline.

You perked up, practically skipping, not yet worn out thank goodness. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to lug you up, too. “Great, actually! I was able to work just fine on it, too. Just got a battle scar to show for it,” you claimed, ducking under a lowly hung branch.

Sukuna made a sound derisive to a laugh, seemingly entertained with your comment. “So you say. And what line of work is a lady like you in?”

There was a stumble in your gait, as if Sukuna’s question threw you for a loop and you were recalling something you didn’t want to. But that falter only lasted a breadth of a second, focusing on your feet as a smile crawled onto your lips. “I was a preschool teacher.”

Sukuna cocked an eyebrow, clearly stupefied that it made you want to slap his uncanny smirk. “You? A teacher?”

You rolled your eyes, kicking a pebble with your foot only for it to bounce off of a rock. “Just so we’re clear, I’ve got better control over my emotions when a man like you isn’t baiting me,” you shot back, wanting to drag the curl of your lips off of your face, deciding on just shaking your head.

He hummed, fingers flexing around the clasp of your luggage. “You’re confirming that me getting a rise out of you is effective, then.”

You parted your lips, mild offensive coloring your heated cheeks before you brushed it off. “Just shut up,” you muttered, running your tongue over your top row of teeth.

He cocked his head, lifting his boot to step over a boulder and coming to your side, making a scene of getting into your personal space. “Sorry, I’m gonna need you to repeat that.”

You ducked away, a fit of giggles leaving your lips, pushing a hand against his side to put some well-needed distance between the two of you.

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

THUNK

“Never… ask me to do that again,” he huffed out, chest heaving as he dropped your bags just a couple of meters from the familiar shabby home.

But you were barely listening, chest swelling at the sight before you, wiping the backs of your hands against your perspired face as you, too, tried to catch your breath.

It was still the afternoon, so the sun was tethered somewhere high up there amongst the sparse clouds, yet there was something about the entire setting that made you buzz with elation.

The landscape felt suspended in a chambré afterglow, a gentle croaking buzz of wildlife surrounding you, mind melting with an overwhelming relaxation.

Bark!

Your head spun to the side where the sound erupted from, a whirl of white fur throttling towards you, small patters of paws hitting the spongy Earth before you were thoroughly sent into the fescue and tackled into a heap of snickers and rolls with the mutt on top of you.

“Uraume!” You called out through a guttural laugh, fingers tangled in their fuzzy fur, the dog licking slimy stripes up your sweaty cheeks, sending a tickle across your goosebump littered skin.

They barked right into your face, nuzzling you with an excitement, gentle coos falling from your lips to rile them down.

And Sukuna stood there like a man frozen in time, gaping with eyes wide and feet rooted in the ground like he was planted in black tar, unable to make sense of what he was witnessing and what he was feeling.

You were a pathetic clump on the dirt floor, dragging up mud across your bare calves and twigs protruding from your hair in an unruly manner, eyes crinkled with each smile adorning your soft face.

He quickly tore his gaze away, mindlessly leaving your things just outside and heading straight for the front door. He shuffled through the pockets of his blue jeans, tugging out his keys and fumbling with them before promptly stuffing it into the keyhole and pushing himself inside.

“You miss me?’ You quizzed, placing a kiss against Uraume’s nose as they panted with excitement, rubbing against your leg as you got to your feet.

You sprawled your hand over their head, giving it a thorough rub, before heading inside with the pup following close on your tail.

You could grab your things later, deciding on waltzing straight into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water.

Sukuna was nowhere to be found, but then you heard the bathroom faucet flip on with a few splashes, a signal that he was most likely cooling himself down, a well-needed respite.

You plopped down at the table, tossing your head back and staring at the popcorn littered ceiling you’d fallen asleep to just a month ago. You don’t know why your lips curled with the fact that you were back here again, heart still racing at a pace that made your mind the slightest bit dizzy.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, footfalls on the wood sounding as Sukuna made his way towards you. “Bathroom’s all yours if you need it,” Sukuna cut through the hazy air, stomping into the kitchen and searching through his cabinets for what seemed to be a glass cup as well.

“Thanks, but I’ll just shower before heading to bed,” you mindlessly answered with a limp wave of your hand, bleak gaze still trained to the world above.

He peered at you past his shoulder, eyeing the steady rise and fall of your chest, before promptly breaking it, swallowing thickly. “So what now?” He queried, grabbing the water pitcher and pouring himself a tall glass.

You mulled it over for a few moments, then broke yourself from your jaded reverie of tranquility and matched his gaze as he leaned against the kitchen sink.

“I… might need a favor.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, cocking his head slightly at your confession, but allowing you the stage nonetheless.

You adjusted nervously, leaning forward to clasp your hands together like you were pitching a sale at a business meeting. “Any chance you own a tuxedo?”

a/n: next episode, sukuna and citygirl crash a wedding ;p thanks for reading, i have missed hearing everyone's thoughts so lmk what you thought of this volume!

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omtai · 1 day ago

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between-songs transcript (arlington, august 2nd 2025)

the one missing word at the start is where i thought they said rizzler. someone with better ears please let me know what they said cause i know there’s no way its rizzler. under the cut 🙏

(before disappear)

Planet Texas! How the hell are you, we got good news for you, America! The Black Parade is back in action! And [something], this is the last time you dirty this armored suit! We are brought to you by the kindest, warmest gentleman, here tonight with us; please, a round of applause for The Grand Immortal Dictator. He’s been enjoying all the culture wherever he goes, and that man looks handsome. We are supported by the Draag National Auxiliary band, please make some noise. Shall we continue? Ahh! Ah! Come on!

(before wttbp) (elexecution)

Hello, Texas! We’re gonna have an election! No-no-no, we’re gonna have an execution! Everybody that came in today, you got a really free sign, you got a really beautiful free sign, you got a red side that says yea! You got a black side that says nay! We’re gonna hold a vote, and we’re gonna decide if these people get executed or if they’ll live. Their crime is collective: to question the vitality of His Grand Immortal Dictator. It’s up to you, America, what we do with them. For those that think, we put a bullet in ‘em. Let’s see the red, let’s see yea. Now, all who oppose, say nay! That’s a lot of fuckin’ red! It’s close though. I’ll let you know when it’s close. We gotta give the people what they want. Roll! Ready! Aim! Fire. Yes! Wait, hold on. Oh, one of ‘em didn’t get hit. One of our guys missed. We should’ve got somebody from Dallas to do it. Alright, well, let’s show her what she’s won, then! It’s brand new 2009 Baruva Dart. Gets great gas mileage. Looks pretty sweet. What’s in it? A brand new goat. In the back seat. Alright. Yeah, let’s get her over there, let’s get her behind the wheel of that brand new car. Whaddaya say, Texas?

(before house of wolves)

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark!

(before teenagers)

[picking up ringing phone] Hold on, I’m calling my mom.

B STAGE

(before na na na)

Thank you Clarice. Please make some noise for Clarice Jensen. I’ve been a fan of her a while. And she’s, uh, also part of the Draag National Auxiliary Band. Along with Kayleigh Goldsworthy and Tucker Rule, please make some noise for them. Hell yeah. And please make some noise for Garbage! It’s a real honour to play with them, and think Shirley had to take off early, but, uh, I think for maybe some reason that’s not so awesome, you know? But, you know, we’ll put this song out to her, and we wanna thank them for playing with us. [To Frank] Happy birthday who? Butch? Butch’s—[to audience] oh, it’s Butch Vig’s birthday! Hell yeah! Happy birthday, Butch! Alright, this goes out to all of you. Let’s hit it. We’re My Chemical Romance from New Jersey.

(before sorrows)

Woo! Hell yeah. Hell fucking yeah. I was real excited for this show. We were real excited for this fucking show. Been a long time. This is a really cool room though—you know, like, the roof’s closed and everything, um, ‘cause one thing I forgot about when we got here the other day was how big the sky is in Texas. It’s fucking huge. So, you know, I was missing that a little bit tonight, but not really when you guys put your shit up in the air. Your shit that lights up. This ain’t the kind of song for it, though. That light-up shit, you know what I’m sayin’? This song is off the first record! ‘Our Lady of Sorrows’.

(before planetary go)

[gagging and retching] Thank you. Shit, yeah. This is our first stadium tour, thank you for coming out. It’s took a real fucking while to do this, but thanks for spending your fucking evenings with us, and most of your morning, or your afternoon, too, just hanging out. ‘Preciated! I feel like dancing. I really do. We’re gonna see how it goes on this grating, but… you feel like dancing, Caroline? Good news, America! It’s time. To dance.

(before not ok)

We got some friends out here tonight. Some very special friends of ours from different parts of our lives, want you to make some noise for our friends Livia, Byron, and King. They live right here in Dallas. And, uh, we had a really fucking amazing Thanksgiving, it was fucking awesome, America, it was so good. It was really good. Our friend Scott’s here, too, from the old comic shop days. I spotted him right away. He spotted me, I think, right away, but I think eventually, for sure, he did. Scott’s here, yeah. You see him? I can see him. Man. He introduced me to a movie called ‘Phantom Of The Paradise’. I’d seen the VHS before in, uh, Dollar Video, in the parking lot of A&P in Jersey, was like, ‘man, this cover’s so shitty.’ He’s like, ‘this movie’s fucking good, dude.’ You watched it? Fucking changed my life, man. Check it out. This song goes out to all of them. All those 47 people I just mentioned. Are you ready for the summer jam of all time?!

(before bullet with butterfly wings)

Insects. Insects. Wo-o-oah. This is a song I had a religious experience with.

(before the world is ugly)

Thank you, Texas. Hell yeah. This shit is fun, thank you for singing that with us. Let’s see. I think this is one we haven’t played yet on this tour. On tonight’s scheduled shout-out script—there’s more coming, but they’re for different nights, you know? So this one is for you guys. Let’s hear it. Both of them are. Anything you don’t hear me put out to somebody else, it’s—it’s yours, you know? This is a song off Conventional Weapons. It’s a beautiful song, for an ugly world. Are you ready? I think we should see those lights.

(before venom)

Thank you, Texas. Very beautiful to be here, beautiful to look at, thank you so much. We’ve always had good shows here, that’s one reason we—you know, um, we were looking forward to, but also, like, Texans are intimidating as fuck, so. With however many tens of thousands of you came to check out us, that’s pretty cool, right? Atleast someone in Texas digs this shit, right? Now, we—like, back in the early days, too, I remember, like, we’d drive for—forever, forever, ‘cause this state’s really big, it’s like, bigger than the UK, right? When you drive across? And sometimes Ray would stop the van and be like, ‘bro, get out! Get out!’ And I think it was Texas he made us get out, it was really late at night, and he was like, ‘bro, look at the fucking stars!’ and we were like, ‘what the fuck are you doing, man?’ but it was infectious. I was into that shit. I don’t know if everyone was, but I didn’t give a—motherfucker. Stargazing. Well, we got our own kind tonight. We’re gonna play you something off Revenge, if that’s okay with you! It’s a little bit metal, a little bit rock’n’roll, I don’t know…! That’s the stupidest thing I ever said. Let’s go, this songs called Gracias! Pour la Venin. Alright, let’s do it!

(before kill all your friends)

Fuck yeah! This is, uh, just as awesome a fucking night as we’d hoped. Real exciting to play here again in whatever fucking capacity, transformation that is. Whatever, man. Woo! Imagine I just do this, walk around the whole time—woo! [audience woos] Oh, you wanna do it too? Woo! [audience woos] Hell yeah. You guys wrestling fans too? Everybody’s a wrestling fan. I know Charlie’s a wrestling fan. Charlie Saxton who plays The Clerk over there, big time wrestling fan. He taught me all kinds of shit. How to take a hit, stage combat, kicking people over. He’s a talented fucking man. Alright, here’s a song that we haven’t played yet, it’s a B-side off Black Parade, it’s pretty fucking tasty. You know what I’m saying? [to Frank] I think this is your son’s favourite song, right? This goes out to you.

(before helena with intro)

Thank you! Fuck yeah, thank you so much. Got a couple more left for you guys. Alright, Texas! You may probably sing this one the loudest with us, possibly. We’ll help you start it out. We’re gonna start like this. Start like this.

(before war beneath the rain)

Thank you guys so much. It’s fucking magical. Fucking awesome. Hell yeah. Alright. We got one more. We’ve only played this once before. [creepy voice] There was a studio in North Hollywood. We made some songs, and then we broke up. And them songs just sat somewhere. And we said, hey, let’s play a couple, so we did. [normal voice] I don’t know what that voice is. I don’t have a name for it yet. But I’ve got my Good News America voice. That has nothing to do with Texas, it’s just America, you know? Horsemen… alright, this song is called ‘The War Beneath The Rain’.

#mcr #lltbp #mcrtx #mcr transcripts #omtai post #had to become a fking detective to figure out who he was shouting out for not ok #twas livia zita her son byron & king diamond 👍#do love that gerard had thanksgiving with king diamond from mercyful fate

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ellewritesx · 2 days ago

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guide me slowly

(part four of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: One hand around your throat. The other between your legs. Turns out, Harry's very good at listening.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, talk about kinks, fingering, knee riding, choking, praise kink, some dom!Harry

Based on: this ask!

A/N: this took one took foreverrr to write, sorry lovelies! i've just been so busy, but thankfully i'll have loads of time to write this month. how have you guys been doing? my inbox is open, come talk to me! hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think, love you sm x

Word Count: 3,556

...

You're smiling when he pulls open the heavy wooden door, a hand on the curve of your back over your dress as he gently steers you into the restaurant. There's something so natural about it, about the ease with which you move together now, the unspoken awareness of his fingers grazing your hip as he thanks the hostess.

The glow of candlelight paints the wood-paneled walls in a golden hue, tucked away in one of the more high-end streets of the city. You get the feeling he likes it that way, the quiet, the seclusion. The kind of place that feels like it's pressing pause on the rest of the world.

You settle into the booth Harry reserved for the two of you, and he slides in beside you, thigh brushing yours. He takes the bottle of wine already sitting in a cooler and pours you a glass, then his own.

''Alright, go on,'' he says, voice teasing as he picks up a menu. ''Tell me how charming I am again.''

You raise a brow at him, smiling behind the rim of your wine glass. ''I never said you were charming.''

''No, but you're blushing. That says enough.''

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are a little warm. ''You're lucky I like you.''

He leans in just enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne, and you can't help but squeeze your thighs together under the table. ''You have no idea,'' he murmurs, eyes scanning your face.

The air shifts, as it always does between you two. A joke turns into a moment. A glance turns into a throbbing between your legs. You're still getting used to it, the way he pays attention to you, the way he always puts your needs before his own without hesitation.

The waitress comes and goes with your orders, barely glancing at you once she sees who she's serving. Harry doesn't seem to notice, or he does, but pretends not to, and you watch the side of his face as he orders two bowls of a pasta dish he insists you have to try and thanks her, polite and unbothered, like he's not the most famous man in the restaurant. You wonder how often he's had to pretend not to notice the stares, how it feels when everyone knows your face.

He turns back to you with that familiar, lopsided smile, the one that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, and now that you're alone again, the conversation starts to unravel into something softer. He asks you how your week's been. You tell him about a book you've been reading, a walk you took the other day, the little things that most people don't care about, but he listens to everything you say like it's the most important thing in the world. After a sip of wine you ask him something that's been rolling around your mind.

''Do you ever get tired of being… y'know. Recognized? Looked at?''

Harry tilts his glass in his hand, eyes scanning the table as he contemplates the question. ''Sometimes. Depends.''

''On what?''

He exhales slowly, like he's trying to decide how honest to be. ''On the day. On the mood I'm in. Sometimes it feels harmless, someone smiling at me in a grocery store, or a fan wanting a photo. It's nice. Other times…'' He pauses. ''It makes me feel like I'm in a glass box. Like I'm being watched through it, but I can't touch anything on the other side. It's... isolating, at times. I don't know.''

Your heart twists a little at the image. ''That sounds lonely.''

''It can be,'' he admits. ''But it's part of the deal, right? I asked for this. Not all of it, not the way people think they own you, or the weird entitlement, but the rest of it. The music, the performing, the connection with people. That's the part I couldn't live without.''

You nod slowly, letting his words settle. ''Do you think people ever really see the real you?''

He glances sideways at you, then nudges your foot under the table. ''You do.'' He reaches for your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it like you're some old-Hollywood starlet.

Your breath catches.

''Alright. That was depressing, let's move on,'' he says, looking at you with a conspiratorial smile as he leans in closer, your hand still in his. ''Deep questions or embarrassing childhood stories?''

You laugh. ''Are those my only two options?''

''I mean, I could ask about your thoughts on parallel universes, but we've only had half a glass of wine.''

You pretend to think. ''Embarrassing stories, then. I want to know all your secrets.''

''Dangerous.'' He leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. ''Okay. I had this phase, I reckon I was around nine or ten, where I genuinely believed I was going to be a magician. I made my mum sit through hours of these dreadful performances in the living room. My sister still has the photos, I'm sure.''

''I'm going to need to see those.''

...

Harry fumbles with the keys, and you lean against the doorframe, watching him with your shoes dangling from your fingers and your smile still stuck in place. You're both laughing when you walk through the door, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.

''Remind me to never let you order in Italian again,'' you say, squinting at him. ''Your accent is awful when you're drunk.''

He grins, dimples deep. ''It's called authenticity, darling.''

''It's called cultural appropriation, Harold.''

He lets out a bark of laughter and tosses his keys on the entryway table. ''And I'm not drunk, I'm just... tipsy. Barely. Just like you are.''

''How come you're such a lightweight at, what, 170 pounds of pure muscle?'' you say with a huffed laugh, heading toward the kitchen, ''I'm revoking your wine privileges.''

''You wound me.''

But he's already trailing after you, tugging his rings off one by one and setting them carefully on the counter. The top few buttons of his shirt have come undone over the course of the evening, revealing the slope of his collarbone and the beginning of that stupidly pretty chest you try not to stare at. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, and the tattoos scattered across his skin look like they're moving under the soft kitchen lights. You bite your lip at the sight of the swallows on his collarbones, sinful thoughts flooding your mind.

You turn away quickly, focusing on taking off your earrings.

The silence is comfortable, filled with the occasional clink of jewelry being set down, the soft sloshing of wine as Harry uncorks another bottle behind you and pours two glasses. You send him a disapproving look, but he cuts you off with a smug smile.

''You know,'' he says, passing you a glass and bumping his shoulder into yours. ''You look very beautiful tonight.''

You glance at him. ''Only tonight?''

He grins again, softer this time. ''Especially tonight.''

You roll your eyes fondly but take a sip of wine to hide your smile. ''Flattery will get you everywhere.''

''That's the plan,'' he grins, leaning against the counter beside you.

You both fall quiet for a moment, and you let the hush settle around you. He looks relaxed like this, sleeves rolled up, wine in hand, curls a little unruly from where your fingers kept brushing through them on the drive home. There's something about this version of him, the real him, that makes your chest ache a little.

''Can I ask you something?'' you say eventually, swirling the wine in your glass.

He hum softly, gazing at you intently over the rim of his glass.

''Is it hard pretending to be somebody you're not? Like... in the media?''

The question hangs in the air for a beat. He exhales slowly, setting his glass down on the counter.

''I don't. I show the public a side of myself,'' he says after a moment. ''If I presented myself to be a completely different person... I wouldn't be able to keep up with that. What the public sees, it's... limited, but it's still me. A part of me, anyway.''

You nod. ''That makes sense.''

''It's weird, really, when the entire world thinks they're entitled to knowing everything about you. They want to know all my intimate, dirty secrets while they keep their own hidden. It's invasive, and wildly hypocritical,'' he says, staring at a scratch on the counter, before smiling softly. ''But the view I have from the stage... It's worth all the scrutiny, the speculation, the vile headlines. All of it.''

Your nod softly, and your voice is quieter when you speak. ''For what it's worth, you'll never have to deal with any of it alone as long as I'm here. The highs and the lows.''

''I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. You.''

The words sit heavy in your chest. You take another sip of wine, then shift your weight so your hip bumps lightly against his.

''Hey,'' you say, glancing at him sidelong, wanting to lift his spirits. ''You're not the only one with layers, you know.''

Harry raises an eyebrow. ''Oh?''

''I have hidden depths. Mystery. Intimate, dirty secrets.''

He smirks. ''Any of these dirty secrets you're willing to share?''

You pretend to think. ''Maybe.''

His voice drops a little lower. ''Like what?''

There's a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes now, of interest. That quiet kind of intensity he gets when he's trying to read between your words. You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug, trying to keep your tone light, and you know you have him hooked.

''I don't know. Like… I guess I've thought about certain things. Wondered what I might like.''

''You can tell me,'' he says, softer now. ''No pressure.''

You glance down into your wineglass, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how warm the air feels around you. ''Okay,'' you say, half-laughing at yourself. ''But only if you go first.''

He lets out a low chuckle and sets his glass aside completely, folding his arms loosely across his chest. ''Alright. Let's see…'' There's a thoughtful pause before he continues. ''I like being in control. I like guiding things. Making someone feel safe while still pushing a little. Watching them fall apart and knowing I'm the reason.''

Your stomach flips.

''And I like praise,'' he adds. ''Giving it, mostly. I like letting someone know when they're doing well. When they're being good for me.''

You don't realize you're holding your breath until you exhale.

He smiles, a little smug. ''Too much?''

''No,'' you say quickly, ''Not at all. I just… I didn't expect you to say all that so easily.''

He shrugs, playful. ''You asked.''

There's another pause. He doesn't press, just waits. His patience is almost worse than pressure, because you want to tell him. You want him to know. But the words seem to be stuck in your chest, the weight of them making it a little harder to breathe.

You take another sip of wine and then clear your throat.

''I guess I've always liked the idea of… being told what to do,'' you admit. ''Not in a 'do my laundry' way. Just in bed. I like the thought of someone being a little more dominant. Someone guiding me.''

Harry nods, gaze soft but focused. ''That makes sense, especially when it's your first time.''

''Exactly why I'd want someone to take control, take some of the pressure off me. And maybe…'' You hesitate, and then decide to hell with it. ''I'd like to be blindfolded? To surrender control to another person like that... I don't know, the mutual trust, it excites me.''

His smile deepens, slow, pleased. ''That can definitely be arranged.''

''Stop,'' you say, flustered, nudging his arm. ''We're just talking.''

''I know,'' he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. ''But I'm taking notes. So, guidance. Trust. A little control. Anything else?''

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. You run your hands through your hair, debating on your choice of words. ''I think... I'd like to try, um, having your hand around my throat?''

''How?'' he asks breathlessly, taking a step closer and brushing your hair over your shoulder. He takes off your necklace with reverence, fingers deliberately brushing along your collarbone.

You swallow. ''Not like… suffocating. But enough to feel lightheaded, to feel the power you have over me in that moment. I don't know.''

''Like this?'' His voice is almost a whisper as his hand slowly slides up your body to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just... there. You tilt your head back to lean on his shoulder, trying to ignore the undeniable throbbing between your thighs.

You nod once, barely able to move your head with his grip on your neck, but he's not satisfied. He gives your throat a gentle squeeze, just enough to make your lips part and your breath hitch. ''I asked you a question, baby. Be a good girl and answer it for me.''

Your eyes flutter shut, heartbeat thrumming in your ears. ''Yeah... Yeah, um, exactly like this.''

He hums appreciatively, pressing a kiss to your temple.

''We're still just talking?'' you ask, teasing but shaky.

He smiles, softer now. ''For now.''

...

By the time you make it to the bedroom, the air is thick with anticipation, with desire. Harry shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and while you don't turn to look at him, pretending to be focused on the glow of the bedside lamp, the way it spills light across the sheets, your entire body is aware of his presence.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks up behind you, slow and steady, like he's giving you a chance to back away if you change your mind. But you don't. You stand still, letting the heat of his body press against your back, and when he dips his mouth down to kiss your shoulder, your breath catches like it always does.

''So brave,'' he murmurs, lips dragging up your neck. ''Telling me what you want.''

He turns you around then, hands firm on your waist, and his eyes, half-lidded from wine and want, flick across your face. The veins on his forearms, running through the inked skin, stand out as he holds you. His thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the warm skin just above your waistband.

''Tell me again,'' he says, voice low. ''Tell me what you want.''

You inhale, shaky. ''I want you to touch me. Guide me, Harry.''

The groan he lets out is quiet and restrained, but it curls hot in your belly. ''Good girl,'' he says, kissing you hard, quick. ''Get on the bed.''

You do. You sit first, then scoot back until you're in the middle of the bed. He follows, nudging your legs open with his knee and climbing between them as he crashes his lip into yours. You reach for his shirt, undoing the last few buttons while he watches you, the heat in his eyes dark and undivided. He shrugs it off his shoulders and tosses it aside, and for a second all you can do is stare at him.

You've seen him shirtless before, but it never fails to take your breath away. His chest is rising and falling in anticipation, his skin flushed and glistening in the lamp light, his eyes drinking you in.

He leans down and kisses you again, slower now, deeper. The kind of kiss that sinks into your bloodstream, lighting up every part of your body with lust. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your waist, palming your breasts over your dress. And then, without warning, he shifts forward and presses his knee right between your legs.

The pressure is instant. Your hips twitch toward it.

''Oh,'' you breathe, gripping his shoulders.

He smiles against your mouth. ''Feel good?''

You nod. ''Yeah. Really good.''

''Ride it, baby,'' he says, kissing down your jaw. ''Wanna watch you fall apart.''

You do, slowly, rhythmically, grinding against his knee as his lips work down your throat. He worships your skin, kissing, biting, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. One hand finds its way back to your throat, resting there like a promise, not squeezing yet, just reminding you of what you confessed to moments ago.

You moan softly, the sound catching in your throat when he shifts again and bumps his knee into you harder.

''Fuck,'' you gasp, hands twisting in the sheets.

''You're soaked already, aren't you?'' His voice is rough, your eyes nearly rolling back at the sinful sound. ''Just from a bit of pressure.''

You nod again, this time more desperately.

''Good,'' he says. ''God, you're perfect.''

He keeps his knee pressed against your throbbing cunt, letting you grind against it, letting you whimper and gasp and beg. Eventually, he pulls back slightly, just enough to drag his fingers down your chest, bunching your dress further up your hips.

''Can I?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you say instantly, breathless.

''Want to hear you beg next time,'' he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. ''Just so we're clear.'' You whine at the promise in his voice.

His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and he groans. ''Fuck. You're soaked, baby.''

You bite your lip.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, right above where his hand is still pinning your neck down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he slides a finger inside. You gasp, clenching instinctively, still getting used to the foreign feeling of it, and he stills.

''You okay?'' he asks gently.

You nod. ''More. Please.''

He gives you exactly that, one finger at first, slow and steady, curling up inside you with expert precision, then two, pumping into you while his mouth never leaves your skin.

''Doing so good for me,'' he whispers. ''So fucking good.''

You're dizzy with it. The rhythm, the praise, the tension coiling low in your belly. His fingers still work inside you, his palm grazing your clit deliciously, and his other hand experimentally squeezes your throat.

Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to send a jolt of something new down your spine. It's not fear, it's a powerless sort of pleasure, the heady thrill of giving in completely.

''Is this okay?'' he asks, even as his grip tightens slightly.

You can't speak. Not because of his hand around your throat, but because you're too blissed out to think clearly, so you just nod, eyes glassy as your hands twist into the sheets, gripping the fabric.

''Good girl,'' he says again. ''You tell me if it's too much, yeah?''

You manage a small noise of assent.

The pressure of his fingers, the drag of his thumb against your clit, the weight of his palm at your throat, pressing you into the mattress as you moan beneath him. He's watching you, utterly focused, eyes fixed on your mouth as it falls open, your chest as it rises and falls in short, gasping breaths, your hips as they twitch, chasing his touch.

''You're so fucking pretty like this, love,'' he mutters. ''Don't think you even realize what you do to me.''

You whine faintly, overwhelmed.

''Prettiest thing I've ever seen,'' he insists, voice strained. ''My sweet girl. Letting me in. Letting me take care of you.''

You're close, he can feel it. Your walls flutter around his fingers, your legs twitch, your back arches. His hand squeezes a little tighter, constricting your airflow for just a second, and that's all it takes.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, blinding and white-hot. You cry out, throat strained beneath his hand, body convulsing around his fingers as he keeps moving them, drawing every last tremor from your core until you whine in overstimulation.

Then, slowly, gently, he eases off. His grip on your throat loosens. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring soft praises as you come back to yourself.

''Breathe, baby,'' he says. ''There she is. There's my girl.''

You blink up at him, dazed. He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead.

''You okay?'' he whispers.

You nod, slow and heavy. ''Yeah. I'm… yeah.''

''And this... it was okay?''

''It was perfect,'' you sigh contently, stretching leisurely and sinking into the mattress, feeling like you're floating above the clouds.

''Good,'' he smiles softly and reaches over you for his phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing your body as he moves. He lights up the screen, just checking the time, you assume.

You feel his body still on top of you, and look up in confusion just in time to see his smile fade instantly. He goes quiet.

You blink up at him, the haze of satisfaction still blurring your thoughts. ''What is it?''

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the phone, jaw tightening, brows pinching together in frustration.

''Harry?'' you press, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Finally, he glances down at you, eyes unreadable, the softness from moments ago returning when he sees your worried face.

''We need to talk, love.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry @litlmisss @billweasleyswife @rockmelikeahurricaneee @nikkihs

...

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tbaluver · 3 days ago

Text

second nature- zayne x reader

pairings: zayne x reader genre: fluff + silly wc: 200ish a/n: i luv zayne

it is so painfully obvious what dr. zayne is smiling. dr. greyson and yvonne can’t help but snicker behind the desk, already knowing he’s texting you.

today, he’s smiling to himself while quietly eating the lunch you packed for him. it’s his favorite, down to the extra sweet you tucked in just for him. he can already imagine you thinking it through, choosing what he would like, and making sure it was just right.

he wears a small tooth aching, quite literally, smile on his face from the way you packed everything so neatly. the fact that you packed two portions instead of one. maybe it was intentional, or maybe it’s simply second nature by now.

it’s become a habit to him too. oftentimes he’s found himself buying an extra pair. maybe it’s for emergencies or maybe it’ll be useful for the future or maybe it’s just another way to stay close to you. it’s a habit he’s noticed that’s forming between you, and it’s something that’s making him fall deeper in love with the relationship you’re building.

as he eats, dr. greyson and yvonne continue to giggle in the distance. but dr. zayne hardly notices. he’s too focused on enjoying every single bite, already planning what he’ll text you afterward. he can’t wait to tell you how thoughtful it was, how good it tasted, and how next time, it would be even better if you shared the meal together.

#zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #zayne love and deepspace #zayne fluff #zayne li #zayne lads #lads zayne #dr zayne #love and deepspace #lads fluff #love and deepspace x reader #lads x you #lads x reader

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spikedfearn · 1 day ago

Text

💋 One-Shot

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: he likes you enough not to eat you—and maybe that's enough to call it love.

(or: a jennifer's body au)

💋 wc: 20.4k

💋 a/n: this is officially my longest one-shot to date, clocking in at a cool 20.4k words B) bc apparently I have absolutely zero self-control when it comes to Incubus Cook!! meant to upload this on king’s birthday two days ago but I wasn't entirely satisfied with what I had at the time, hence the increased word count lol title from the song Alien Boy by Oliver Tree, also big thanks to @iamyourwayout for once again designing the banners!! hope you guys like the format, trying something a little different c:

💋 warnings: dead dove: do not eat, cannibalism, blood and gore, graphic violence, murder (lots of it), body horror, supernatural horror, demonic possession, vivid descriptions of dismemberment and mutilation, oral sex (f!receiving), vaginal sex, breeding kink, biting/marking, predator/prey dynamic, possessiveness, strength kink, rough sex, wall sex, floor sex, counter sex, inhuman stamina, aftercare, dirty talk, light choking, monsterfucking, mutual obsession, non-linear narrative, black comedy, tongue-in-cheek horror, canon-typical fuckery (skins edition), jack o’connell as a sex demon you do know

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

Now

The first sensation you register upon waking is stickiness.

Not warmth, not comfort, not even pain. Just that primal, visceral wrongness—skin slick with sweat and something thicker, heavier, clinging between your thighs and drying into the crooks of your knees. Your lips are chapped. Your throat is raw. Your stomach aches like you were punched from the inside out. And your lungs forget how to breathe.

You jolt upright—or try to. Everything hurts. Your limbs feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else. Your back sticks to the sheets with a grotesque, peeling sound, and something inside you pulses as you move—deep and bruised and full in a way that makes your body flinch.

There’s a smear of blood across your collarbone. A constellation of fingerprints on your hips. Your thighs are mottled in purpled crescents, as if you were clutched too hard by hands that didn't know how to hold, only how to take.

You’re naked. The sheets are twisted beneath you like you were thrown into bed, not placed there. A pillow lies discarded on the floor, next to what looks like a torn-off button and something blackened and crispy—burnt paper, maybe? It smells like a match was lit and never put out. It smells like sex and fire. And blood.

“You’re awake.”

The voice comes from the corner of the room—croaky, half-asleep, low and lazy in that familiar Midlands accent that used to make your chest flutter. Now it feels like it’s scraping along your spine. You turn your head too fast. You feel it all the way down to your core.

Cook is slouched in the armchair across from the bed. Bare-chested. Blood-speckled. One leg propped on the windowsill like he owns the fucking sky. His tracksuit bottoms are unzipped halfway. A half-burned cigarette dangles from his fingers. And he’s watching you like a wolf would watch a rabbit after it’s already snapped the neck and is deciding whether to chew now or savor it.

His mouth is pink and raw, split in one corner. His eyes are dark, rimmed in something shadowy—sleep deprivation or something else. He doesn’t blink.

He smiles, slow and wide.

“Didn’t think you’d get up yet. Took it like a fuckin’ champ though, didn’t ya?”

You can’t answer. You can barely swallow. You’re dry everywhere except where you’re not. Every breath feels like dragging broken glass down your throat. Your eyes sting. Your legs tremble just from shifting an inch. There’s a coppery taste behind your teeth like you’ve been biting your own tongue in your sleep. Like something clawed its way down your throat while you weren’t looking.

“You alright?” he asks, too casual. “You’re still breathing, so…that’s good.”

There’s something off about him. More than usual. His skin is too flushed, sweat-damp, and not just from sex. His pupils are blown wide, eating the color in his eyes. There’s a sticky streak down his chest—dried red that isn't yours. Not entirely. And in the dull light coming through the cracked blinds, you can see the faint shimmer of something under his skin. Not quite veins. Not quite human.

And still—your thighs clench. Some sick, shameful part of you wants him to come closer. Even now. Especially now. Because there’s a ringing in your ears and a throb between your legs and this hole inside you that still feels stretched open in the shape of him.

You whisper, croaky: “What happened?”

He leans forward, cigarette bouncing between his lips. He doesn’t smoke it. Just chews on the filter like a man trying to keep his mouth busy with something other than you.

“You don’t remember?” He grins. “Fuckin’ hell. That good, was it?”

You blink, trying to piece together anything. There were flashes—flesh, firelight, the bite of your own nails in his biceps. Your legs over his shoulders. His voice growling in your ear: “Take it. That’s it, love. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

And teeth. Sharp ones. Too sharp.

“You… didn’t…” you try to say, but your voice dies out.

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t what? Hurt ya? Eat ya? Leave ya drained in a ditch?”

He laughs. Then doesn’t. The air stills.

“I didn’t,” he says, lower now. “Could’ve.”

He gets up. Walks toward you, slow and unhurried like he knows you’re not going anywhere. He’s barefoot. Blood on one ankle. One of his hands trails along the wall as he moves, fingers dragging across the plaster like he’s reminding himself what solid ground feels like.

You don’t move. You can’t. He crouches next to the bed. Elbows on the mattress. Eyes on your face.

“Could’ve taken everything from you,” he murmurs. “Could’ve sucked you dry. Fucked you hollow. Made you beg for more even as you died with my name in your mouth.”

He leans in. You smell him. Ash. Sweat. Sex. Blood. Something older. “But I didn’t,” he whispers. “You know why?”

You stare at him.

“’Cause I like you,” he says, soft and mean and terrifying in its sincerity. “Like, properly. That fucked-up, ruin-me, wanna-keep-you-on-a-leash kinda like.”

His mouth presses to your cheek. Not a kiss. Just contact. His breath is scalding. You flinch. “You tasted so fucking good,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. And suddenly, you remember. You remember the way his tongue traced the lines of your stomach, the way his voice changed—warped around your name, like he was tasting something sacred. The way he hovered over you like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or devour you whole.

You remember saying yes. You remember screaming his name. You remember coming so hard you blacked out. And now he’s here. Watching. Waiting. Hungry. But you’re still alive. And maybe that’s worse.

You keep your eyes closed like that might somehow put space between you. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the room feel smaller. Hotter. Like he’s taking up all the oxygen just by being here. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin—warmer than it should be, bordering on feverish. The scent of him is stronger now, like sweat and iron and something scorched. Like lust filtered through brimstone.

His fingers brush your chin. Just a tap. But it makes your whole body jolt. "Don’t go disappearing on me now," he says.

You open your eyes. He’s still crouched beside the bed, shirtless and barefoot, eyes tracking every twitch in your face. His hand stays near your jaw, fingers relaxed but ready. His mouth is parted just slightly, the corner still cracked from god-knows-what, and he’s looking at you like he’s trying to decide if he wants to fuck you again or sink his teeth into your neck just to see what happens.

"Tell me what you remember."

You hesitate. Because you do remember. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough. Enough to know it wasn’t just sex. Enough to know it wasn’t normal. You remember the heat first. Like a fever, but lower. Like something curled up in your gut and started purring. You remember the way his eyes changed—gone black, pupils swallowing the blue. You remember how he groaned when he pushed inside you, like he’d been starving for centuries and just got a taste of the divine.

You also remember thinking: “This should feel wrong.”

It didn’t. It felt perfect. You don’t answer him right away. So he climbs onto the bed. Not like a person. Not the way people move when they’re trying not to crowd you or scare you or cross a line. He moves like something that knows it already owns you. Knees on either side of your legs. Hands planted beside your head. His body hovers above yours, lean and pale and scraped raw at the edges. There are scratches on his arms that weren’t there before. One of them is still bleeding.

He’s looking down at you like a lion does right before it goes for the throat. “I said,” he murmurs, “tell me what you remember.”

You swallow. “You didn’t stop,” you whisper. “I told you to stop and you…didn’t.”

His expression flickers. But not with guilt. With something closer to disappointment.

“That’s not true,” he says. “You said—‘don’t stop.’”

Your breath catches. He’s right. God, he’s right. You said it more than once. Said it while your nails raked his back. Said it while his mouth was between your legs. Said it with your thighs locked around his waist like you were trying to pull him deeper, trying to fuse your body to his and disappear inside the bottomless chasm of his appetite.

You remember now. Him licking into you like he was starving. His voice, low and reverent: “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you, love. Let me.”

The way he laughed when you came. The way he groaned when you begged for more. Your cheeks flush so hot it makes your eyes sting. He sees it. Of course he does. He smirks—sharp and slow—and leans closer, his mouth just hovering over yours.

“See?” he says. “Told you. You were beggin’.”

You turn your head away. His mouth follows. Doesn’t kiss. Just hovers. You feel his breath skate across your skin. Warm. Damp. Electric.

“You liked it,” he whispers. “Liked the way I touched you. Liked the way I took you.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know what you are,” you say, voice small.

He laughs. Really laughs. That low, mean, shit-eating laugh you used to hear in school hallways, after he got away with something he absolutely shouldn’t have.

“You’ll figure it out.”

You open your eyes again. His face is right there. His pupils are still blown. There’s blood drying in the corner of his mouth. And when you look at him like this—this close, this raw, this fucking wrong—you realize something that makes your chest squeeze tight:

He hasn’t kissed you. Not once. You’ve had him inside you. You’ve sobbed his name. You let him ruin you last night. But he still hasn’t kissed you. He notices your stare. Tilts his head.

“What?”

“You didn’t kiss me,” you say.

He grins. Crooked. Unfair. “Didn’t want to.”

Your face falls before you can stop it.

But then he adds: “Didn’t trust myself.”

Your breath stutters, "what does that mean?”

He leans in, freckled nose brushing yours.

“Means I could’ve fucked the soul outta you just by kissing you.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Means you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to taste that bad. Means if I’d kissed you, I wouldn’t’ve stopped until there was nothin’ left.”

You make a sound. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a moan. He hears it. And fuck, the look on his face. Like he’s going to devour you just for making that sound.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to.”

Your lips part. Your body sings screams. And then, before you can even make the decision—

He pulls away.

“Nah,” he mutters. “Not yet.”

He rolls off you and sits at the edge of the bed like nothing happened. Lights a cigarette. Offers you the first drag like this is just another morning after some dumb party.

You stare at him, still naked, still ruined, still bleeding a little between your thighs. And he grins at you with that blood-slick mouth and says—

“You’re gonna let me fuck you again, yeah?”

He asks like it’s rhetorical. Like it’s obvious. Like your body hasn’t already answered for you—stretched and leaking and bruised into shape.

You don’t respond. You just stare at his back. The curve of his spine. The flex of his shoulder blades. The way his hand hangs loose, cigarette pinched between his fingers like an afterthought. His knuckles are stained—dried red, crusted over. Not yours. Or not just yours. You can see now there’s blood under his nails.

And your gut curls because you don’t know where he was before he crawled back into bed this morning. Or who he was inside.

Something shivers through you. Not cold—your skin’s too hot, feverish. But inside, beneath your ribs, you feel a flicker of something sick and soft and stupid. Something that tastes like fear. The ache between your legs is deepening now, shifting from soreness to pressure—like your body’s waking up and remembering everything it shouldn’t.

You try to sit up again. Slower this time. The sheet falls off your chest. He turns his head immediately—eyes flicking down, mouth twitching.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

It’s not even lust, not really. It’s worse. It’s worship. Like he’s looking at a shrine. Like your tits have hymns written across them.

You yank the sheet back up. “Don’t.”

He just grins, doesn’t look away.

“Don’t what? You were the one moanin’ for it last night like a proper slag.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs squeeze instinctively. There’s still slick between them—his—and the movement pushes it higher. Sticky. Shameful. Sweet.

You feel your face flush. “You fed,” you whisper.

That gets his attention. Slowly, he turns to face you. One knee bent up on the mattress. He flicks ash onto the hardwood and tilts his head at you like you’re a riddle he wants to fuck open.

“You remember that?”

“I…I felt it.”

You did.

It didn’t feel like blood being drained or your soul getting ripped out. It felt like every nerve in your body got dragged to the surface and kissed raw. It felt like your spine arched and your mouth opened and something left you in waves. Not pain. Not death. Something gentler. Deeper. It felt like he pulled out pieces of you you didn’t know you were hiding.

And he moaned when it happened. Like your name on his tongue was the only thing that could keep him tethered to this world.

“You didn’t take all of it,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

He pauses. Then, like it’s the simplest answer in the world—

“Didn’t want you gone yet.”

Your stomach flips. Not from fear. Not exactly. From how calm he says it. Like if he had wanted to kill you, he would’ve. But he didn’t. So he didn’t. That’s it.

And that means you’re alive because he chose you. Not because you fought. Not because you screamed. Not because he showed mercy. You’re breathing because Cook fucking wanted you to be.

That should terrify you. And maybe it does. But not nearly as much as it should. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, breath caught shallow in your throat.

Your thighs protest. Your hips ache. You feel him all over you, in you still. When your feet touch the ground, your knees buckle slightly, and he laughs—low and smug and fond.

“Jesus. Fucked you that good, did I?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just grab the nearest hoodie—his, oversized and still smelling like weed and sweat and whatever supernatural rot is growing under his skin—and pull it over your head.

It barely covers you. Your panties are still missing. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know what he did with them. You limp toward the bathroom. You need water. Soap. Maybe holy water.

“Y’look good like that,” he calls after you. “Wrecked. Mine.”

You freeze in the hallway. Something shudders in your chest. You can still feel the echo of his mouth between your legs. His voice in your ear. That low, filthy praise.

“My sweet little thing. You were made for me, weren’t ya?”

You brace yourself on the bathroom counter. The mirror’s streaked, cracked near the top. You wipe a hand across the glass. And see yourself.

Bare thighs marked with bruises. Lips swollen. Hair tangled like you’ve been dragged through a thunderstorm. There’s a bite mark on your neck. Your inner thighs are slick and tender. Your eyes are glassy, wide, bruised at the edges.

You look like you’ve been fucked and fed on. You look like you liked it. Behind you, Cook’s reflection appears in the doorway. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you watch yourself. Then, very softly—

“Want me to kiss you now?”

The question hits you like a dropped match in a dry forest. Your heart stutters. Your hands grip the counter tighter. In the mirror, you see him behind you—shirtless, barefoot, still bleeding a little from the knuckles, eyes gleaming under the flickering lightbulb.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Because the air feels different now—heavier. Dense with heat and history and something else. Something pulling. His voice has weight to it, like it’s reaching inside you and dragging your ribs apart.

You watch as he steps forward. Slow. Controlled. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like a thing that’s tasted too much of you to go back to pretending it’s human.

“It’s not like fucking,” he murmurs. “It’s worse.”

He’s behind you now, body barely grazing yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, feel his breath when he leans in—not touching, but so close your skin knows exactly where he is.

“Kissing’s real, innit. You don’t kiss someone unless it means something.”

He lifts a hand. Doesn’t place it on you—just lets it hover beside your cheek, fingers twitching like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed.

“You want it?”

You nod before your brain catches up. And the second you do, it’s like something in him snaps.

He presses his palm to your lower stomach—flat, possessive, warm—and drags you back into his chest. His other hand comes up to your throat, not choking, just resting. Measuring your pulse.

“Still breathing,” he whispers. “Good girl.”

Then his mouth finds the side of your neck. Not kissing. Just there.

“Look at you.”

His voice is thick now. A little ruined. You don’t need the mirror to see what he sees—you feel it. The hoodie hanging off one shoulder. The bite on your neck. The bruise blooming between your legs. Your pulse hammering under his hand.

“You ever been kissed like this before?”

You try to answer. But he turns your head with gentle fingers on your chin—tilts it until your mouth parts on instinct—and then he kisses you. And it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s hunger, weaponized.

His lips are hot, plush, a little cracked. His mouth opens over yours like he’s breathing you in. Like this is the thing he’s been waiting to do since the second he crawled out of hell and into your bed. He moans low against your tongue like the taste of you makes him ache. And your knees go out beneath you, just a little, just enough for him to press you harder against the sink.

Your fingers find his hips. His back. You cling like you're drowning.

His tongue licks into your mouth like it’s claiming you. Like it wants to make you taste yourself on him. Like it wants to make you forget your name. And for a second, it works. You lose time. You lose everything but this.

The heat. The wet press of his mouth. His hand tightening on your throat just slightly—just enough to make you feel the edge of panic. His other hand slides up your hoodie, palm dragging over your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast.

He groans into your mouth when you whimper.

“You are mine,” he pants, “say it. Say it or I’ll stop.”

You gasp against his mouth.

“Yours.”

“Louder.”

“Yours.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are all black now, like a shark. He looks feral. Beautiful. Starved.

“Fuckin’ right you are.”

He kisses you again—harder now, sloppier—and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, he sucks until he tastes blood. Doesn’t apologize. Just moans like it feeds him. You let him take it. All of it.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen and spit-slick, your eyes glassy. You’re panting. Shaking. You feel like you’ve been touched in places you didn’t know existed. You’re still wearing his hoodie. Still nothing else. He looks at you like he just took a bite out of God.

“That’s what it’s like when I kiss someone,” he says, voice shredded. “Now imagine what it’ll feel like when I really feed.”

You’re too stunned to respond. He just smiles. Steps away. And says, over his shoulder—

“Next time, don’t wear anything. Saves us both the trouble.”

Then

You weren’t expecting anyone.

It’s past one in the morning, your room is lit only by the blue light of your laptop, and you’re barefoot in the kitchen, wearing an oversized sweater and boxers, eating cereal straight out of the box because the milk in your mini fridge went sour two days ago and you haven’t bothered replacing it.

The knock comes at the back door—not the front, not your phone, not the buzzer, but the old paint-chipped door that leads from the kitchen into the shitty fenced-in alley behind your block. That’s what makes you freeze. No one knocks back there.

And definitely not this late.

Three sharp, rhythmic taps.

You swallow dry cheerios and move toward it slowly. Every hair on your body is already standing up. You know who it is before you even reach for the handle.

Of course it’s him.

You and Cook have history.

Not dating, not exactly. Not friends either, not in the normal sense. He’s the one who crashes in your bed after nights out, the one who whispered shit to you while pretending to be asleep, the one who almost kissed you once and didn’t. You’ve screamed at each other in car parks. Shared joints, secrets, drinks. But you’ve never crossed that line. Not really. Not until now.

You’ve known him too long, and you’ve let him get too close, and even now, something in you is always hoping he’ll show up—even when you know better.

You open the door.

Cook is standing there in the dark, hunched slightly, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile. His hoodie is zipped all the way up, but it’s dirty—streaked with something you can’t identify in the low light. His hair’s damp, jaw tight, and his eyes…his eyes don’t look like they used to.

He’s not bleeding. But he looks wrecked.

“Hiya,” he says, voice hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

“You’re soaked,” you say before your brain catches up.

“Rain,” he lies.

“It’s not raining.”

He huffs something like a laugh. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t move. Just stands there with his shoulders up around his ears, eyes too wide, like his skin doesn’t fit right anymore.

“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now.

You hesitate. Your mouth opens. Then closes again. Then—stupid, stupid—you step aside.

Cook brushes past you like he belongs there. Like it’s still last term and you’re still letting him in every other night. He smells like sweat and smoke and something...wrong. Not rot. Not quite blood. Something closer to iron and ozone—like metal left outside in a thunderstorm.

He walks straight into your kitchen and scans the space like he doesn’t remember it, even though he’s been here a hundred times. And then, without asking, he opens your fridge.

You blink.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Starving,” he mutters.

He bends low, rummaging through the small fridge like an animal, muttering under his breath. You watch, stunned, as he shoves aside leftover takeaway containers, a jar of mustard, a half-empty energy drink—and then grabs a sealed packet of raw mince.

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say instinctively. “No—Cook—don’t—”

But he’s already tearing it open with his teeth.

The plastic rips with a wet sound. The smell hits you immediately—cold and bloody and raw. The meat had been sitting in your fridge for at least two days. It’s still pink, still damp with that weird sticky moisture meat has when it’s fresh but not clean.

He peels the plastic back, palms the whole cold mass in one hand—and bites into it. A chunk tears off. He chews. Swallows. Moans.

You cover your mouth.

“What the fuck, Cook—what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy licking raw cow blood off his fingers. The meat is cold, and he’s eating it like it’s perfect. Like it’s better than anything you’ve ever given him. His eyes flutter closed for a second, lashes twitching, and you see his throat work as he swallows another mouthful. His teeth are pink with it. His lips are slick.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters, jaw working. “God, I needed that. I needed—fuck.”

You back up until your spine hits the counter.

“That’s raw,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

He looks up, grinning now. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, chasing blood. “S’not a problem.”

You stare.

He shrugs and takes another bite, chewing slower now, savoring it. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. There’s something wrong with the way he moves—too fluid, too casual, like his body’s being piloted by instinct instead of thought.

“It’s cold,” you say.

“Don’t matter,” he replies. “Feels warm goin’ down.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re frozen there in your own kitchen while the boy you used to wish would kiss you behind clubs is now standing under your shitty overhead light, barehanded, shirt-stained, eating raw mince like it’s a Michelin-star meal.

And he’s enjoying it. Too much.

“You ever eat something so good it makes your skin burn?” he asks, voice low and ragged. “Like—it hits you in the spine? Makes your blood go hot?”

You stare at the wet meat clinging to his fingers. The pink froth at the corner of his mouth. His pupils are too big. His jaw’s twitching.

He drops what’s left of the meat onto your counter. Wipes his hands on the hem of his hoodie. Then he looks at you and smiles—slow, lazy, like he didn’t just scare you half to death.

“Don’t worry, love. Didn’t come here for you. You’re not dinner.”

A beat.

“Not yet, anyway.”

Your fridge door is still open. The little light buzzes inside it, throwing sterile illumination across your cramped student kitchen: the warped laminate counter, the dented microwave, the tea towels stained with last week’s bolognese. The air smells like raw blood and plastic packaging. Cook is licking his thumb, casual as anything, like he hasn’t just unwrapped your dinner and tore it apart like a starved wolf.

You haven’t moved. Your back’s still pressed to the counter. Your fingers are cold and clenched too tight against the wood.

“You alright, love?”

His voice slices through the silence like a blade—too light, too calm, too him. But something in the way he says it makes you want to sob. He’s not supposed to call you that while he’s wiping blood on your kitchen towel.

He’s not supposed to look at you like this. All loose limbs and blown pupils and barely-suppressed tremors. He looks sated and starving at the same time, and that contradiction is burning itself into you.

“You ate raw meat,” you say numbly. “Out of my fridge.”

“Yeah.”

“Like it was a fucking sandwich.”

He shrugs. “It helped.”

“Helped what?”

He leans back against the opposite counter, hands braced behind him, that same stupid half-smile on his mouth—except it’s not stupid anymore. It’s cruel. Not intentionally, maybe, but in the way he doesn’t care what this looks like. What it’s doing to you. His lips are still shiny.

“I’ve been…off,” he says, eyes flicking upward. “Wired. Empty. Since it happened.”

You don’t ask what it is. You already know.

“This made it better,” he adds, voice lower now. “Not fixed. But…close.”

He breathes out, like it was sex. Like he just came. And your stomach flips, because somewhere in you, some fucked-up lizard part of your brain, wants to ask: "Do I make you feel like that?"

You push that thought so far down you taste blood.

“You need to leave.”

You say it too soft. It comes out too tired. Too breathless. He hears the crack in it. And it kills you that he smiles.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He takes a step closer. You flinch. He stops, holds his hands up like he’s harmless. One of his fingers is still red beneath the nail.

“I swear. I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”

“So you came here to eat raw meat and stare at me?”

He licks his teeth. Not on purpose—reflex.

“No,” he says slowly. “Came here ‘cause you’re the only thing that still feels right.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You hate how they land. You hate that part of you wants to believe them.

He drops into one of the rickety chairs at your kitchen table, the one with the wonky leg, and leans back like this is some post-night-out crash visit. Like he’s going to roll a cigarette next and ask what you’re doing tomorrow.

He doesn’t look like someone who just walked away from something violent. But he smells like it.

And whatever just happened to him? Whatever he's running from? It's still on him. Clinging to his skin. Lingering in the meat juice drying on your floor.

You move to close the fridge, finally. Slowly. The suction noise sounds obscene in the silence. He watches you the whole time. Doesn’t blink.

“You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer.

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Just sit down, love. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not sitting anywhere near you while you’ve got raw cow blood on your shirt.”

He sighs. Rolls his neck like he’s tired of this game already.

“Alright.”

He pulls off the hoodie. And underneath—he’s shirtless. You don’t mean to stare, not outright. But it’s impossible not to.

His torso is smeared with drying blood, yes, but more than that—it looks tight. Like the skin is stretched too thin. Veins sharp beneath the surface. Like something inside him is trying to burn its way out.

There are marks on him—slashes across his side, a bruise blooming over his ribs, visible even through the ink of his cross tattoo. None of it looks fresh, but none of it looks like it healed clean either. Like his body doesn’t quite know how to be human anymore.

“Better?” he asks, tossing the hoodie onto the table.

You can’t look at him.

“Cook, you need to go to a hospital or—”

“Nah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They won’t know what to do with me.”

“And I do?”

“Didn’t come for help,” he says. “Came ‘cause I wanted to see you.”

You want to yell. You want to scream. You want to shake him by the shoulders and ask where the fuck your Cook went—the boy who made jokes in your bed and gave you his chips when you were hungover and never looked at you like you were made of glass and heat and something edible.

Instead, you say—

“Why now?”

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand the question.

“Why tonight? You said you didn’t come here for me.”

A pause. His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t want to come for you.”

You stare.

“But I did.”

The room feels too quiet now. No chewing. No fridge hum. Just Cook at your table, shirtless, streaked with blood, his eyes fixed on you with something between boredom and hunger.

You haven’t moved from the counter. You don’t want to sit. You don’t want to run. You want—

God, you don’t even know what you want.

“If you’re not going to leave,” you say finally, voice brittle, “then talk.”

He raises an eyebrow. “About what?”

“About what the fuck is going on with you.”

“I told you—”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

He leans back in the chair. The wood creaks under him.

“You want the story, then?”

“I want the truth.”

A beat.

Then he says, casually: “They tried to kill me.”

You blink. He shrugs.

“Thought it’d be funny, I guess. Or maybe they thought it’d work.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

It does. But you don’t press.

“They took me out to the woods. You know the spot—by the train tracks. Said it was a ritual. A trade. Whatever.”

His voice is dry, like he’s telling you about a shit night out. But his hands flex on the table. Something behind his eyes flickers, fast and ugly.

“They had candles. Music. Fuckin’ robes, even.”

You stare.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

He flashes you a grin. It doesn’t stick.

“At one point, one of ‘em asked if I was a virgin.”

You blink again.

A virgin? Cook?

Cook?

“So I said, ‘Yeah, sure, mate. Never even seen a tit before.’”

He smirks a little, shakes his head.

“Didn’t think much of it. Thought it was just part of the dumb script.”

He snorts under his breath.

“Guess that’s what they needed though. A virgin.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes far away.

“Shame they picked the wrong guy, innit?”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“Hell no.”

His eyes flick to you.

“What, you think I’m gonna announce to a bunch of limp-dick indie boys that I lost it in the back of someone’s mum’s Ford Focus when I was sixteen and half-drunk on corner shop vodka?”

He grins.

“They didn’t deserve that detail.”

You don’t laugh. You can’t.

“So…what did they do?”

“Cut me,” he says. “Right here.”

He taps his sternum.

“Thought it’d work. Thought I’d just die and make ‘em famous.”

“And did you?”

He leans forward, voice colder now.

“Nah. Something else happened.”

You don’t breathe.

“It filled me up. Cold and hot at the same time. Like it was chewing through me from the inside out.”

A pause.

“Then it left me standing.”

“And they left thinking you were dead.”

He nods.

“Didn’t check. Didn’t care. Ran off giggling like they’d just secured a record deal.”

You sit slowly, heart pounding.

“What…are you now?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you came back.”

He looks down at his own hands.

“Yeah.”

“Different.”

“Yeah.”

“Wrong.”

“Yeah.”

His eyes flick to yours, dark and burning.

“Feels good, though.”

The silence that follows is longer than it should be. He watches you like he’s waiting for something. A scream. A slap. A sob. But you just sit there.

The weight of everything pressing in—his words, the blood on his hoodie, the half-eaten meat on your counter, the sharp, animal scent of him filling your nose every time you breathe.

And then you say the one thing you shouldn’t: “You can stay.”

His eyebrows flick upward.

“Yeah?”

“Just for tonight.”

“Course. Just for tonight.”

He doesn’t thank you. He just stands. Stretches. Cracks his neck like he’s shedding something. And as he walks past you toward the bedroom, you feel the heat trailing behind him—that unnatural warmth he carries now like a second skin.

At the doorframe, he turns back. His eyes are darker than they were an hour ago.

“You’re not scared of me yet.”

“I am.”

“Nah.” He smiles. “You’re curious.”

And then he disappears into the dark, barefoot and bloodstained, and you’re left in your kitchen with the fridge still cracked open and a bloody tea towel in the sink.

Then

They find her just after dawn.

Jogger. Mid-thirties. Not from campus—someone local, someone early, someone unlucky. He thinks it’s roadkill at first. Then he sees the leg. The foot. Bare. Twisted at the ankle like a broken doll.

By the time the cops get there, the body’s been out for hours. The frost hasn’t preserved her. If anything, it’s made her look worse—like she’s been sculpted in wax and left under a heat lamp. Her skin is pale and blotchy, already discolored, marbled with bruises in shades of purple that don't belong to the living.

And her face—

You don’t mean to look. You don’t mean to stare. But someone posts a blurry photo in the uni group chat before the police can lock the scene down. One second you’re brushing your teeth, and the next, you’re staring at a screenshot of a girl’s face frozen in orgasm.

Her mouth is open. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are dark with blood. And her throat is—

Gone.

Ripped, not sliced. Jagged. Messy. Like something with teeth and hands and hunger tore into her and didn’t stop until it hit bone. There’s blood splashed up her jaw, smeared across her cheek like a lover’s kiss.

It doesn’t look like a murder. It looks like a mauling. You drop your phone. You don’t pick it back up.

The girl’s name was Evie or Ellie or something else soft and sweet and forgettable. Second year. Creative writing. Lived in halls by the quad. You never met her. But you know her now, because you can’t stop seeing her.

Her mouth. Her eyes. Her hands frozen in fists beside her hips like she fought at the last second—fought hard—but not soon enough.

You wrap your arms around yourself and try not to throw up. And then you think of him. Cook left your flat at some point around 5 a.m. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t climb into your bed. Just sat on the floor for a while, bare-chested and quiet, staring at the wall like he could see through it.

You thought he fell asleep. But when you woke up, he was gone. Your bloody tea towel was still in the sink. Your kitchen still smelled like raw meat.

And now—now you know why.

💋

You see him six hours later on campus, standing in the middle of the common green like it's just another Tuesday.

The sun hits him like it knows what he’s done and doesn’t care. He’s...glowing. Skin flushed. Eyes bright. A lazy, satisfied sway in his shoulders like he just got fucked or fed or both. His hair’s a mess, pushed back like he’s been sweating. His hoodie’s clean—different than the one he wore to your place, but you’d recognize that grin anywhere.

It’s the grin of a man who’s full. And you know. You know.

“Oi, babe!”

He sees you. Your stomach knots.

He walks over—hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth tugging into that crooked, happy curve that makes your skin crawl now. He looks good. Too good. Like he stepped out of a music video and not a murder scene.

“Miss me?”

You can’t speak. You stare at him, and all you can see is the way that girl’s mouth hung open. The way her throat was ripped out. The way her legs were parted, bare, like she’d been—

No.

You shove the thought down. You can’t think that.

“You alright?” he asks, mock-concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He leans closer. Drops his voice. “Or maybe just someone who’s made one.”

You flinch. He laughs. And something in you snaps.

“You killed her.”

You say it soft. Almost a whisper. Not a question. He tilts his head. Eyes gleaming.

“Who?”

“Don’t.”

He smiles again. Something dark and radiant.

“You think I did that?”

“I know you did.”

He hums. Looks up at the sky like he’s thinking it over.

“Well,” he says, “she screamed so pretty, didn’t she?”

Your knees nearly give out.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cook—”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Not Jesus. Something older.”

His voice is low and silken now, threading through your bones.

“You should’ve heard her, though. It was like music. She was begging—proper sobbing—right at the end. And when I touched her—”

“Shut up.”

“—when I tasted her—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You push him.

Hard.

He barely rocks back. Just grins wider.

“What?” he murmurs. “Jealous?”

You don’t run. You should. You want to. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get away from him—to turn around and walk until your legs give out.

But you don’t. You just stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding, with his words echoing in your skull like a gunshot:

"Jealous?"

Like this is some joke. Like it's a game. Like you're meant to be turned on. And worst of all—you are. Not completely. Not consciously. But there’s something wrong in your blood now, and it’s crawling under your skin, whispering: He didn’t kill you.

He chose you.

Cook watches you with a predator’s patience. His eyes flick over your face, your throat, your shaking hands.

“You're really upset, huh?”

You glare. “You tore her apart.”

He shrugs, "didn’t mean to, not at first. But she smelled like…like cinnamon and sin, y’know?”

“Stop.”

“I touched her neck,” he continues, as if you hadn’t spoken, “just to feel her pulse, and it was like—fuck. Like standing in front of a fire after bein’ locked outside.”

His smile drops, just a little. “The thing inside me—it woke up. Just like that.”

You back up a step.

“And then what?”

“Then I let go," his voice softens, "and it was beautiful.”

He moves closer. You don’t stop him.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs. “Feeding.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You should.”

He leans in. You feel the warmth of him—unnatural, pulsing off his skin like a fever. His mouth is close to your ear now, but he doesn’t touch you.

“It’s not about killing. It’s about feeling. About burning so good you think you might cry.”

You clench your jaw.

“You did kill her.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch.

“She screamed. She begged. And when I came inside her—”

“Cook—”

“—when I fed,” he says instead, “I felt whole. Just for a second. Just for a breath.”

You shake your head, voice brittle.

“And me? You stayed in my flat. You crawled into my kitchen covered in blood and didn’t touch me.”

“Didn’t need to.”

You blink. “What?”

His expression shifts. There’s something like worship in it.

“You filled me without it.”

A beat.

“Didn’t even have to fuck you.”

“So you just…left? And killed her instead?”

He looks at you like it’s obvious.

“You taste like control. Like keeping it together. Like breathing.”

Another step forward.

“She tasted like chaos. Like fire. Like letting go.”

Your chest tightens.

“And now?”

His eyes flash.

“Now I’m starving again.”

You don’t say anything for a long time. You just stand there, staring at him. Your insides feel bruised. Not physically—but like your soul’s been shaken hard enough to rattle.

He doesn’t move. Not like he used to—bouncing, restless, always shifting from one foot to the other like his own skin didn’t fit. Now he’s still. Measured. Patient in a way that makes him scarier.

You whisper: “You’re not supposed to want to be close to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you killed someone, Cook.”

His mouth twitches—like the name still matters when it comes from you. Like it still means him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

“So why the fuck are you standing here looking at me like that?”

He takes a breath, slow and shallow, like he’s trying not to startle you.

“Because I haven’t touched you since.”

“So?”

“So I want to.”

That shouldn't make your stomach twist. It shouldn't make your mouth go dry. But it does.

“You want to what?” you ask, low.

“Touch you. Just—”

His fingers flex at his sides.

“Not to hurt. Not to feed.”

A pause.

“Just to feel you.”

That word sits in the air like smoke. Feel. Like you’re a person. Not prey. Not a vessel for hunger or heat. And that’s the worst part—because for all the blood, all the horror, all the death—

That’s the thing you can’t make sense of. He’s not asking to fuck you. He’s not asking to feed. He just wants your presence. He wants you close. Like it’ll make him less monstrous.

And some fucked-up, buried part of you wants to give him that.

Wants to reach for him and see if he still feels like the boy who used to fall asleep on your shoulder after all-night parties. The boy who never kissed you, but always looked like he might.

You step back, "no.”

His jaw ticks. He nods.

“Alright.”

You stand there, frozen. Then: “You’re lying.”

He blinks. “You don’t think I can stop myself?”

“I think you won’t. I think you’re pretending.”

He steps forward. Not enough to touch. But enough to fill your vision.

“You think I’m bluffing, love?”

“I think you’re starving.”

He laughs. But it’s quiet. Sad, even.

“I am.”

His voice drops to a whisper.

“But not for your blood.”

Silence again. And then, softer than before—

“Can I?”

You don’t answer right away. Your hands are shaking.

He notices. And waits. So you nod. Just once. He steps close. Careful. Slow.

You feel the heat first—too much, like he’s burning under the skin. But his touch, when it comes, is gentle. Almost reverent.

He raises one hand and sets it—barely—against your ribs.

You flinch. Not from fear. From how good it feels. From how wrong it is that this feels like comfort.

His palm rests flat over your side. You can feel the rise and fall of your breath. The trembling beat of your heart. His fingers curl, just slightly. Not possessive. Not hungry.

Just present.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes sting. And that’s when you understand: This is worse than fucking. Worse than feeding. Worse than dying.

This is intimacy.

And that’s what monsters crave the most.

Then

It’s past midnight.

The woods are damp with October rot, and someone’s playing a Bluetooth speaker loud enough to cover the sound of nerves.

Cook is laughing.

It sounds wrong out here—too loud, too alive. He’s tied to something that looks like an altar but is probably just an old concrete base from a collapsed shed, moss-covered and cracked. His wrists are bound with nylon cord, tight enough to bruise. He smells sweat and dirt and cheap aftershave and fear.

Not his.

Theirs.

“This is mental,” he says, grinning at the sky. “You lot are actually doing this?”

The lead singer—Dan or Dave or whatever—looks at him with wide, jittery eyes and forces a smile.

“Just a little ritual. Symbolic.”

“You brought a fucking knife, mate.”

“It’s part of the aesthetic.”

Cook snorts.

“What’s next, you sacrifice a goat and cut a demo?”

No one laughs.

There are six of them, all in black robes, an unnatural silence settling over then despite the music one of them is playing through their fucking iphone speaker. They’ve arranged candles in a crude circle around the slab. The flames flicker wildly in the wind. Someone’s dropped a bag of salt that’s already half-soaked into the dirt.

They don’t look like killers. They look like boys in a band who care more about fame and fortune than humanity and morals. And right now, that means him.

“Why me, then?” Cook asks, wincing as the ropes pull tight when he shifts. “Why not a fan? Or a groupie? Or one of your own? Why the charming lad with a six pack?”

The drummer mutters, “We needed someone…unattached.”

Cook laughs again.

“You’re saying I’ve got no mates?”

“No family,” the guitarist adds.

A pause.

Cook’s grin fades, just a bit. It's not like they know that, not explicitly, but something about him must scream fatherless behavior.

Brutal.

“Right.”

They go quiet for a while after that. The fire crackles. A breeze cuts through the clearing. One of the candles goes out and no one relights it. They’re all sweating, even though the air’s chilly.

“Alright,” the bassist says finally, disrupting the momentary hush that had befallen the group, “let’s just…let’s do it.”

The leader opens a worn, leather-bound notebook. Pages soaked with old rain, edges warped. He starts reading. It’s in Latin. Of course it's in fucking Latin.

Cook tunes it out. He’s staring at the stars when someone steps forward and asks: “Are you a virgin?”

He barks a laugh. Can’t help it. “What?”

“It’s part of the…we just have to know.”

“Yeah, mate,” he says dryly. “Pure as snow. Never seen a pair o’ tits in me life.”

They accept it. They believe him.

(Idiots.)

No one questions it. No one stops.

The first cut is shallow. But it bleeds. Fast.

They drag the blade across his chest—just under the collarbones. A line of heat and red and sting. Cook hisses.

“Fucking hell. Thought this was supposed to be symbolic.”

The second cut goes deeper. Right over the heart. His body jerks. One of them throws up behind a tree.

Then everything changes.

The wind stops. The flames stretch upward like something’s breathing in. The shadows start to bend. And Cook—

Cook feels something move. Not outside.

Inside.

Like something just opened its eyes behind his ribs. He stops laughing. He tries to speak. He can’t. His tongue refuses to work.

The light goes out of the clearing—and then floods back in, wrong, like the moon was being manipulated by something else, something supernatural.

And the thing inside him smiles. Not with his mouth. With his blood.

The knife sinks in. Clean. No hesitation this time. It enters just below the sternum, angled up, and he can hear the way it slides between ribs. Not like in movies. No dramatic gasp. Just a wet, shuddering sound and a twitch in Cook’s legs.

He doesn’t scream. He exhales. Soft. Confused. Like he wasn’t expecting it to hurt quite like that. Blood bubbles at his lips. He blinks. His head lolls back against the stone. For a second—just one second—he looks young.

Then it all goes quiet. No wind. No birds. No breath. Just six boys standing around a bleeding body in the woods, their mouths still open from the last chant, their eyes wide and trembling.

They look at each other. One of them starts crying.

“Is he—”

“Shut up.”

“Is he fucking dead?!”

“Just—leave it. Let’s go.”

“We have to—shouldn’t we check—”

“He’s dead. It worked. We did it.”

“Oh my God.”

“We did it.”

“We fucking did it.”

They leave him there.

They run, stumbling through the brush, tripping over roots and gravel, not looking back. Laughing, screaming, sobbing—all of it in a mess of sound swallowed by the trees. And for a moment, everything is still. Just a body. Just blood. Just Cook, cooling on a slab in the dark. Then—

The light bends. Not from above. Not from fire. From under him. Like something in the dirt has started to glow. Or breathe. Or bloom.

His fingers twitch. Once. Then again. Like they’re remembering they belong to a body. Like something’s checking the fit. And inside his chest, where the blade punched through, the blood doesn’t flow—

It flares. Glows. For a second, it looks like someone lit a match inside his ribs. Then his eyes snap open. Black. No whites. No blue. Not human. Just void.

Cook doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t scream. He smiles. He sits up slowly. His chest is still bleeding. His shirt soaked through. His skin glows faintly in the candlelight—too much, like he’s been polished, lacquered, preserved.

He breathes in.

And everything changes.

The cold retreats from the clearing. The blood on the altar smokes. The grass at the edge of the circle wilts like it knows what just happened here.

And the thing in Cook’s skin? It stretches. Rolls its neck. Licks blood from its own mouth. And laughs.

He walks out of the woods barefoot. No shoes, no jacket, blood dried in a starburst across his chest like a second mouth. The rope burns on his wrists are gone—healed—but the memory of them still clings to his skin like ash.

The air tastes different now. Sharper. Brighter. Every breath is like biting into a live wire. The wind hums against his teeth. The world is louder.

He can hear the streetlights buzzing. The hum of car engines five blocks away. He can smell metal. Sweat. Cheap perfume. Burned toast.

He can smell her.

She’s just a girl.

Not one of the band. Not part of the plan. Just walking alone, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, jacket too thin for the night air.

She doesn’t see him. She feels him. She turns, mid-step, eyes wide before she even spots the blood.

“Jesus—”

Too late.

He’s already there.

She barely gets a breath in before he grabs her—one hand on her jaw, the other at her waist—and slams her into the alley wall.

The impact cracks. Not the brick. Her.

A rib, maybe. Something important. She chokes on a scream. And then he opens his mouth. Really opens it. Not in surprise. Not in anger.

It unhinges.

A wet, ugly click as his jaw stretches further than it should—too far. Bone doesn’t make room for this. This is not human. The skin along his cheeks pulls like rubber. His tongue elongates, rippling down his throat. His teeth—already sharp—shift, layer, multiply.

The girl’s eyes go wild. She screams. And he bites. It’s not clean. He doesn’t drink. He feasts.

His mouth clamps onto her throat, and the sound is horrible—a deep, wet suction, the pop of tendons snapping, the crunch of bone splitting beneath pressure. Her blood hits the wall in an arc, bright and steaming. Her legs kick. One foot bangs against the dumpster beside them. Her fists thud weakly into his chest.

And then he pulls back with a ragged tear. Half her neck comes with him. A gaping hollow pours red down her front, over her jacket, her jeans, into the street.

She’s twitching, gurgling, her mouth working like she’s trying to ask why. He presses a kiss to what’s left of her jaw. Her body goes still.

When it’s over?

His mouth snaps shut with a wet, echoing clack. The skin of his face slithers back into place. His jawline resets. His lips smear crimson, glistening.

He moans low in his throat, like the high is almost too much. His eyes burn. And he’s beautiful. Wrong. Bloody. Glowing. But beautiful.

He lays her body down beneath the flickering streetlight. Like a gift. Or a warning. And he walks away barefoot through the blood.

Now

You don't sleep much anymore.

You tell your friends it's anxiety about coursework, looming deadlines, and too much caffeine in your bloodstream—but that's a polite lie. A necessary lie. One you tell while trying not to meet anyone’s eyes too closely, afraid they'll see what's really there: the thin cracks spreading slowly beneath your surface, the way your skin feels different now, like it doesn't quite belong to you anymore.

You used to sleep just fine. You used to feel normal, at least as normal as you could pretend to be in a university filled with thousands of equally exhausted, equally over-caffeinated students. But now sleep comes in small, fitful snatches—little dreams that twist into something that feels too real to brush off in the morning.

Dreams of him. Dreams of teeth. Dreams of heat so sharp it makes you shudder awake, your pulse racing in your throat.

You blink the memory away, fingertips drifting unconsciously to your neck as you hurry across campus. It’s crowded out here, bodies pressing too close together, conversations louder than they should be. Even though the sun is hidden behind grey, drifting clouds, you feel overheated and suffocated.

Everyone smells too human. Too warm. You didn’t notice things like this before Cook touched you, before he pressed his mouth against your throat, before you willingly—eagerly—allowed him to pull something from you, something that left you breathless and weak and strange.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move faster, trying to ignore how your senses seem sharper now, the colors too vibrant, sounds too loud, everything overwhelming.

He did something to you. He took something—or maybe he left something behind. Either way, you're different now. And it's unsettling how much you're starting to realize you don't completely hate it.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you hesitate briefly before pulling it out. You know it won’t be Cook—he hasn’t messaged you today—but your heart skips anyway. You’re almost disappointed to see it's just another news alert from the local paper:

SECOND VICTIM FOUND: Police Investigating Pattern of Violent Animal Attacks

A shiver moves down your spine. You click the link again, even though you’ve already read the article twice today. It's the same words each time, almost committed to memory now:

Severe wounds consistent with predation. Unnatural mutilation. Missing blood. Authorities advise caution until the animal responsible can be captured.

They haven't released the victim’s name yet, but the details line up neatly with the girl Cook first took. The girl he used to sate whatever hunger first awakened inside of him. You imagine the alley, dark and filthy, the moment he pressed her into the bricks and unhinged his mouth. You wonder if she felt something similar to what you did. You wonder if she wanted him in that moment, even just a little bit, even if it was only terror wrapped in confusion.

You force your phone back into your pocket and close your eyes for a moment, breathing deep to stop the spinning thoughts.

Cook had confessed it plainly to you after he fed. He hadn't tried to hide it. He'd told you exactly what he'd done, exactly what he needed, exactly what he was. He didn’t lie to you, not even then, his eyes dark and sincere and terrifyingly human as he traced his fingertips along your jaw.

"I won’t take everything," he'd whispered, mouth brushing your skin softly. "Just a little. Just enough. And I won’t hurt you. Not unless you ask."

You hadn't asked him to stop. You hadn't asked him to be gentle. You'd only begged him to stay.

And now, days later, you're still breathing. Walking. Functioning—barely. But the ache remains, gnawing gently beneath your ribs. The subtle but impossible-to-ignore hunger that refuses to fade. You feel hollow, like he scooped something vital out of you, leaving a delicate emptiness that nothing else can fill.

You told yourself this wasn't dangerous. That you could handle him. But now, as you hurry across campus with the taste of smoke and his touch still lingering on your tongue, you're beginning to wonder if you were terribly, dangerously wrong.

You're starting to wonder if he’s made you into something just a little less human, too.

💋

You try to make it through the rest of the day like a normal person.

You grab a coffee from the union café—burnt, bitter, wrong. The student barista looks you over like she thinks you’ve been crying. Maybe you have. Maybe your body’s still processing the shock of your blood being syphoned like boxed wine. You tip her anyway. You don’t know why.

You sit outside, trying to drink it. The taste curls your lip. Your stomach twists. You’ve always liked strong coffee. Black. Cheap. Harsh. But now? Now everything tastes off.

Or maybe it's you that’s off. Like your blood chemistry has shifted. Like you’re not calibrated to the same human scale anymore.

There’s a table of girls next to you talking about Ellie's murder. They don’t know it’s a murder, not officially. But that doesn’t stop them.

“Did you see the picture they pulled from Snapchat? I swear she looked…like she came first.”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m serious! Her mouth was all open—like she didn’t know if she was scared or into it.”

“That’s disgusting.”

They laugh. Not kind laughter. Nervous, brittle, sharp around the edges. The kind of laughter that lives just on the edge of screaming.

You stare down at your hands. They’re clean. They shouldn’t feel this clean. The coffee grows cold in your hands. You haven’t taken more than two sips.

You toss it in the bin and walk without knowing where you’re going. Your brain isn’t clicking into place properly anymore. Everything’s misted over with a fog of sensation and memory and static.

You pass two people kissing near the English department entrance and have to look away—not because it’s gross, but because you want it too much.

Not the kissing. The closeness. The heat. The permission to touch and be touched without someone feeding from you like your body’s a sugar high.

But it wasn’t just taking, was it? He didn’t just consume you. He looked at you like you were sacred. He said your name like it was salvation. He kissed you like it meant something. And now you feel hollow and glowing in equal measure. Like you’ve been blessed. Or ruined. Or both.

You're halfway across campus when your phone buzzes again. This time, it is him.

COOK: "u taste so sweet"

COOK: "thinking bout ur mouth"

COOK: "x"

You stop walking. You don’t respond. But your hands shake as you lock your phone. Your mouth is dry. You’re not sure if it’s fear.

Or thirst.

Your flat is too quiet when you get back. The overhead light hums faintly, and the floor creaks under your feet the way it always has, but it still feels…foreign. Like it’s not your space anymore. Like someone rearranged your atoms while you were gone.

You kick off your shoes and stand there for a second, staring at the fridge. There’s a blood smear on the handle. You never cleaned it. Part of you wanted to. The other part wanted to leave it there. Like a bruise. Like a claim.

You open the fridge. It's nearly empty—leftover takeaway, an apple, a can of Red Bull, a single raw steak wrapped in butcher paper. Not the same one. A new one.

He left it. You don’t remember buying it. You know you didn’t. Your throat goes tight. You shut the door too hard, and the sound echoes through the small kitchen like a gunshot. You brace your hands on the counter. Focus on the tile pattern. Breathe. You can’t fall apart. You won’t.

Your reflection in the hallway mirror catches your eye. You stop. Look closer. You don’t look different, not exactly—but there’s something off. A tension in your shoulders that wasn’t there before. A shine in your eyes that looks too bright. Too fixed.

You tug down the collar of your shirt and study the skin of your neck. Still smooth. Still soft. No scars. No bruising. No real evidence of what he did to you. But you remember the heat. The pressure. The sharp, slow ache that bled through your nerves like sugar turning bitter.

It felt like drowning. It felt like floating. It felt like he was inside you, deeper than fingers or cock or tongue—like something of him stayed behind and refused to let go.

You think: Did he take something? But the real question, the one that scrapes the back of your teeth—

Later, lying on the couch in an oversized hoodie, you try to focus on a show you’ve already seen before. Something easy. Trashy. Comfort TV.

Did he leave something?

💋

It doesn’t work. Every laugh track feels dissonant. Every face too sharp. Every commercial for laundry detergent or lip gloss or sandwiches feels like it’s from a world you don’t live in anymore.

Your leg bounces restlessly. You keep checking your phone. Keep not texting him. Your body feels like a bottle with the cork wedged too tight. Pressure. Everywhere.

You touch your lips with your fingers, then your throat. It doesn’t hurt. But it doesn’t feel human either.

There’s a sound in the hall. Your head jerks toward the door. You don’t move. You wait. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie. You don’t say his name. But you think it—so loud you wonder if he hears it.

You last maybe twenty minutes on the couch.

You flip through four different apps, scroll aimlessly through a group chat you haven’t contributed to in three days, tap through an Instagram story from a girl you met during first-year orientation and haven’t seen since. Her photo is a coffee cup and a new haircut captioned “change is good.”

You roll your eyes.

You check the door again. Still closed. Still locked. You haven’t breathed right since you came home.

There’s an itch in your throat. In your chest. Like a swallowed word that wants to claw its way out.

You tuck your legs up under yourself, phone in hand. The screen dims. You wake it again just to have something glowing in your palm. Something alive.

And then it buzzes.

COOK: “u looked hot when u were mad at me”

COOK: “wish u’d yell more”

COOK: “not that i don’t like u soft too x”

Your stomach turns. Not in disgust. In recognition.

This is what he does. The way he disarms you with half-compliments, sharp with implication. The way he walks into your bloodstream without asking.

He’s not texting like someone who fed from you. He’s texting like someone who owns you.

You stare at the messages for a long time, thumb hovering, not sure if you want to scream or moan or throw your phone across the room. You type. Delete. Type again. Set the phone down. Pick it back up.

YOU: “where are you”

sent

No response. Not right away.

You pull your hoodie tighter. The one you wore the night he touched you. It still smells faintly of blood and citrus shampoo—yours, not his. He doesn’t smell like people do. He smells like heat. Like metal. Like wet earth and smoke.

You press your face into the collar and shut your eyes. You shouldn’t miss him. But your body doesn’t care about what it should.

Your body remembers his mouth. His weight on top of you. His voice against your neck telling you he wouldn’t take too much. And now? Now you ache. Dull and slow and low in your belly. You think about touching yourself. You don’t. Instead, your phone buzzes again.

COOK: “open your window”

YOU: “why”

COOK: “just do it”

COOK: “pls. x”

Your hands feel cold as you stand. You cross to the window on muscle memory alone, not thinking too hard, not wanting to admit how quickly you obey. You unlock it. Push it open.

The night air is cool and damp. It smells like asphalt and something sweeter underneath—honeysuckle, maybe. Or blood.

You wait. Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just a breeze that curls over your skin and makes your spine tighten. Then your phone again:

COOK: “look in the mirror”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn. Your hallway mirror is just visible from where you stand. And in it? You see yourself. And behind you—

Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him.

You don’t scream. You don’t move. You just stare into the mirror, watching his reflection—looser in his posture. He doesn’t look surprised to be seen. If anything, he looks amused.

He tilts his head. Grins like he’s been watching you longer than you’ve known he was there. Then he speaks—voice low, intimate, and somehow still careless: “Told you to open it.”

You turn around slowly.

He’s leaning against the inside of your bedroom door now, like he’s always belonged there. Like you left the window open for him, and he just took the invitation.

There’s dirt on his hands. A few smudges on the hem of his hoodie—your hoodie, you realize belatedly. The one he must’ve taken the last time he left. It looks better on him. You hate that.

His hair’s tousled, eyes too bright in the dim light, cheeks flushed like he’s been laughing or hunting. You can’t tell which.

“I did,” you respond, before pivoting to the most pressing question, “how long were you standing there?”

He shrugs.

“Long enough.”

That grin again. He doesn’t move toward you, but he doesn’t have to. His presence warms the room unnaturally. Your skin prickles under your hoodie. He watches the way your breath shifts, like he can see your pulse beating just under your jaw.

“You gonna tell me to leave?” he asks after a beat. “Or are we past all that?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to. Because you don’t know. Because you’re standing in your own bedroom and feel like you’re the one trespassing. Like he’s the one rooted here, and you’re the ghost.

He steps closer—just one step. You don’t flinch. But he notices the way your fingers twitch, and his smile softens into something meaner.

“Still scared of me?” he asks, voice a little lower now. “After everything?”

“No,” you say, too fast.

His eyebrow arches. “Didn’t think so.”

You fold your arms, mostly to stop your hands from shaking. His eyes flick down your body, then back up to your face, and you feel every inch of skin he doesn’t touch.

“I should hate you,” you say. It comes out raw.

“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”

He doesn’t sound sorry. You hate that he doesn’t sound sorry. You hate how much you need him to come closer. You hate how much you’d let him.

“What do you want?” you ask, finally.

He looks at you for a long time. Then, softly: “You.”

The air goes still. You feel your chest rise. Your throat dry. Your stomach twist. “You already had me.”

“Not like that. But I think you and I both know that, yeah?”

You don't ask what he means. You know. And it terrifies you. Because he’s not talking about sex. Not entirely. He’s talking about wanting you, completely. The way something consumes, not just craves. The way fire wants oxygen. The way hunger wants heat. The way monsters want the things that make them feel almost human.

He doesn’t close the space immediately. Instead, he watches you—eyes dark, a slow burn behind them, like he’s savoring every moment before the inevitable happens. His smile never fades, that arrogant, cocky curve of his lips that tells you he knows exactly what you need and how much you’ll give to get it.

And you’re too tired to fight it. Too tired to do anything but stare back at him and feel the thrum of something dangerous creeping up your spine, pooling low in your belly.

It’s like he’s always been this close. Like you’ve been walking around in the same room without seeing him, without acknowledging how much you need this proximity, this warmth, this tension.

Finally, he takes a step forward. And you don’t back away. Instead, you hold your ground—your body’s too far gone to move. And you let him get closer, closer, until you can feel the heat of him without touching.

You almost feel him in your chest—the gravity of him pulling you into orbit. He’s moving slow, taking his time, because he knows you won’t stop him. And you won’t.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, his voice low. Almost a growl, just for you. He stands a few inches away now, close enough that you can smell the dirt under his nails, the scent of blood that’s still faint in his hair. You swallow. His breath smells like fire. Like nicotine.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, and your voice shakes because you know that he wants you but you don't know what all that entails. You almost wish you didn’t ask, because the answer is already written in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he moves his hand up to your neck—gently, like he’s been waiting for permission, and when your breath hitches, he gives you a slow, sadistic smile. His fingers brush over the sensitive skin, making your pulse spike beneath his touch.

“I’m not sure you want to know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. "But you need to understand something."

You breathe harder, the space between you so charged you can almost taste it. You don’t pull away, not when his thumb presses just slightly harder against the side of your throat, the same place he fed from.

“I want you,” he says. And it’s a promise, not a question. “And that means you’re gonna have to deal with me.”

You shudder, not from fear, but from something else. Something you’ve been trying not to name. The word dangerous doesn’t quite fit. Neither does wrong. It’s hunger, need, and desire wrapped up in skin and sweat, like a drug you’ve been craving without realizing.

He leans in, just a little. Enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his lips so close you could kiss him if you wanted to. He doesn’t kiss you, though. He never does what you expect. Instead, he runs his tongue along the line of his lips—slow, deliberate—and you watch, entranced, as he looks at you like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour.

“You don't gotta be scared of me anymore,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You know you don’t have to be.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It’s like he’s siphoning your voice away. You try to breathe, try to calm yourself, but it’s all too much. His presence, his touch, the way everything about him seems to stake ownership of you.

You want to pull back, to tell him to stop, but your body betrays you. Cook reaches up again, and this time, his fingers slide beneath the fabric of your hoodie, brushing against the soft skin of your stomach.

You flinch.

But he smirks, like he’s won something—like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He pulls you closer, his lips just hovering over your ear. You feel the warmth of his body against yours, and it’s almost too much to bear.

“You’ve been starving for this, haven’t you?” he breathes.

You close your eyes, breathing hard.

“Tell me you don’t want it,” he dares, fingers tracing the edge of your jaw.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your appetite is so loud, so deafening, that you can’t remember what it felt like to be without it. You finally meet his gaze, forcing your voice to steady as you whisper the question you’ve been afraid to ask since all this started: “Why me?”

It comes out smaller than you intended. Fragile. Like it could crack open and spill everything inside you onto the floor to canal between the tile grout.

Cook pauses—actually pauses, his fingers still pressed lightly beneath your jaw. You watch his expression shift subtly, something complicated passing briefly over his eyes before it’s replaced by his usual cocky, self-assured mask. But you saw it.

He leans back slightly, watching you carefully, studying you like he can’t quite believe you don’t know the answer already.

You speak again before he can, your voice softer this time, the admission more painful: “You’ve slept with like half of Bristol at this point, Cook. You could have anyone—fuck, you have had almost everyone. But me—you’d never even tried to kiss me. Not once.”

You pause, swallowing the ache in your throat. “Well. Except for that one time.”

The memory rushes forward before you can stop it, clear and sharp as glass, slicing open the old wound you’ve spent months trying to ignore.

It had been late at night—months ago, before any of this.

You and Cook, stumbling back to his flat after too many drinks. His laughter bright in your ears, his body running hot and close to yours as you leaned on each other, stumbling into walls and each other’s arms. You remember feeling brave—too brave—your heart beating so loud you thought he’d hear it, as you found yourself pressed back against his front door, Cook’s eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on your mouth.

You’d been certain then—so fucking certain—that this was finally your moment. That all those lingering glances and too-long touches meant something real. You leaned in first, heart racing, eyelids fluttering shut as you felt his breath ghosting your lips—

—and he’d pulled away.

Not harshly. Not cruelly. Just gently enough to shatter you. His eyes filled with something soft, almost sorry, as he murmured quietly, too kindly: “We shouldn’t.”

You’d felt the rejection burn through your chest, humiliation creeping hot and fast across your face. But you hadn’t cried, hadn’t argued, hadn’t even acknowledged what had happened. You’d simply nodded, silent, numb. You’d buried your feelings so deeply you thought they’d suffocate under the weight of it all. Because having Cook’s friendship had felt safer—less painful—than losing him altogether.

So you convinced yourself that he’d never seen you that way, never wanted you like that. You convinced yourself you could live with it. And now here he is, standing before you, looking at you like he wants to take you apart, piece by piece, and make you watch him do it.

His voice breaks through your memories, pulling you harshly back to the present: “I wanted you that night,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than before, losing some of its cocky edge. “More than I wanted anyone.”

You stare at him, chest aching, disbelief written plainly across your face. “Then why didn’t you?” you whisper. “Why not me?”

He sighs softly, palm cradling your face, thumb sweeping across your cheekbone, the gesture unexpectedly tender. It makes something deep inside you hurt even more.

“Because you’re not like them,” he says simply, eyes boring into yours, honest in a way that terrifies you. “You’re the only thing I was scared I might fuck up. And trust me, sweetheart—I would’ve fucked it up.”

You feel something twist sharply in your chest, painfully aware of how your body still leans instinctively towards his touch, even as your mind reels from his confession.

Cook moves closer again, his eyes never leaving yours, his voice dipping lower as he continues: “But it’s different now. I’m different now.”

His fingertips skim along the side of your throat, brushing dangerously close to the place he’d bitten, the place he’d fed from. The skin there tingles beneath his touch, like it remembers the press of his teeth and craves it again.

“I’m not gonna run this time,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, with hunger, with need. “And I won’t let you, either.”

His eyes are dark and bottomless, and you see the truth in them—a truth you don’t think you’re ready for, but can’t deny any longer. Cook’s voice is barely audible, but it echoes through you like thunder: “I told you. I want you.”

Your breath trembles as you stare back at him, feeling yourself slowly, inevitably falling. Because you want him, too. And this time, you both know you won’t be able to stop.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when he steps back. Not far. Just enough that the air returns to your lungs in staggered, fractured little pieces. You feel like you’ve been struck—like the earth shifted a few inches sideways under your feet and no one else noticed.

Cook’s staring at you, that maddeningly unreadable expression on his face again. A flash of something underneath. Guilt, maybe. Hunger, still. Something sharp and heavy and unresolved.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. Shitty little zippo. Beat up, edges worn down from years of use. You recognize it—it’s his. Always fidgeting with it, flicking it open and closed. Always playing with fire.

You give him a look. "Gonna light up in my flat?"

But he doesn’t answer. He flicks the wheel. A flame bursts to life, small and defiant. And then, eyes locked on yours, he sticks out his tongue. Your brow furrows.

"What the fuck are you—"

The flame touches him. Licks the curve of his tongue. You expect the hiss of seared flesh, the flinch, the instinct to yank away—

—but there’s nothing. Nothing except the slow, lazy drag of heat across pink muscle. His tongue doesn’t burn. Doesn’t blister. Doesn’t even turn red. It just glows.

His tongue pulses slightly with the heat, not in pain but in something else. Like it’s soaking it in. Like he’s tasting it. The flame dies as he snaps the lighter closed and lets his tongue roll back into his mouth. He swallows. Wipes the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.

"Neat party trick, innit? Figured I'd show ya in case you were still under the impression I'm a regular bloke.”

You don’t laugh. You can’t. Your heart is fluttering behind your ribs like a caged bird as you whisper, “no one’s ever accused you of being normal."

He snorts at that. "Cheers. Really warmin’ up to the support here."

But there’s something in his eyes. Something wilder. Something that crackles. Your voice is quieter when you speak again.

"You said you came back for me."

"No, I said I was claimin’ you." His voice drops. "S’not the same thing."

You blink at him.

He steps in, crowding your space again, and it should scare you—should at least make you backpedal—but all you feel is the burn of his presence, like every cell in your body is suddenly awake.

"You know what I am now, don’t ya?" he asks, low and rough.

You nod. Because you do. Sorta. He might be undead or demonic or the goddamn devil himself, all you do know is that you don't care—not really. Because, underneath it all it's still Cook. Still your James. He lifts your hand to his mouth like it’s breakable and sacred, presses a kiss to your knuckles, then to the heel of your palm.

"I’m starvin’, sweetheart. Always have been. Just didn’t know what for ‘til you.”

His mouth drags across your wrist. He breathes you in like you’re something divine. "Could eat you whole if you let me. But I won’t. Cos I like you. That’s fucked, innit?"

He smirks, but it’s crooked. Feral. "Might be a monster, yeah. But even monsters get sweet on someone sometimes."

He looks up at you through the pretty curl of his lashes, his eyes those familiar blue you've long since fallen for. Warm. Comforting. "And I’m sweet on you. So you’re properly fucked now, aren’t ya?"

Your whole body shudders. Cook grins wider, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Don’t worry, love. I’ll make it worth your while."

You don’t know if that’s a promise or a threat. Maybe both. Whatever it is—it’s working. You should tell him to leave. You should back away, slam the door shut on all of this—window in this case—the blood, the hunger, the things that curl like smoke behind his eyes. But you don’t. You can’t.

Because you’re already reaching for him.

Your fingers fist in the front of his shirt—soft cotton gone threadbare in places—and he lets you yank him forward without protest, lets you drag him in like gravity’s pulling both of you to the same center.

He kisses you like he’s starving again. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no teasing restraint. His mouth is hot and open, tongue greedy, lips catching on yours with a messy, slick desperation that tastes like danger. His hands are already under your shirt—warm palms dragging up your stomach, over your ribs, rough thumbs brushing the undercurve of your breasts.

“Still just as sweet,” he groans, pulling back just far enough to speak before diving back in. “Sweet little thing lettin’ a monster between her legs. You really that gone for me?”

You whimper—actually whimper—and that earns you a grin against your mouth, sharp and delighted. He spins you toward your counter, hands rough on your hips, and you feel the heat of his body press in behind you. Your knees almost buckle.

“Gonna let me wreck it again, yeah?” His voice is low, sing-song dirty. “Been thinkin’ about it for fuckin’ ages. Wankin’ to the thought of you cryin’ on my cock all over again—an’ you weren’t even mine yet.”

He grinds against you, teeth grazing your neck, tongue following the scrape with something almost tender. You feel the metal of his belt buckle press into the small of your back as he rocks his hips.

“M’gonna ruin this cunt,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Split you open proper. You’ll thank me for it.”

His shirt’s off now—he peels it over his head in one smooth pull—and for a second, you can’t breathe. You've seen it all before but there's a certain clarity now. You feel the sensation of being present with him, of being connected to this moment, and you realize that this time, it’s not fragmented, not dreamlike. It’s real.

You can’t focus on anything else. Your body aches for him in ways you didn’t understand before.

“Like what ya see?” he asks, rhetorical, noticing your gaze. Good, cuz you'll be seein’ a lot of me while I fuck the thoughts outta your head.”

Your sleep shorts are off before you realize it—Cook’s hands are skilled, pulling them off in one fluid motion. When he sees your underwear, he groans low, a sound you feel deep in your bones.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the hem. “Little lacy number? Fuckin’ knew I'd be comin’ back for ya, didn't ya sweetheart?”

He sinks to his knees. And when his mouth finds the inside of your thigh, you forget your own name.

His fingers hook into the elastic of your waistband, sliding them down and off, and you feel the cool air rush over your skin as he parts your legs. The way he looks at you is almost predatory, but there’s something more in it this time. Something that speaks to the hunger inside him and how much it wants you.

You shiver when his breath fans across your bare cunt, the warmth of it making you ache for more. But he doesn’t touch you, not yet. He’s too good at keeping you waiting, teasing you with just his gaze, his lips barely brushing the flesh of your inner thigh.

“You’re a fuckin’ treat,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “Never thought I’d get to ruin you like this.”

You’re soaked—completely soaked—and your body shudders as he takes his time, his fingers lightly tracing the line of your slit before dipping in just enough to tease you, his fingertips grazing the edges, making your breath hitch.

You can’t help the soft gasp that escapes you. His eyes flash with a wicked smirk.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he whispers, voice rough. “Good girl. Let me have another taste.”

You arch toward him instinctively, your hands finding purchase in his hair, pulling him closer. Your legs tremble as he presses his tongue flat against you, the heat of him making your whole body pulse with need.

He works you slowly, expertly, pulling noises from your mouth you never thought you’d make. You’re embarrassingly close, so quickly, but you don’t want him to stop. The feeling is insatiable.

“You taste like heaven,” he mutters, mouth pressed to you as he swirls his tongue in maddening circles around your clit, making you ache even more. His fingers slide in, stretching you as his mouth follows, sucking you with a hungry, possessive intensity that makes your legs shake.

“Fuckin’ finally get to taste you proper,” he mutters. “None of that half-asleep, half-gone shite. Want you present this time, yeah? Wanna hear you scream.”

His tongue is hot and wet and relentless, flattening over your cunt in one long, greedy lick that leaves your legs shaking. He groans the second he gets a proper taste—deep and filthy, like he’s swallowing you whole—and presses in again, harder.

“Fuckin’ always knew you’d taste like this,” he growls against your clit. “Knew it the second I had my fingers in you that night. Fuckin’ honey-slick, tight little cunt. Bet you’ve been dreamin’ of this just like I have.”

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build up slow. He consumes you. Tongue slick and practiced, nose bumping your clit as he locks his arms around your thighs and eats you out like a man starved. You choke on a gasp, nearly fold forward, gripping the counter just to stay upright.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ take it. Ride my face, pretty girl,” he slurs, already rutting his hips into the air behind him like he can’t stand not being inside you. “Didn’t fuckin’ forget how you tasted. Couldn’t. Lived off that memory like a fuckin’ addict.”

Your thighs tremble, and you can feel it building—fast and furious, the orgasm chasing up your spine like a freight train. He must feel it too because he moans into your cunt, fingers digging deeper into your thighs, keeping you right there.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, lips glossy and pink. “C’mon. Give it to me. Let me feel you lose it on my fuckin’ tongue.”

You do. You shatter, hips jerking, a strangled moan caught in your throat as your body locks up around the rhythm of his mouth. He doesn’t stop—not even as your cunt spasms against him, not even as your knees go weak.

He keeps going. You’re still shaking when he lifts his head, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide and black as the night sky.

“Look at you,” he pants, lips dragging against the inside of your thigh. “Already fuckin’ wrecked and I haven’t even given you cock yet.”

You gasp—try to move, to close your legs from the overwhelming ache—but Cook just laughs, low and sharp, and holds you open like it’s nothing. Like you weigh nothing.

His hands are everywhere—palming your thighs, dragging you down to the floor with him in one effortless pull until you’re flat on your back on the tile, legs spread. You barely blink and he’s climbing over you, licking his fingers clean like you’re dessert.

Then he grips your hips and pulls you up into his lap—like you're his property.

“Don’t fuckin’ squirm,” he growls. “You gave yourself to me, remember? M’gonna take my time now. Make this tight little cunt remember who it belongs to.”

You whimper, your voice caught somewhere between panic and lust. He’s already between your thighs again, fingers rough and greedy, spreading you open, baring you to him. Then—he lifts you.

His strength is terrifying. Effortless. He’s holding your entire body weight with his hands under your thighs, spreading you wide, lining you up with his now exposed cock as he kneels over you like a creature from myth—something wicked and carved from smoke and sin, here to fuck the soul out of you and then some.

“Gonna take it,” he mutters, almost reverent. “All of it. Gonna let me back in that pretty little body? Gonna let me own it this time?”

You nod, barely able to form words.

He growls. “Say it.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, please,” you gasp, clawing at his back. “I want it—want you—”

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

He sinks in all at once.

Your scream echoes off the kitchen walls as his cock stretches you open in one brutal thrust, no warning, no easing in—just depth. Pressure. Heat. Pain that borders on pleasure, so intense you can barely breathe.

Cook hisses through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tight little fuckin’ thing,” he snarls. “Still squeezin’ me like a vice—like this cunt was made for me.”

You claw at his shoulders. He grins. Starts to move. His mouth drops to your throat, hot and open as he licks along your pulse, and for one split second you think he might be stalling. That he’s trying to be good. To hold back. But then you feel it—his hips jerk, his breath catches, and the next second he’s sinking his teeth in. Not careful this time.

You cry out, the sting sharp and raw—but it bleeds straight into the pleasure. Your body clenches around him like it can’t tell the difference between pain and want, and maybe it doesn’t. Not with him. Not like this.

He groans into your skin, mouth sealing tight around the bite as he sucks deep, your blood surging into him in thick, hot pulses that make his whole body shake. You feel it—how much he needs it, how fucked and desperate he is for it. Like it’s the only thing that’s ever fed him properly. And somehow, that makes it worse.

His cock drives up into you harder, deeper, like feeding from you turned something loose inside him. His control's gone. He’s fucking you like he’s gone feral—slamming you into the wall, your legs locked around his waist, head tipped back to give him everything.

You’re moaning, breathless, boneless—every drag of his tongue, every filthy thrust dragging you closer to the edge. It’s not even words coming out of your mouth anymore. Just sounds. Just need.

He finally pulls back from your throat, his mouth slick and red, lips shining with it—and the look in his eyes is unhinged. “Mine,” he pants. “Mine now, yeah? Say it.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours.”

And that’s all it takes. He slams into you once, twice, and then you’re coming—hard—your orgasm crashing through you like your body’s trying to tear itself apart around him. He groans loud and low, hips grinding deep, and you feel it—his cock twitching inside you, his whole body curling around yours as he finishes with a ragged “Fuck, yes—fuckin’ take it.”

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t stop. Because now that he’s marked you—now that he’s tasted you, fed from you, cum inside you—he’s not letting go. Not for anything.

You’re still trembling when he finally slows down. Muscles twitching, brain fried, every nerve ending still lit up and buzzing like static.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there—buried deep—his hands splayed over your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you, keeping you both from unraveling entirely. His breath is hot and heavy against your throat, lips brushing the raw skin where his bite is already bruising up dark and pretty. Then, slowly—deliberately—he shifts back.

You flinch, oversensitive, aching, and Cook exhales a wicked little laugh under his breath as he watches his cum drip between your thighs.

“Well, fuck me,” he mutters, voice all cocky delight and post-orgasm smugness. “Didn’t know I could paint, but that’s a proper masterpiece.”

You swat at his shoulder weakly. “You’re disgusting.”

“Not denyin’ it.” He grins down at you, eyes flashing as he leans in and drags his mouth over your jaw, playful now, affectionate. “But I’m yours, yeah? So I reckon you’ve got shit taste, sweetheart.”

You should probably tell him to shut up. Instead, you melt under his touch—his hands ghosting down your sides, his fingers dipping low to trace where he just was, possessive even now. You shudder again, the sensation sharp, and he stills—just for a second—before glancing up at you with something more serious in his gaze.

“…You alright?”

You nod, hazy and ruined. “Just…sore.”

His brow furrows, lips pressing against your shoulder. “Sore’s good,” he says, half-joking. “Means I did it right.”

Then, quieter—lower—he adds: “But I’ll kiss it better anyway.”

He scoops you up effortlessly, wiry arms under your thighs, chest to chest, the cold floor long forgotten. You feel the muscles in him coil and flex with every movement, inhuman strength thrumming just under the skin. Not a tremor of strain as he walks—like carrying you, spent and shaking and slick with him, is effortless.

The backs of your knees hook around his hips without thinking. You're still clinging to him. Still open from him. Everything throbbing, stretched and raw and glowing in the places he touched like you’ve been rewired by it.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. Just the sound of his breathing behind your ear, and yours, still ragged. His voice breaks the silence, low and smug. “If I’d known you were gonna let me fuck you stupid on the kitchen floor, I’d have skipped the window theatrics.”

You groan. “Shut up.”

“You love me like this.” He’s smirking—you can hear it. “Ruin your little knickers and your GPA in one go, yeah? Got girls dreamin’ about me, and here you are, lettin’ the monster spit you open on the tile like a good little sacrificial virgin—”

“I’m not a virgin,” you mutter, face flushed.

“No,” he agrees. “definitely not anymore.”

He kicks your bedroom door open and the creak of it echoes. Your sheets are rumpled. Your lamp’s still on. You left the window cracked. The air smells like candle wax, sweat, blood, and smoke.

He lays you down gently—too gently. The same hands that left bruises on your hips, nail marks from where they bit into your thighs, are now tugging the blanket up to your ribs like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you on the linoleum.

“Cook—” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss. Slow. Warm. Almost soft. You can still taste yourself on his lips.

“I’m stayin’,” he says into your mouth. “Just for tonight.”

His voice has that same gravity it always does—like when he tells lies he wants you to believe. But this time, there’s no teasing. No grin. Just something else in his eyes. Something greedy. Something...forever.

You shift, wince. Everything aches. His hand brushes your hair back from your forehead, then cups your cheek, thumb dragging under your eye.

“You gonna let me feed again?”

The question makes your stomach flip. You remember the first time. How it felt. How you floated. How he looked after—like he'd just found God.

Your fingers ghost over the bite on your throat. Still tender. Still bleeding faintly. The skin pulses. “…Will it hurt?”

Cook shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.” He grins. “Think of it as a hickey with teeth.”

You don’t answer. You just tilt your head. He takes it as permission. You feel his breath first—hot against your neck. Then lips, tongue, and finally, teeth. They sink in slower this time. He’s not as far gone. But the pain is still sharp. Real. Enough to make your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress.

And then—the rush.

It’s indescribable. Like you’re burning from the inside out. Like someone turned your blood to fire and your nerves to raw wire and every thought you’ve ever had just blinked out and went dark. You gasp. Clutch at him. Your thighs clamp around his waist. He groans against your neck, the sound raw, starved.

“Fuck, you’re good,” he mutters, voice muffled. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste like sin and sugar, it's fuckin’ addictin’—”

He sucks harder. You cry out. The pleasure starts to twist again, building.

You’re not sure if you cum. Not really. It’s too much. All of it. There’s no end or beginning, just waves of sensation—his body pressed over yours, the burn of his bite, the way he fuckin’ moans when he swallows your pain like it’s dessert.

And then, finally, it’s over. You’re breathless. Boneless. Floating again. Everything hums. You blink up at him. Cook is staring at you. There’s blood on his lips. And something new in his eyes. Not hunger. Not lust. Claim.

“I left a mark this time,” he says, thumbing the raw dental imprint with pride. “Real one. Won’t fade.”

You frown, dazed. “You said you didn’t know if it would hurt.”

He grins. “Didn’t say I didn’t mean it to.”

You should feel angry. You should feel used. But all you feel is…full. Hollowed out and filled back up with him. You don’t know where you end and he begins. You roll over, face half-buried in your pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

He laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m your dick, now.”

You groan. He crawls in behind you. Doesn’t ask. Just wraps his arms around you like he belongs there. You don’t sleep. He doesn’t either.

He watches the moonlight on your skin, teeth dragging his lower lip, eyes on the mark he branded into your flesh, your soul. You should be scared. But you’re already his.

And monsters always get what they want.

Then

Your first week at Roundview felt like showing up midway through a wild party—everyone already drunk, already dancing, already knowing each other's secrets. You were the newbie.

Transferred in from somewhere no one cared to ask about and you weren’t exactly keen to share. You floated through classes like a ghost, unfamiliar hallways and loud-mouthed cliques bleeding together, too much all at once. People looked at you, sure, but no one saw you.

Except Cook. He saw everything.

You noticed him on day two. He’d been propped up in the back of media studies with his feet on the desk, arm draped over the chair beside him like he was right at home.

He had this grin—mischievous, wolfish—that made you feel like you’d already done something wrong even if you were just walking by. He didn’t speak to you. Not then. Just watched you like he was reading ahead in a book only he had a copy to.

Then on day four, he spoke. Not in class—never that easy. It was in the stairwell between the music wing and the roof, where you’d gone to escape the thrum of too many voices.

He’d been there already, leaned against the railing, smoking and humming something under his breath. You startled him when you opened the door. Or, at least, you thought you had. But then he smirked and said: "’Bout time. Thought you’d never find the good spots."

Like you were expected. Like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t ask what he meant. Just scowled and muttered something about not meaning to interrupt. But he only chuckled. "Interruptin’ who, sweetheart? I’m the only one up here, and I was gettin’ bored."

That became a sort of pattern. Every day after lunch, you’d find your way back up there. Sometimes he was already waiting. Other times he’d show up after you, feigning surprise like he hadn’t planned it. You didn’t talk much at first—just sat in silence. But Cook had a way of making silence feel like a shared secret, not an awkward one.

It was the end of your first week when he finally got you to take a cigarette. The sun was starting to set, bleeding through the smog of a late autumn sky. Everything looked golden, even the cracked concrete and broken satellite dish discarded on the edge of the roof. Cook was already there, of course. Smoking and sprawled out like the delinquent he is.

“Look who’s come crawlin’ back,” he drawled when you emerged. “Can’t stay away from me, can ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s quiet up here.”

He smirked. “Yeah. Until you show up.”

You took your usual spot—two milk crates over—and stared out at the horizon. He watched you for a minute. Then, without a word, he held out a cigarette, pinched between his fingers.

“Don’t look at it like it’s gonna bite you,” he teased. “It’s just a smoke. Can’t get you pregnant.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. It was hard not to laugh around him. Like trying not to breathe. You took it, fingers brushing his. It wasn’t the first time you’d touched, but it felt different today. The contact lingered, electricity threading up your spine. He reached into his pocket for his lighter, flicked it once, then leaned in—close enough you could see the shimmer of amber in his eyes.

The flame flared. You leaned forward, bringing the cigarette to your lips. He held the lighter up, let it hover just long enough that you felt the heat.

“There she goes,” he murmured. “Almost makes you look cool.”

You didn’t cough. You were proud of that. Even if it felt like fire crawling up your throat.

He tilted his head, watching you inhale. “Didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Didn’t think you knew any words with more than one syllable.”

“Oof.” He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “She’s got claws. Don’t tempt me, sweetheart, I like a bit of scratchin’.”

You rolled your eyes again, turning your face toward the sunset to hide the blush. You were never quite sure if he meant half the things he said. But you wanted to believe he did.

There was a lull. You let the silence settle again, breathing smoke, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. You could feel him beside you—warm, present, real. He didn’t lean close, not yet. But it felt like he could. He broke the quiet first. “You ever do this back where you’re from?”

The way he said it, you knew it wasn’t about smoking. It was about you. Where you came from. Who you were before. “No,” you said. “Not really.”

He smirked. “Didn’t think so.” Then, after a beat, he turned to you, that grin back in full force.

“You shoulda just kissed me when you had the chance.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Cook shrugged. “Y’know. That day in chem. You looked like you wanted to. Thought you might’ve, if I leaned in first.”

He said it so casually, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just tilted your whole fucking world off its axis. You didn’t answer. Just looked away, cheeks burning, heart in your throat.

He didn’t push. Just laughed again, soft and smug. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You flicked the ash off your cigarette. “You’re annoying when you’re breathing.”

“Oh baby, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You never kissed that day. He never tried. You never asked why. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was fear. Maybe he was waiting for something you hadn’t figured out yet.

But you never forgot that rooftop. The heat of his hand. The phantasmal whisper of his mouth, almost brushing your cheek. The way he looked at you like he already knew how your story ended. You didn’t know then what he would become.

But something inside you already recognized the monster when he was still a man. You just didn’t know how much you were ready to let him in.

Now

It's been three months.

Three months since it all began. Since Cook branded your soul with his teeth and the attacks stopped.

That’s what they’re saying, anyway. Whispers around town, posted flyers, articles in the local paper. The local PD ruled the string of grisly deaths as animal in nature, claimed the worst of it passed months ago, that whatever rabid thing had been stalking the streets, the alleys, the woods, must’ve moved on—perhaps wandered too far out past the city limits and never came back.

Maybe it died. Maybe it was hunted. Maybe it was just done. There’s never been an official explanation, of course. No real answers. No smoking gun. No proof. Just…silence. Quiet after the storm. A town too eager to forget the way it screamed. You know the truth.

Cook stopped feeding here. That’s all it was. Not out of guilt. Not out of mercy. But necessity. The bodies were piling too high, and even a town this good at looking the other way can’t ignore a mountain of corpses. So he took your advice—or maybe it was more of a plea, the kind only half-whispered and soaked in sweat when he was still inside you—and he moved his hunting grounds elsewhere. A few towns over. A different coast. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know. He always comes back to you anyway.

And now, with things quiet again, the town is pretending nothing ever happened. They’ve slapped a coat of paint over every bloodstain, scrubbed the sidewalks clean, patched up every scar with community vigils and police statements and concerned school counselors. They’ve made it palatable. Neat. Contained.

There’s even a benefit concert. For the victims, they say. For the survivors. For the grieving families. A fundraiser to raise awareness, promote safety, honor the lives lost. You nearly choke when you read the flyer: SYCHOPHANT VALENTINE, it says in thick, ugly block print. Live at the Avalon. Tickets $25. All proceeds go to the Predator Peace Project.

Sycophant Valentine. The band that sacrificed Cook. They tied him up, shoved him in the back of their van, and bled him out in the middle of the woods under a full moon. All for fame. All for a shot at something bigger than themselves. They left his body in a ditch and never looked back.

And now they’re here. Back in town. Playing a fucking charity event in honor of the deaths they caused. Cook doesn’t say much when you show him the flyer. Just hums under his breath and mutters something about poetic justice. But there’s a look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist—a slow, simmering sort of voraciousness. Not the kind he shows when he wants you. The other kind. The kind that paints your walls red.

You’ve seen it before. And this time, you don’t beg him to stop. You help him plan.

You bought the tickets under a fake name. Two VIP passes. No questions asked. Cook laughed when you showed him the envelope, the way his name was spelled wrong on the laminated badge. “James Cooke.” With an e. Fancy.

He held it between two fingers like he's holding Wonka's last golden ticket. “Gotta say, sweetheart, I always pictured my revenge lookin’ a bit rougher than an all-access wristband.”

You told him the rest would be rough enough. He’s been careful since that night in your room. Since you invited the monster in and let him stay. The feeding is still irregular, but he doesn’t lose himself anymore. Not with you. Not like before.

You know what he is now. He knows you’re not scared. That changed things.You’d started planning this the day after the concert announcement. He didn’t even need to ask why. Just looked at you with that slow, crooked grin like he was proud. Like it turned him on that you were just as sick with it as he was.

“You gonna help me kill six lads, sweetheart?” he asked. “Thought I was the monster in this story.”

“You are,” you said. “But I’m your monster now.”

💋

It’s all happening at the local community center—rebranded The Wild Hearts Pavilion for the benefit night, complete with stage lights, a merch booth, and punch that definitely had something in it.

You’re dressed to kill. Literally. Something short, tight, sheer enough to show bruises from nights ago when Cook got too hungry, too possessive. He left them where he wanted them. Thighs, hips, throat.

You’ve never felt more marked. Or more his. You loiter near the back hallway during their set, the one that leads to the green room. You can feel him somewhere nearby—Cook doesn’t blend well, but he knows how to vanish when he wants to. He's watching. Waiting.

Let them see you, he said earlier. Let them follow. I’ll do the rest. And oh, they see you.

The drummer’s the first to take notice, eyes raking down your legs like you’re just another backstage fling to scratch off the post-show list. The others follow suit like dogs catching a scent.

You catch the guitarist’s eye—recognize him from that press photo with the sacrificial dagger tucked behind his amp like a stage prop. You smile. Bite your lip. That’s all it takes.

Five minutes later, the show ends. The band is sweaty, buzzing, drunk off their own success. Six walking punchlines to a bad joke about fame, eyeliner, and fragile egos. You barely have to try—they come sniffing around you like dogs in heat.

The drummer's the first one to talk, of course. Always the drummer.

"VIP pass, huh?" he says, voice thick with sweat and residual post-concert adrenaline. "That mean you're all-access too, doll face? Or just front row with a view?"

You smirk. Don’t answer. Just glance at his laminated badge like you’re impressed. His ego does the rest. The lead singer steps in next, sunglasses still on like it’s not 9 PM and indoors. "You a fan, yeah? You look like a real fan. Wanna prove it?"

He eyes your body like it’s already been unwrapped. "Groupie slut look suits you, babe. Got that whole I’m not like the other girls thing goin’ for you. We like that."

"She’s got three holes," the bassist chimes in, slurring a little. "Two hands. We can rotate."

You almost gag—but you smile instead. Coy. Sweet. You twirl your VIP badge around your finger like you’re considering it. Let them think you’re stupid. That you’re game. Let them fall for it.

“Green room’s this way,” you purr, giving them a little wink as you trail your fingers along the hallway wall. “You boys want your…reward, yeah?”

They follow like sheep to slaughter, already pawing at you before the door even shuts. One of them tries to slap your ass. Another reaches to cup your breast. You dodge just enough to keep it playful. Lead them deeper.

They barely notice the lights flickering. Don’t hear the shift in the air. Don’t smell the bloodlust that’s just begun to bloom.

Then the door clicks shut. The lock turns. And Cook steps out of the shadowed corner with a smile so wide and predatory it could split his face in half, his voice steeped in venom and sadistic glee as he asks—

“You cunts ready for your encore?”

The guys scream—but not out of fear, not at first, first they laugh. Think it’s a prank. The lead singer—Dan or Dave or whatever—even holds his hands up like whoa man, chill, drunk swagger faltering only slightly, the chain he's wearing swinging with the movement.

“Yo what the fuck is this, a bit? Some horrorcore—”

Cook’s jaw unhinges with a wet, cracking pop. It splits too far, wider than any human mouth should go, fangs slick and glistening in the dim light, saliva stretching like webbing between rows of serrated, shark-like teeth sharp enough to shred. His neck tendons bulge. His spine contorts.

And then? He moves.

The first one doesn’t even get a full scream out. Cook lunges—inhumanly fast, all blur and sinew and snap. He grabs the guitarist by the waist and rips him clean in half, top and bottom peeling apart with a sickening wet crack like splitting a chicken carcass at Sunday roast.

His spine snaps like a wishbone, intestines spilling out in glistening, red ropes as a result. The man’s upper body twitches once, mouth still trying to speak through a throat now pouring foam and blood.

It hits the others an instant too late.

Panic. Screaming. Scrambling.

The drummer bolts for the mirror-lined vanity, slips on blood, and Cook’s already there—slamming his face through the glass. The mirror explodes with the force, shards embedding in cheek, jaw, eye socket. He tries to scream, but it comes out a wet gurgle, teeth dangling by nerve threads. Cook leans in real close, blood running down his own chin like juice from a ripe plum.

“Didn’t catch that, mate. Mind speakin’ up?”

CRUUUNCH.

He drives the man's face down again. And again. And again. Until there’s nothing left but pulp.

Two more charge him, panicked and stupid, trying to fight him like he’s just some bloke in a bad mood or in a drug-fueled rage. Cook just laughs. Grabs them both by the heads and slams their skulls together so hard it echoes like a rifle shot. One drops instantly. The other stumbles—until Cook picks him up by the throat and throws him into a wall with enough force to leave a dent.

That’s four.

Another tries to crawl away. Of course. There's always one that crawls. Hands slipping in blood, sobbing like a child. He’s halfway to the door before Cook casually strides over and stomps down on his back with one foot.

His spine splits down the middle. A wet, meaty crack like a tree branch giving out. The guy pisses himself. Gasps. Goes still.

That’s five.

The sixth one’s hiding.

Coward. You spot him cowering under the table, trying not to make a sound, hands clasped in prayer like he’s calling on a God that doesn’t show up here anymore.

Cook crouches low. Smiles under the table like a shark smelling iron. “Oi,” he whispers. “Prayin’? Tha’s cute.”

He grabs the man’s ankle and yanks him out, nails clawing at the floorboards so hard his nails break and bleed. The guy thrashes, grabs a mic stand—jabs it blindly—

It hits Cook in the gut. He barely flinches. Instead, he wrenches the mic stand from the guy’s hand and impales him with it—blunt end first, driving it slow through stomach, guts, ribcage, up until it tears out of his mouth like a metal flower blooming from his face.

“Bit pitchy,” Cook mutters. “But good effort.”

Blood hits the ceiling. Hits you. Hot. Wet. Metallic.

You don’t wince.

They beg. They cry. They try to offer deals, babbling about producers and record labels and you don’t have to do this, man—

Cook just grins, lips pulled back to show fangs dripping red.

“Don’t look at her,” he growls, voice animal, throat soaked in someone else’s blood. Then, to the lead singer, who’s trying to crawl away without a lower jaw: “She’s not the one you owe.”

And with that, he rips the jaw off what’s left of the frontman’s head. The tendons snap with a noise like snapping celery. The singer makes a wet choking noise and collapses.

When it’s done, the room is soaked. Walls dripping. The overhead lights splattered. Steam rising off the piles of offal in the cold air. Limbs twitching. Stomachs and chest cavities peeled and cracked open like rotten fruit.

And Cook? Cook is standing in the middle of it all. Shirtless. Heaving. Blood-slick and shaking. Nothing human left in the shape of him except maybe the smirk—slanted, feral, proud. His chest rises and falls quick. He licks blood from his knuckles, slow. Then he looks at you. Grins.

"Fuckin' hell," he says, voice low and thrilled, like he just won a prizefight or got off on stage. “Did ya see that? Fuckin’ told ya I’d make it rough.”

You nod—barely. Your brain hasn’t caught up to your body yet. You’re flushed, hot, throbbing with adrenaline. There’s blood smeared across your chest, your cheek, but all you can focus on is the way Cook’s looking at you. Like he wants to devour you next.

He crosses the room in three long strides, trainers splashing through the mess, and grabs your face in both bloodstained hands. He kisses you hard—filthy, wet, all tongue and teeth and heat. His mouth tastes like copper and nicotine and something darker still.

You moan into it. Can’t help it. Can’t stop. His hand slides under your shirt, palm hot and greedy, squeezing your tit, thumb brushing over your hard nipple, smearing blood across every inch of skin he touches. He groans when you grind against him, the bulge in his jeans already thick and heavy and hard.

"God, you're fuckin' soaked already," he mutters against your lips, voice rough and reverent. “Covered in blood and still gaggin’ for cock. My girl.”

You gasp when he rocks against you. When his hand slides down, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your skirt like a promise.

"Later," he pants, biting at your jaw. "M'gonna fuck the life outta you later. Gonna bend you over somethin’ sturdy, fuck you so good you forget your own name. But not here. Not in this shithole.”

You both pause at the same time. Sirens. Distant at first—just a low wail somewhere out in the city. But they’re getting louder. Closer. Cook pulls back, pupils still wild, chest heaving. "Time to leg it, yeah?"

You nod. He takes your hand—blood-slick fingers interlocking with yours—and together, you slip out the back stairwell, footsteps thudding on metal, the scent of iron still thick in the air.

Upstairs, the crowd is still screaming. Chanting for an encore. For a band that’s not coming back. For a frontman whose jaw is currently decorating the green room floor like some avant-garde art piece—too bold, too provocative, too grotesque for even the edgiest gallery.

They cheer louder, drunk on cheap beer and collective delusion, vibrating with secondhand ecstasy. Stomping their feet, flashing their tits, throwing devil horns like they’re conjuring something dark and primal.

(They are. Just a little late.)

Someone starts a chant—One more song! One more song!—and it spreads like wildfire. Their fans, the sycophants, the thirsty little Valentines, all screaming for a corpse to rise. The floor beneath them is sticky with bass spills and blood they haven’t noticed yet.

Backstage, there’s nothing left but ruin. The smell of iron and offal still thick in the air, a smear of arterial red streaking across the vanity like war paint. Ripped limbs dangle from equipment racks. One mic stand is embedded clean through a body. A chunk of scalp clings to a cracked cymbal.

Cook doesn’t look back. He’s still grinning, though. Shirtless and blood-drenched, hair matted, knuckles split and slick. He looks like he just walked out of a baptismal font filled with viscera, and you’re not sure whether to kiss him again or drop to your knees.

(You’ll do both. Later.)

He loops an arm around your shoulders, casual as anything. “Encore’s been canceled,” he says, deadpan. “Think the drummer lost his head.”

You snort. You can’t help it. He kisses your cheek, playful and still a little wild. “Don’t worry, babe,” he adds with a wink, “I’ve got plenty of rhythm.”

Sirens wail in the distance—sharp, fast, urgent. The kind of sound that means someone’s finally noticed.

Too late.

He takes your hand, lacing his bloody fingers through yours like it’s date night. You’re sticky with it—his blood, theirs, maybe yours—but it doesn’t matter. You’re both humming with leftover violence, the kind of adrenaline that tastes like sugar and gasoline in your throat.

You slip through the back stairwell. No one sees you. No one stops you.

The alley’s cool and quiet, moonlight catching on broken glass and empty bottles, the night curving open around you like a secret. Cook glances up at the sky like he’s looking for something. Or someone. The air smells like sweat and rot and spring rain.

You turn once, just once, looking back over your shoulder at the venue doors. At the neon sign still flickering like a weak pulse. At the crowd that’s still begging, still howling for an encore that isn’t coming.

And then you vanish.

No one sees the trail of bloody footprints you leave behind, drying into the pavement like some unholy pilgrimage and you can't help but smile to yourself because Sycophant Valentine got everything they wanted. fame, fortune—and a closed-casket funeral.

#this fic puts the sin in skins #he eats boys for breakfast and me for dessert #boyfriend-coded 🤝 bloodbath-coded #tongue-in-cheek? more like tongue-in-everything #james cook #james cook skins #james cook x reader #james cook x you #james cook smut #cook skins #skins UK #skins cook #jack o'connell

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ihavenoideahowtodream · 1 hour ago

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HE KEEPS HIS EXS IN GLASS BOXES

Like i really dont think that is talked about enough!

How well they made him look so cartoonishly evil. like thats some doofenshmirtz type shit. But its also so SO fucking psychotic! Entirely unredeemable. No excuse for him and he never gives them one.

And that is the running theme of the movie

the cough Israelis/Russians vs Ukrainian/Palestinians cough conflict is a bunch of over armored guys with guns and tanks vs a bunch of farmers with sticks in a soccer field. like thats the most down scaled conflict possible, but it still got the point across of how ridiculously out matched our current genocides are without making it too gorey to stomach for any age group.

It straight up says "I invented this conflict inorder to have a reason to destroy you!" Whether anyone believes 9/11 was an inside job or not the reality is that the Afghan and Iraqi wars invasions were fabricated from that event for profit and god knows what else.

Superman is cartoonishly good cause he saves squirrels and dogs and w/e almost to the point that he really just handles the peripheral casualty mediation. Hell he doesnt even get involved with the giant glowing eyeball, cause if you notice, it wasnt near any civilians. He was using the glow from the fight as mood lighting to tell Lois he loved her ffs. He feels unrealistically good because he kinda is. He doesnt do anything a normal person can do the whole movie except his emotional capacity. All the other realistically accomplishable goals are done by people who are normal or is hawkgirl or Mal Reynolds with a green lantern ring. Mr. Terrific is a normal person who is the guy Iron Man thought he was.

Everything is blown to an extreme and abnormal proportion to show that the Alien isnt the point. The big tanks and evil dictator and creep with a glass block prison and a chip on his shoulder arent the point.

Its that there are corporations who own private prisons. And those corporations are staffed by people who arent the evil supervillain and they enjoy their jobs making them complicit in the evil ICE. its that caring for nature is important. Its a woman with a crappy car is worth helping in a way she feels safe regardless who she is. Its that kids have come to america every goddamn day for 300 years with no control of the fact that they are here cause there is a chance they may have a better life here than where their parents grew up. Its that families are being rooted from their homes and countries every day for decades now with no help in sight but the regular person can help somehow even if its just calling your senator or donating or passing along ways others can do it. And this movie says it in a way that makes sense to every age group.

The kid with the flag prays for superman. Superman doesnt come. Superman is fixing a ridiculous issue that would never happen in the real world. Who shows up are his friends. People who are all very different and have arguments with each other but show up for superman cause he tries with all of them. Superman is nice to all the people he meets and only freaks out when Krypto gets hurt. and even then he just does property damage. There is a quote from Parks and Rec that has stuck with me for years now: "Leslie knope gets every favor she asks for because she only uses those favors to help people and never herself" Green Lantern is an ass. Hawkgirl likes her job but is bored at best and over her coworkers. Mr Terrific has the patience of a saint while also kinda being a dick himself. All of them rally behind Superman because they think hes worth it even if they wont say so. You can do good even if it isnt exactly how youd want the task to go. A soup kitchen is a soup kitchen no matter who staffs it if every person there knows the point is to get people fed.

Lex Luthor is all the evil in the world

Superman is all the good in the world

one has people who work for him the other people who work with him. Superman wins because people decide the good in the world is worth working towards even though there is a black hole eating the earth because they have hope in the good.

everybody say "thank you superman 2025 for bringing truly irredeemable villains back with lex luther!"

he is a cold blooded killer. he has pathetic tantrums and throws pens on the floor. he only wears black. he delivers a fantasically evil villain monologue. he cries pathetically when beaten. his motivation is not related to some tragic backstory, but is simply jealousy twisted into something so deplorably evil. he is bald.

this movie really is All That™️ and then some.

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taleofharrison · 2 days ago

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The Herald | Johnny Storm x fem!reader

Summary: Johnny thinks he had a moment with the Silver Surfer.

Disclaimer: I've seen the movie twice and tried to write some scenes from memory, so they might not be exactly the same. Spoiler alert is in order since it is heavily inspired by the movie.

A/N: This essentially was written around one dialogue I thought of and it took me around 600 words to actually get to that part, but enjoy.

Navigation

You left your room after what felt like an eternity, planning a wedding had become a pain in the ass when your husband-to-be had a busy schedule being a celebrity and a superhero. Johnny tried to be there and help you make decisions as often as possible, but some days like today it wasn't possible.

You looked down at your watch, it was almost time for Sunday dinner and the smell from the kitchen told you that Ben had almost finished cooking.

“It smells delicious Ben” you complimented Ben once you walked into the kitchen.

You usually helped him cool Sunday dinner; you, him and H.E.R.B.I.E had become quite a team in the kitchen. However, the planning of the event that was your wedding meant you couldn't cook with them as often as you'd like.

“How's the wedding going?” Ben checked on you.

“It's going” you shrugged “I'm seriously considering eloping as an option, too much pressure.”

“Everything will be fine” Ben assured “don't worry.”

Johnny walked past you and Ben on his way to grab his cereal box.

“How did it go with Reed, babe?” You asked him, you knew he had that meeting at 2:15.

“It went.”

“Hey don't worry about it we'll go back to space in no time” Ben quickly reassured Johnny.

“Yeah, I hope so” Johnny sighed in disappointment, “but how’s our wedding going?”

“As well as it can go without a date” you shrugged “I've talked to some vendors, selected a few color palettes and chose some stuff from the magazines.”

“I'll check them out tomorrow, sorry I haven't been around for this” he softly kissed your temple.

You had learned how to share Johnny with the world ages ago. You had started dating about a year after his family and he got their powers, he didn't expect you to stay after all of that came with dating the heartthrob and ladies man Johnny Storm, he didn't expect you to stay after all the cancelled dates and last minute changes due to his responsibilities, but you did and in that moment both of you knew you were each other's forever.

He had asked you to marry him a few weeks before Sue discovered she was pregnant and you decided to have the wedding until after the baby was born. That way Sue would be able to enjoy the wedding a bit more and both Johnny and you loved the idea of having your nephew between the guests.

“Duty calls” Ben spoke when the sound of sirens interrupted all the conversations in the room.

“Oh no, that's all me” Reed told him, all of you walking to the balcony as Reed explained how he had organized patrols to take down some of the enemies in the area, an attempt to make the city safer for his son.

You were about to walk back inside for dinner. You had promised Sue you would tell her all about your ideas for the wedding during dinner and both of you couldn't contain your excitement over the topic and this time their watches actually rang.

The night sky lit up in orange lights, whatever that was, The Fantastic Four were needed on scene to figure out whatever that was. First it was Johnny just flew towards it and Ben, Sue and Reed took fantasticar.

You went back inside sighing. Not in an annoyed way, it was an “of course this would happen at dinner time” kind of sigh. You walked towards the living room knowing that whatever that was it was already on the news.

“...I herald Galactus” was the first thing you heard from this silver woman once the TV was one, she continued a speech about how the planet had been marked for death, about us having to do whatever we needed to do before the unavoidable end came, last thing you saw was Johnny going after her.

…

It was time to decide the best course of action, Reed managed to discover that they had about a week before Galactus destroyed the world. He found a pattern between the surfer's visit and the destruction of the planets he had observed.

“How long until Excelsior is ready?” Reed checked with Ben, going to Galactus before he came to Earth was the most logical thing to do.

“20 hours”

“Hey!” Johnny tried to get their attention “she spoke to me, the surfer when I went after her.”

“She spoke to all of us, Johnny.” Ben dismissed him.

“No no no, when I chased her” he kept insisting “she spoke to me in her language.”

“And what did she say?” Reed asked him.

“Well I don't know it was her own language”

“What were the context clues?”

“Context space”

“And the tone?” Sue continued.

“Angry? Threatening?” Ben offered.

“No no, not at all. It was kind.”

Then Johnny explained his encounter with the surfer, how he got close to her face and how he got to see his reflection and stars. It triggered a certain insecurity you had when it came to the women around Johnny, he had assured you had nothing to worry about and you trusted him. You knew it wasn't jealousy, just this feeling of self doubt that would creep from time to time.

“Kind? Warm?” Ben continued to make fun of him.

“I get it Johnny loves space, Johnny loves women and now there's a naked space woman” he was basically throwing a tantrum at this point “and Johnny thinks they had a moment.”

Sue and Reed look at him like he had lost his mind, Ben made a comment about him speaking in third person and you looked at him with concern. The rest of the team left the lab to finally get everything ready for the mission. Going to Galactus before he came to Earth was the most sensible and only plan at this point.

“So…is this naked space woman someone who I should worry about?” you asked him, trying to light up the mood.

“Very, funny. Make fun of me too” Johnny said sarcastically "I also don't think I have to remind you you are the only one for me."

“You gotta admit that her being warm and kind is not very natural” you tried to reason with him "she did threaten our entire world...just when we got engaged."

The timing was so funny it hurts, right when things were settling down for not only Sue and Reed, but for your relationship with Johnny as well. This felt like a sick joke from the universe.

“I think May is a good month” Johnny suggested “for the wedding, the baby will be around six months and the pink and green color palette you chose will look pretty during spring.”

“You wanna talk about the wedding right now?” You asked him.

“Why not? We need to choose a date anyways.”

“Do you think your new girlfriend will like that?”

“Y/N, I'm serious” he groaned “we need to choose a date soon.”

“Look, go to space I know how much you've wanted to go, defeat Galactus and do whatever you gotta do up there and then we can sit and talk about our wedding.”

“I just feel like I've been neglecting that and leaving you all alone with those decisions” Johnny said truthfully “I don't want you to think this doesn't matter to me.”

“Babe, you've been busy” you told him, moving your hand to cup one of his cheeks “you still make time for me…for us and I would never be upset at you for doing your job.”

He kissed you softly and slow, a kiss that said I love you thank you for being here.

“You always know what to say.”

“That's my super power” you shrugged and took one of his hands pulling him towards you “now let's get ready for your new mission, but you better not leave for any other sexy alien you might meet on the way.”

“Knock it off with that already” by this time he was amused by the comments, but he couldn't shake off this feeling. A feeling that told him that whatever she had told him was important and he had to figure it out.

For now though, he was more than content to have you in his arms for the night and worry about whatever Galactus had in store for them tomorrow.

tags: @ria-lina

#johnny storm x reader #johnny storm imagine #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn imagine #fantastic four first steps spoilers #johnny storm fanfic #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn

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emotionalrodent · 2 days ago

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Batboys X Reader Headcanons!

Prompt: Do they enjoy loving or being loved more?

Characters: Jason, Bruce, Dick, and Tim

CW: None

———————————————————————————

Jason

Being Loved

Jason often has a hard time truly seeing his own worth. His death and the aftermath surrounding it is often a factor that contributes to his complex self image. From his perspective, Bruce didn’t care about or love him enough to choose him. You seeing him, understanding him, and looking out for him as him head over heels for you. Jason also isn’t the best at expressing his affection at times so you showing him that he doesn’t need to do anything to earn or deserve your love has had him in tears a few times now (even though he won’t admit it). Jason relishes in being loved by you because of the security and comfort you bring. He does everything he possibly can to replicate the warmth your affection brings him for you.

———————————————————————————

Bruce

Loving

Despite what most people will believe, the death of Bruce’s parents had a profound impact on his growing mind. Bruce was just a child when he lost his parents. He didn’t just lose them though. He lost opportunities as well. He lost the opportunity to love them for as long as he was owed, the opportunity to look to them for support, to grow alongside them. As a result, Bruce doesn’t waste a second of his time with you. He shows you the importance you hold in his life each opportunity he gets, even if his time with you is short. Of course, Bruce indulges you in anything you want or need as well, having more than enough money to do so. He never wants you to worry for a second about anything at all and will do his best to make you the happiest possible. He adores your laugh and the way your personality mingles with his own, so he’ll do everything in his ability to express that fondness.

———————————————————————————

Dick

Loving

Dick loves the feeling of being in love, being able to give himself completely to you knowing you’ll act as his safety net is all he needs. He enjoys the chase too, of course. Dick loves the banter, the stolen glances and the flush of pink on both of your faces before you’re even his. Though, similar to Bruce, there isn’t a moment with you that goes unappreciated. He too experienced loss at a young age and strives to never feel like he didn’t enjoy you while he had you. Above all though, Dick loves being able to make you happy. He’s over the moon each time he gets so much as a smile from you and will do anything to make sure it doesn’t fade.

———————————————————————————

Tim

Being Loved

Tim likes having someone to care for him when he needs it most. He’s so used to doing things for the good of others and burning himself out that the small moments of your company mean the world to him. He loves the small things you do to show your concern for him. The days you cook for him, remind him to care for himself, attempt to help him with his most troubling cases and listen to his ramblings are everything to him. He’s an incredibly observant person which makes your surprise and appreciation when he remembers the smallest aspects about you worth all his attention to detail. So when you do the same for him, he finds it adorable and incredibly flattering. Tim loves seeing the effort you put into loving him and the extent your care is shown.

————————————————————

Hey everyone, this is my first time writing headcanons and I really liked it so I think I’ll be doing more like this soon! I also had an idea for Damian but I’ve never been able to find a definitive answer on how old he is so I’m not sure if I’m comfortable writing for him yet. If you guys would like that then let me know his age so I can decide if I’ll write for him. I hope you guys liked this as much as I did making it. Thank you for reading!

#jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #bruce wayne x reader #tim drake x reader #dc #batboys #headcanon

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dreamwritesimagines · 1 day ago

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Declassified [14] - Warmth

A.N: I'm back from my vacation, my loves! Thank you so much for your wonderful support and your patience, you are amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Lying is necessary sometimes.

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI.

Word Count: 5.4k

Series Masterlist

You weren’t used to sleeping long hours.

Maybe it was the extreme amounts of coffee and energy drinks you consumed during the day, maybe it was the stress, or maybe it was because you kept waking yourself up to write down whatever you wanted to remember in the morning about the schedule or the drafts or anything you were working on. You would usually wake up around dawn short of breath with your heart pounding in your chest with anxiety so this—

This felt new.

The bright light spilling into the room from the window and wrapping you in its warmth penetrated through the haze of sleep, making you heave a sigh. You knew you were supposed to get up, but your body was exhausted as if you had run a marathon and your muscles ached in protest the moment you attempted to move your arm, making your eyes flutter open.

…Oh.

Your heart starting to pound in your chest had nothing to do with anxiety this time. A smile lit up your face, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you lifted your head very slowly from Bucky’s chest. You were practically draped on him and he was holding you close to his body with one arm while his vibranium arm was thrown over his eyes to block the sunlight, his hair all messy. You let your eyes roam his muscular chest, going down to his abs until you saw the sheets covering his waist, biting down on your lip. You stole a look at his face but before you could decide on what you wanted to do, his lips curled into a small smile.

“Good morning to you too.”

Your stomach did a happy flip at his raspy voice.

“How did you know I was staring?”

“You can’t tell when someone is staring at you?”

“No.”

He lifted his arm to look down at you, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“That explains a lot,” he murmured, his fingertips grazing your spine. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you whispered, your smile getting bigger and you pulled yourself up to brush your lips against his. His hand went up to cradle the back of your head as soon as you pulled back to steal another kiss from you, making you giggle.

“Sorry if my staring woke you up.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. And you didn’t, I’ve been awake for a while.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Because I dreamt about this way too many times,” he said softly, coaxing a smile out of you. “I was enjoying it.”

You hummed, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him while his fingertips trailed your spine, wakening goosebumps on your skin. You could swear your heart was melting when you saw that soft light in his eyes and you heaved a sigh, then tapped your finger on his chest.

“Still warm?”

A lazy smile curled his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped out and gently tapped his finger on your temple. “Still quiet?”

The voice in your head. The one that kept saying no one would fall in love with you.

You paused for a moment, then nodded your head. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s eyes raked over your face as if he was trying to read your mind. “Do you feel okay?”

You licked your lips.

“I feel… hazy?” You tried to find the right words for the pleasant warmth surrounding you and settling into your mind. “I feel good and sore and tired and well-rested at the same time, it’s strange.”

“I mean we were up until after midnight,” he said with a grin, making your cheeks burn. “I still cannot believe you thought we’d go to sleep after the first—”

“In my defense,” you cut him off. “I’m used to like, five minutes, okay? Not—” You paused, deep in thought. “Not however many rounds it was. I don’t even remember when I went to sleep, when did we go to sleep?”

“You were murmuring about how we should move to a small town and do this day and night, then you fell asleep mid-sentence,” Bucky said helpfully, still grinning as if he couldn’t hear your embarrassed whine. “It was adorable.”

“Stop.”

“Funny, I seem to remember you saying the exact opposite.”

“Bucky!” you exclaimed, making him chuckle.

“Just saying.”

“Hold on,” you said when the thought hit you. “I slept very late, why do I feel well-rested? What time is it?”

Bucky checked his wristwatch. “Eleven.”

“It’s not eleven.”

“It is.”

“I slept until eleven?!” you asked, panic shooting through the haze in your mind. “I haven’t checked my phone in hours, it’s almost afternoon? Oh my God, I have to—”

“Nope.” Bucky stopped you before you could push the covers off of you and pulled you back into the bed by your arm before he settled between your legs, making you giggle.

“Bucky!”

“Don’t.”

“But I need to check—”

“The world didn’t catch fire while we weren’t looking.”

“But—”

“Just let me have you to myself a little more,” he murmured, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. “Before I have to share you with the rest of the world.”

Your eyes fluttered close when he brushed his lips against yours, coaxing a pleasant sigh out of you, then you gazed up at him, painfully aware of just how love-struck you looked. You reached up to fiddle with his dog tags so that you could distract yourself and smiled when he nudged your nose with his.

“I didn’t think…” you trailed off and laughed. “Might as well finish the sentence here.”

“You always think.”

Your eyes darted over his face. “Why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”

“About the time?”

“About this.”

“You know why,” he murmured. “I kept telling myself that if I touched you, I’d get blood on you. I still think that, I’m just…”

He paused as if the thoughts storming in his mind were too much and you raked your nails through his hair, the simple gesture making him close his eyes in bliss before he forced himself to open them again.

“I’m too selfish to fight it anymore,” he admitted and you shook your head.

“That’s not true.”

“Birdie—”

“You’ve been pointing me in the direction of the nearest exit since last night.” Your voice was just above a whisper as you cupped his cheek so that he could look you in the eye. “I’m not going that way.”

He swallowed thickly, his blue gaze locked in yours as if he was trying to assure himself you were telling the truth.

“You should.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I won’t.”

He turned his head to press a kiss into your palm, warmth spreading in your ribcage. He heaved a sigh in deep thought, his brows pinched in a frown and you ran your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quiet. “Where did you go?”

He let out a breath, blinking a couple of times as if he was trying to focus.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, trust me. I was thinking about Sarah.”

You raised your brows, grinning. “While I’m naked under you, Barnes? Wow.”

His eyes widened. “No no—”

“Talk about lovebombing—”

“That’s not what I meant!” he cut you off in a rush. “No it’s just, she said something the other day about you and me, that’s all.”

You hummed, playing with his dog tags. “What did she say?”

“She said maybe all that stuff happened in the past because I was meant to meet you here.”

Your heart skipped a happy beat. “And do you agree?”

“One hundred percent,” he said. “Do you?”

“Yeah—I mean don’t get me wrong, what happened to you was terrible, all those decades,” you added. “I wish they didn’t happen but when I think about you in the 40s and me being here, imagining not meeting you or being with you…”

Even the idea was way too heavy for your heart and you shook your head, an ache appearing at the back of your throat. He stroked your hair before he ran his knuckles over your temple, and brushed his lips against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “We both are.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “But are you happy about it?”

He tilted his head in confusion and you took a deep breath.

“Because you know, what happened with Steve Rogers and going back and like, he went back the minute he could and—”

“That’s very different,” he cut you off. “And I wouldn’t go back.”

“Even if you could?”

“Yeah. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“But your best friend did.”

Bucky thought for a moment, then licked his lips.

“I think Steve was always meant to go back because he had someone waiting for him in the past,” he said. “I was meant to go forward because I had you waiting for me in the future.”

Despite the tears stinging your eyes, a smile lit up your face and you pulled him down for a kiss, but before his lips could touch yours the loud growl of your stomach let both of you know just how hungry you were, making him pull back with a chuckle while you scrunched up your nose in embarrassment.

“Jesus…” you muttered. “So uh, funny thing when you’re not a super soldier, after burning energy you need fuel.”

“Oh is that right?”

“Mm hm.”

“This is proving to be a very enlightening morning,” Bucky told you with an overly serious expression on his face before he smiled. “Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Or—” You stopped him before he could get off of you. “Or we have sex, then we have breakfast. Burning more energy and stuff.”

He hummed. “Or we have breakfast, and then we have sex.”

“Or we have sex and then we have more sex,” you pointed out. “That’s also an option. I mean what’s breakfast anyway?”

“The most important meal of the day for someone who, and I quote, is not a super soldier.”

“I didn’t say you could use my words against me,” you grumbled as he pecked you on the lips and got up. You couldn’t help but gawk at his chiseled body while he got dressed, then turned to shoot you a smug grin.

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m staring romantically,” you defended yourself when he came to kiss the top of your head. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it darling,” he teased you as he walked out of the room and you heaved a sigh, then pushed the covers off you.

“Breakfast it is,” you said and paused for a moment. “Actually, shower and breakfast it is.”

Staying away from your phone for more than an hour was something you couldn’t even comprehend, and it seemed that the outside world agreed. You had so many notifications and texts, so after you took your shower, got into one of Bucky’s shirts and went to the kitchen, you decided to get it over with.

Hence Caleb yelling at you on the phone.

“We didn’t push you out of the loop—you’re literally in the loop!” you insisted while he let out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re one of the what, like three people who knows about this?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to mouth “four” and you nodded.

“Four people,” you corrected yourself as he returned to the food on the pan so that it wouldn’t burn. “Four people, that’s the loop.”

“You told Kels and didn’t think to tell me for the whole day!”

“You were busy with the PR thing.”

“That’s such a bullshit excuse,” he insisted as you leaned back to the kitchen island. “And technically, I’m the first person who’s supposed to know about this. It’s literally my job—you guys aren’t planning on walking outside hand in hand right?”

“I haven’t lost my mind, thank you for asking,” you retorted while Bucky put the food on the plates, then extended his hand to motion at you to give him the phone. “Bucky wants to talk to you.”

You handed him the phone and jumped to sit on the kitchen island as Bucky took it to his ear.

“Caleb,” he said. “Don’t call her or me until tomorrow, talk to you later.”

He hung up, making your jaw drop.

“Bucky!”

He shot you a mischievous grin and put the plate into your lap. “The food was gonna get cold.”

You let out a laugh and grabbed your fork to dig in, your brows shooting up in surprise as you chewed.

“Holy shit, this is good. I might in fact revise my stance on breakfast.”

“You should,” he said with a smile, then took a sip of his coffee. “So I was thinking.”

You hummed.

“Tomorrow, after we’re done, we could grab dinner and—”

“Grab dinner outside?” You cut him off and he frowned as if you were asking a rhetorical question.

“Yeah?”

Ah.

This was going to be interesting.

You swallowed your bite, then pursed your lips and put your plate aside so that you could sit up straighter.

“Bucky…” you trailed off and took a deep breath. “You do realize that we are going to need to keep this a secret for the time being, right?”

Confusion pinched his brows together. “Why?”

Hazel was right, Bucky really didn’t see it.

“You’ve seen how people reacted to that pic of us at the pub.”

“But that’s because I was in a relationship,” Bucky told you while you shook your head. “People thought—”

“That’s not only because you were in a relationship.” You cut him off. “It may have been a contributing factor, but it wasn’t the real reason. I work for you, people will have a lot of opinions about that.”

“Who cares?” he asked. “If they have a problem with it, they can bring that up with me.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t,” you said. “Listen, if this gets out, none of my accomplishments will matter. Everything that I’ve done will stop being mine and turn into…like, you handed them to me because I was sleeping with you.”

“That’s not—”

“And everything that I’m doing in the congress right now? Everything that has my name on it will be because I’m sleeping around—and before you say anything,” you said when he opened his mouth to argue. “You can’t beat people up for thinking that because that’ll be the whole country, give or take.”

He gritted his teeth in annoyance, his lips pulled into an adorable pout.

“But we’re in love,” he insisted as if that had the power to change the entire world, making you smile.

“I know that,” you said and reached to take his flesh hand between yours. “But the rest of the world won’t see it that way.”

He heaved an impatient sigh, his jaw clenching and you squeezed his hand.

“Trust me on this?” you asked and he nodded after a moment of hesitation.

“Okay,” he muttered. “What’s your solution?”

“Waiting, for the time being,” you said. “I need to talk to Caleb and come up with an actual plan, but either way, we can’t really be seen together while I’m working for you.”

His brows knit together— a telltale sign of him being in deep thought— before he nodded again.

“Yeah.”

You couldn’t help the smile twitching your lips. “You don’t like it.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “At all, but I’m not gonna do anything that might end up with you getting hurt, in any way. So okay, let’s keep it a secret.”

Warmth spread inside your chest and you pulled him down for a kiss but as soon as you did, Alpine jumped on the counter before getting on your lap, purring. A laugh escaped you and Bucky picked her up easily to drop her to the floor.

“Down,” he said and turned to kiss you again, but Alpine jumped into your lap once again, this time blinking up at Bucky as if daring him to pick her up again.

Bucky shot her an exasperated look. “Are you serious right now?”

The only answer she got from Alpine was her kneading your legs before she curled into a ball, still purring.

“She’s so cute!” you said, running your fingers through her fur and Bucky shook his head.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “Alpine, down.”

“Don’t use that voice with her, she’s a princess!” you argued. “And she missed me.”

“Makes two of us.”

“She hasn’t seen me since last night!” you insisted as Bucky picked her up to put her down to the floor again, and before she could jump up, he had already hoisted you into his arms, making you squeal.

“Bucky!”

“Don’t blame me, she’s not leaving me with many options here,” Bucky said as he carried you to the bedroom and closed the door before Alpine could get in, making you gasp.

“That’s mean!” you protested. “You’re being mean!”

A giggle escaped you when he put you down on the bed and settled between your legs, looking down at you.

“I’m being mean?”

“Very, very mean,” you teased him and he hummed, nuzzling to the crook of your neck for a moment before he helped you get out of his shirt, then started kissing his way down your body.

“Well,” he said as your breath caught in your throat, your head hitting the soft pillows. “Better make up for it, I guess. Can’t have my girl think I’m very, very mean.”

Despite Bucky’s attempts to convince you, you knew you couldn’t spend the night at his place so eventually you went back home. Kelsey and Caleb had one hundred questions and you were very excited to tell them everything, so by the midnight, you were still sitting on the floor drinking wine.

“I can’t believe you guys told each other you loved each other before you had sex.”

“Well, that actually fits the era he’s from,” Kelsey told Caleb who shrugged his shoulders.

“You’d have to waterboard that information out of me before sex.”

“In my defense, I didn’t plan it,” you said, taking a huge sip of your wine. “It just slipped out.”

“Before he slipped in.”

“Caleb!”

“Bad innuendos are my way of revenge.” He tilted his wine glass in your direction. “You’ve just made my life so much harder.”

“We’re keeping it a secret,” you reminded him. “For the time being.”

“Please, one look at your face and people will be able to tell you got laid.”

“No!”

“You have that I had multiple orgasms for the first time in my life look on your face.”

“It was for the first time in my life,” you admitted. “But I don’t have that look on my face!”

“He’s got a point,” Kelsey said. “We need to be extra careful with you two because something tells me Bucky won’t be subtle.”

“We’ll be very professional.”

“Very professional my ass,” Caleb said and snapped his fingers. “Oh, we forgot to tell you! Kels also got laid last night. I’m beginning to feel left out at this point, like I’m a priest or something.”

“That journalist guy?” you asked her and she nodded.

“Yeah, I called him to the club and then…” She waved a hand in the air and you raised a brow.

“And? Was he good?”

“I’m thinking about calling him again sometime this week so yeah.”

“But he’s a journalist,” Caleb repeated. “Journalists can’t be trusted.”

“The only thing I’m sharing with him is dirty talk,” Kelsey reminded him. “I’ll be fine.”

Caleb opened his mouth to retort but all three of you turned your heads when the doorbell rang.

“Uh…” Caleb said. “Were we expecting anyone?”

“Not me. Birdie?”

“Nope.”

Caleb stood up, Kelsey and you following him suit and he made his way to the door to look through the peephole.

“What the fuck?” he muttered and turned to you. “It’s your father.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “What?”

“Do I—do I open it?” he whispered while you tried to control the panic churning your insides, taking a shaky breath and willing yourself to think clear.

There was no way your father could know what happened last night.

No fucking way.

You nodded your head and Caleb opened the door, Kelsey reaching out to squeeze your arm in an attempt to assure you as two bodyguards walked into the apartment, your father soon joining them.

“Hi Pumpkin.”

“Dad.” You tried to keep your voice calm. “What are you doing here?”

“You haven’t answered my calls or my texts the whole day.”

Shit.

“Oh—” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, my battery died.”

He hummed, his eyes darting around the living room. “You don’t have a couch?”

“Um…”

“We’re following the minimalism trend,” Kelsey came to your aid while Caleb nodded.

“Yeah, we’re against the uh—consumerism culture and everything. We watched a tiktok documentary.”

Your father raised his brows.

“Interesting,” he commented. “And do you guys happen to have a place in this…cozy apartment where we can talk in private?”

You motioned at your door and walked to your room with him following you, then closed the door after him.

“I don’t remember telling you where I lived,” you said and he gave you a reprimanding look.

“Honey.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back to the door. “Right. Stupid question.”

“This place is a shoebox—you know you and your friends can move into one of my condos, right?”

“That’s not happening.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand this relentless need to make yourself suffer.”

“We’ve been over this, I’m never, ever taking your money,” you told him and he shook his head, heaving a sigh.

“Very well,” he said. “I hope you’re having fun with your protest against consumerism, whatever that means.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you,” he said. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“And I told you—”

“Your battery died, yes,” he cut you off. “Doesn’t sound like you, for some reason.”

You licked your lips and cleared your throat.

“Yeah I was just—I was working,” you stammered. “I didn’t even notice the time, and then me and Caleb and Kels were drinking so I just didn’t check it.”

He hummed. “Working on what?”

“Gray’s bill.” You didn’t even hesitate. “Clean energy.”

He nodded his head, then reached out to take Blinky into his hand and walked around in the room with slow, deliberate steps. You hated how he always managed to make every room he was in look like he owned it, like he was this unstoppable force that no one could argue with.

And to make things worse, most of the time it was the case.

“I forgot you had this,” he muttered. “What did you name it, Binky?”

“Blinky.”

He let out a huff of laughter.

“You’ve always had a thing for broken things, you know?” he asked. “Broken or damaged in any way. Always thinking your love alone could fix them.”

You were very much aware of where this conversation was going, but you weren’t going to be the one who brought up Bucky.

You had to be very careful not to raise any suspicions.

“You take after your mother on that,” he said with a small chuckle. “When we were young, I’d always think she had too much love in her heart, for anyone and everyone.”

“It’s not for anyone and everyone,” you corrected him. “All that love she has? It’s only for you, no one else.”

“For you as well.”

You scoffed and shook your head.

“You and I both know that it’s not true,” you said. “You two love each other on a different level. There’s no room for me in that picture other than being an ornament in that whole perfect family bullshit.”

“Everything we do, we do it for you.”

You made a face. “Right. Why are you really here?”

“I thought you’d want to hear it from me that the journalist I mentioned earlier will no longer be a problem.”

Your head shot up and you blinked a couple of times.

“Dad…” you rasped out. “What—what did you do?”

“Don’t worry, he’s alive.”

“Then how did you fix that problem?”

He gave a small chuckle as if he couldn’t believe your naivety.

“Pumpkin,” he said. “You may have unshakable morals, but I’m sorry to tell you that the rest of the world don’t share that sentiment. You just need to throw enough money at them for them to remember their priorities.”

You could feel the relief filling your system and you squeezed your eyes shut before opening them again, running a hand over your forehead.

“Oh,” you muttered. “Bribery. And that was enough?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “As I said. Everyone’s priority is always money.”

“Not everyone.”

“Very few exceptions,” he admitted. “Like my own daughter.”

You nibbled on your lip. “So he won’t write those lies?”

“Him? No.”

You knew that tone. “…But?”

“I can stop the newspapers or sites or the media,” he said. “What I can’t stop is the whispers, Pumpkin.”

“Dad—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

You could feel your heartbeat getting faster as your eyes whipped up to his, the childhood habit of following his every order still lingering at the back of your mind despite you convincing yourself otherwise. If it were any other time, you would’ve snapped at him but considering what happened last night, you had to play along so that he wouldn’t be able to tell you were lying.

“Nothing is going on between me and Bucky.” Your voice was clear. “I swear on grandpa’s grave.”

In your defense, your grandpa would understand.

He held your gaze in his as if he was trying to read your mind, then nodded slightly.

“Good,” he said. “My daughter will not be used and discarded by anyone, let alone Bucky goddamn Barnes.”

That right there was bait.

He was waiting for you to take it, to argue with him about how Bucky wouldn’t use or discard you, or how you could take care of yourself, but you managed to hold yourself back.

You needed him to believe you.

“I respect him, and I think you should too,” you said, your voice completely calm. “He would never do that, but it doesn’t mean I would get involved with him romantically. I know how it goes in this line of work; the girl gets branded, the guy walks away unharmed—”

“He wouldn’t walk away unharmed.”

Your stomach flipped at the stern tone of his voice and you blinked a couple of times.

“Either way,” you managed to say. “I’m too smart to fall for that trap.”

No you weren’t.

As Hazel had once put it, you were the idiot with a schoolgirl crush.

“I know you are,” he said. “But I’ve seen how he looks at you. I just want to make sure he’s not messing with your head.”

“I’m a grown woman, father,” you growled, trying to convince both him and your own insecurities. “No one is messing with my head, especially when it comes to my choices or my career.”

His brows shot up like he was impressed by your reaction.

“Understood,” he said. “Well, I’d better leave you and your friends to continue with your night. Your mother is probably wondering where I’ve been.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you said and took a step as he reached the door. “And um—thank you. I know you did it for your own name and not me, but I appreciate the help.”

That made him pause at the door before he turned around to look at you, and if you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought you had taken him by surprise.

“What?” you asked and he shook his head.

“Is that what you think?” he asked with a chuckle. “I’m doing this for my own name and not for you?”

“Well, yeah?” you said like a question. “No offense but your name and your legacy and everything, I’m beneath all that in the hierarchy pyramid or whatever. Why else would you do it?”

“Pumpkin,” he said patiently. “I’m very much aware of how you see your mother and I, but you are blinded by this…this picture you conjured in your mind, what you made yourself believe. You want to know why I’m doing this? It’s because as much as you hate it, you’re my daughter, and I love you, and my job is to protect you.”

Confusion pulled your brows together while you stared at him and he heaved a sigh, then pinched the bridge of his nose and took a step closer to you.

“You understand how this game works much better than most, despite your desperate need to make the world a better place. I’m not going to stop you.”

The reaction was almost automatic: “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“And I’m not trying,” he told you with a small smile. “But let me tell you something, as smart as you are –and you are incredibly smart—, you tend to overlook certain things.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Which are?”

“You see, a lot of people assume people in power are the ones they can see,” he said. “But I think you and I both know it’s the people who aren’t on the stage who pull the strings.”

You gritted your teeth. “Like you.”

“Like me,” he admitted. “So here’s how it’s going to go. You did very well in Barnes’ campaign, and I admit, he did well too. And he can play the politician all he wants, but he’s not gonna last in politics.”

“Why not?” you asked tersely. “Because let me guess, you’ll make sure—”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he said. “I don’t have to do anything. It’s not in him, Pumpkin. The guy is not a politician. He’s a soldier. A superhero.” He paused for a second. “Or a vigilante. I don’t know, he likes crossing that line a lot. The point is, right now, he’s playing pretend.”

“He’s—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he cut you off. “But sooner or later, he’s going to realize it’s not enough for him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t have to know him,” he told you. “As I said, it’s fine. It’s his life and his career, he can do whatever the fuck he wants as long as his actions affect only him. But you?” He pointed at you. “When you enter the picture, things change.”

You pressed your lips together, keeping your eyes on him.

“Forget about my name, and my legacy, and whatever you made yourself believe is more important than you,” he said. “The moment Bucky Barnes makes the mistake of throwing my daughter to the wolves, I’ll pull every single string to make sure his days with HYDRA look like a nostalgic funfair to him.”

You blinked up at him, your heartbeat getting faster as you tried to pull yourself together and he gave you a calm smile, then pressed a kiss on top of your head.

“But of course, this is all hypothetical considering nothing is going on between you two,” he said. “Don’t drink too much, there’s work tomorrow. I’ll tell your mother you said hi.”

With that, he walked out of the room and you forced yourself to snap out of the stunned disbelief pinning you to your spot, then rushed out of your room to go to the living room after him.

“My apologies for the interruption, kids,” your father told Kelsey and Caleb, then motioned at the pillows on the floor. “Please do let me know if you start supporting consumerism again. You’re not mercenaries staying at a hideout, you shouldn’t look the part.”

He left your apartment with his bodyguards following him, the door closing behind them with a click and Caleb ran a hand through his hair.

“We really need to buy a couch.”

“Forget the couch,” Kelsey said and turned to you while you stared at the door, your thoughts storming in your head. “Birdie? What was that about?”

You scoffed a bitter huff of laughter, then shook your head.

“A warning,” you managed to say through frozen lips. “That was a warning.”

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