markedprey

[markedprey]

damn dude you look like you'd be fun to chase

[markedprey]

I wanna beat him up

[markedprey]

             There it was, that brief and bitter punchline, the reality of just how he truly saw him. A serial killer hick, the response was enough to elicit a sound, deep from within his throat, a low singular hum of acknowledgement. His brief moment of humor was met with a pause, a single beat that passed between them- before the corner of his mouth would hook into that devilish grin. Certainly wasn’t the first time he’d heard such an insult, nor would it be the last- and certainly not the worst of what he’s ever heard, in all reality. If anything, it was amusing, to see the man- once victim- begin to find his footing, his confidence in speaking up against him. To think that once, this was probably how he was with his friends, a brief flicker of emotion, playful humor, a ghost of his old self, clever and charming despite the half baked insult. 

             Why he couldn’t find himself angry, if anything, it was endearing to be seen as anything other than the devil himself for once. Like maybe the man was starting to paint him as something more than a heartless monster, like these brief moments of interaction had finally begun to add up to something in his mind. It could be months, or years, before Lee saw him as someone to depend on- or maybe it would never happen at all. Either way, each little moment was a step in some unknown direction, no end goal in sight- all he knew was that he liked the journey. Being with him, like this, was the start of a routine he never knew he wanted, getting to be the first and last thing Leland would see each day. If he had it his way, it would stay like this, just the two of them in their own little world, down in this hell below. 

             The silence on his end would continue, hardly giving more than a raise of a brow, a flash of his canines, the bed creaking as he’d lean further close the space between them. To see the magazine, of course, that would be his excuse. Doing so only to close that space naturally, until there was nothing left but the gravity of the bed bowing under the weight, bringing them closer together. How he could practically taste the tension, tangible in the air between them. The heat that rose off the one beside him was clear in the rising flush to his skin that began to lose color from being locked away so long. He’d let him ramble, and it was only then once it was out of his system did he choose to chime in. 

             “I do care, actually. Y’know you’re real quick to jump the gun on assumin’ I don’t give a damn about ya’. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here now, would I?” Something for him to chew on later, in the dark and quiet room, once he was gone for the evening. His eyes would roam over him for a moment, from his eyes, to his lips, before flicking back over to the magazine he held onto, watching the way his fingers traced over the worn down ink." I don’t mind your ramblin’, it’s a nice change of pace, from all the silence you gave me for so long.” How could he not hate him? When the very name that fell from his lips- Jules- was probably one of the girls he’d killed those few months back. Yet it meant nothing to him, those few college kids just bodies in a freezer, but to Lee? A past, present, future, all taken from him without so much as a proper goodbye.

             The thought would pass with a hum, and instead he’d humor him, for the sake of not letting him mull on all he’d lost. “-I guess you’re not all that wrong, some of those things could be a way to describe me.” All of them, in reality, but he’d not give him that satisfaction of hitting a nail on the head. Maybe he was right, to know a stranger could read him better, know him better, probably guess his true birthday, better than his own flesh and blood. “What’s that make you then? You still didn’t answer my question- are we compatible?” If anything, it was to further slip under his skin, see just how much he could make him blush. His hand would reach over, fingers brushing across the top of his, surprisingly gentle, as he moved his fingers to the section decorated with hearts and the astrological signs being paired together. “-Or should I try my luck elsewhere?”

leland eyes johnny with some wariness, as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the creaky old bed with him. even a month back, johnny probably wouldn't have trusted him enough, to get this close. and honest to god, leland wouldn't have wanted him to. but the more time that passed down here in the dark, the more he found himself slipping into some kind of half-numb complacency. how many times had he been back to square one with johnny, now? he imagines the people he sometimes hears screaming through the walls would consider him lucky, for the countless chances johnny's given him. johnny, who liked to remind him he’d only have the one chance, if he ever were to run into any of the others — his fucked-up family.

jesus. he remembers when he still thought someone would come find him. deep down, maybe he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. deep down — he kind of preferred how things were, when he was on johnny's good side. he could ask for things, like books, or to hear the radio. and sometimes johnny would agree. sometimes, he'd sit here with him in this room, and give him a reprieve from this awful, continuous quiet. leland’s troubled look fades to something blank, when johnny speaks again; what am i to you?

leland's eyes flick up at him with a suspicious frown; was that a trick question? was there a wrong answer? mouth opens, and then closes. as usual, johnny makes no indication of a punchline — or that he’s going to let him get away with not answering. he's walked himself into being teased, and he feels the touch of heat rising in his cheeks. leland’s eyes narrow slightly, with a dry quip; ❝ ... a serial killer hick, who trapped me in his serial killer hick basement? ❞ a small raise of his brows again — pointedly, pushing his luck. he knows johnny's only messing with him, anyway. trying to get a rise out of him, again — which is working.

leland scoffs, ❝ you don't really care, do you? ❞ at least johnny's not being mean. for whatever it was worth, their rapport had definitely improved. brows knit, as he studies the magazine page for help — looking anywhere but back into johnny's intent stare, but he can't focus on the words. he tries for nonchalant, stumbling out an answer in a very not-nonchalant way; ❝ … scorpio, probably. jules — a friend of mine. said, scorpios are... ❞ he halts, trails off. mostly because of the pang of numbness that ripples from his heart right down to his fingertips. you don’t have friends, anymore, remember?

leland shutters away the feeling. tilts his head, briefly glancing up; ❝ uh, you're intense, i guess. ❞ he offers, ineloquently — like this was all the elaboration needed. yeah, no shit — he kills people. he's intense, and he scares the shit out of you. or at least — he should. christ. he really should. leland tries not to think too hard on the spin-cycle conflict in his stomach. the pathetic part of him looking for some sort of sick validation in johnny. at odds with the voice that reminds him that any surrender at all — well, that was an unforgivable betrayal to his friends, wasn't it? it is. he knows it is. he could tell himself it was just survival, all he wanted.

leland clears his throat, forces his jaw to work through the rust. he taps the page with his index finger; ❝ yeah, see — temperamental, direct, honest, loyal, and moody. ❞ brow raises over 'honest' for just a beat. his face still feels hot. leland gives a shrug; ❝ … it's pseudo-science, though. like ufos. think it just makes people feel better, when they can blame stuff on the sky. you know? ❞ the stars, planets in retrograde, god, other religious figures. he guesses it's all the same type of wishing, in the end. he wonders if johnny thought much about god.

leland's eyes lift, quickly; ❝ sorry. um — i'm just kind of rambling. ❞

[markedprey]

             Isn’t that what they always said? When it came down to it, it was ladies, just like her, who always claimed they knew how to hold their own. He’d heard it about a dozen different times, from girls he couldn’t remember the names nor faces of by now, all blending together in a blur as their lives would too often all end the same way. Yet they all had that single thing in common- the confidence to be on their own, the independence to go where they pleased, without fear of what might be lurking in the dark, waiting to strike out. Funny, that despite her best efforts at cracking the case, lending a helping hand to those who had all seemingly vanished out of thin air- she couldn’t seem to see the danger that was standing face to face with her.

             How could she? When he was hardly more than a sweet talking, Texas grown boy, working a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happened to folks like that, so unassuming with his tone, that upturned lip, seemingly stuck in a confident smirk- like a joke only he understood, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. She’d be one of them, soon enough, and here she was, blissfully unaware of that fact- asking for help from the one man she should have been running from in the first place. 

             “You’re real brave, I’ll give you that.” But he wouldn’t stop her, wouldn’t even give her a second warning- not now. Sealing her fate, without seeming to even notice, a stained rag was removed from his back pocket, taking the time to wipe the sweat from his neck as he’d watch her decide her next move. Eyes flickering to the watch on her wrist, meant she was pressed for time. The sun was dipping, which meant she had little option when it came to staying somewhere- sleeping in the back of her car, or finding a beat down little motel not too far from here. He knew this song and dance way too well, and sure enough, hearing her ask for help was enough to make his brow raise- right into the trap, hook- line- and sinker. It was almost too easy.

             Still, he’d play up the act, his eyes scanning the horizon of the empty road, not a soul in sight- as if to help reiterate the fact that he was all she really had. Juggling the options, the rag would be stuffed into his back pocket, rolling his shoulders as he’d close the hood of her car with a thud. “Sure, I don’t see why not. Where are you lookin’ to go? If you need a place to stay, I could show you a spot-” Taking a step in closer, his head would tilt to a side, “Not a lot of options out here, and I’ll probably need ‘til tomorrow afternoon to get that car of yours back up and runnin’…”  

there's too much going on around here for her not to try and look into it. some of the others at the college had told her it probably wasn't smart to go putting her nose where it doesn't belong — but nancy has never been one for following the advice of others. and now, she's got herself stuck out here in the middle of somewhere that she has no place being ; actions have consequences and all that.

arms are folded across her chest, eyes fixated intently on the guy bent underneath the hood of her car. for all of nancy's stubbornness and self-sufficiency, the car is one of her weaknesses. when it hadn't cranked right up, it had been a pain in her side — and then he had came by and offered to take a look at it. normally, she wouldn't accept help from a stranger, especially around here, but what other choice had she had?

despite the kindness on his features when he comes back out from underneath the hood, nancy cannot bring herself to truly return the sentiment. it's not because of him, though ; it is because of the bad news delivered afterwards.

“ shit, ” she curses under her breath, glancing from him to the car. as annoying as it is, nance knows she cannot let this deter her. this story is too important — too many people have gone missing for her to let something as trivial as a broken-down car stop her.

attention turns towards the man once again. his apparent concern has a slight smile crossing her features, a slow nod following suit. “ i've got it under control. i know how to stay out of trouble. ” a pause, followed by the admittance of, “ a bunch of people went missing, so going to unsafe places to look into it ... well, it kinda comes with the territory. ”

still, nancy knows that she can't do much like this. she can't exactly walk everywhere, not in the smoldering texas sun. the heat would take her out, and out here so far from everything else ... it wouldn't turn out well.

for a moment, she's quiet. a quick glance down at her watch reveals the time, and she winces at the sight of it. there's only one logical solution here, even as much as she dislikes it.

“ is there any chance you could give me a ride? ” the words are blurted out before she has a chance to change her mind. “ i know you've already done so much, what with trying to fix my car and all, but ... i can pay you. ”

[markedprey]

             It wasn’t the first time he’d been at the receiving end of what could have been a fatal blow, nor would it certainly be the last. This was the nature in which he endured, for as long as he could remember, the term’s family and love came hand in hand with hits that would leave bruises and scars. He was a firsthand example of that, wore it on his face like a mark of shame, once a constant reminder for all to see- to know he knew the truth of his family, the mother who claimed him as her own. And now, he donned it like a mask. Where once a young boy, it brought sorrow, only twisted, forming into something far worse. Reluctance, hatred, a cold and bitter outlook on the world that reflected in his gaze. This was what they’d turned him into, a weapon with only one thing on his mind for so many years. Pleasure in pain, in torture, in death- living life in a constant loop– until he met her.

             He wasn’t sure what love is, but maybe it came in the hard crack of the broom that splintered and sliced his arm clean open. Maybe love was the way he’d stand up to the old man, knowing well his mother would 'hear about it soon enough.' Maybe love was understanding- or no longer caring what punishment would come from this later– all that mattered was her. 

             Her. To think that’s how he referred to her for so long. That pretty little thing, down at the diner, her, with the soft doe eyes, or the way dimples would form when she smiled. Maria, the one girl he’d ever found himself fond of. The same girl that found herself lost in a field of sunflowers, the same girl that ran like a timid little rabbit- the same girl that sat before him now, crimson running down the soft curves of her face, an open wound, evident on her hairline. To think he’d made it just in time, knowing most other victims were never quite so lucky. Why he agreed to take her down below, knowing she would be far worse off should anyone else interfere. 

             He was by no means an expert when it came to tending wounds, his own scars a show of his handiwork, littered over his arms, his hands, gloves discarded as he’d look her over. It was a rare thing, for him to ever be so gentle, a delicate touch that caressed the side of her head, brushing back damp, sticky hair as it framed her face. A side of him only she would see, the one that would tend to her wounds when most would leave her to bleed. A damp cloth pressed to her cheek, moved in gentle dabs along her brow, mindful as he neared the wound, watching the look of exhaust on her tear streaked face. Despite the damage, the grief, the fear that wore her down- she was beautiful, plain as day to see. 

             “Not expectin’ you to be, old bastard had it comin’. Needs that stick shoved up his ass, what he gets for always barkin’ at others- a kick is being kind, if anything.” His voice hardly sounded his own, a rare glimpse at a man who could be so soft spoken- given a very rare circumstance such as this. If it were anyone else, he’d do nothing but mock, and probably laugh at the misfortune- but she, oh, it was always she that would get the special treatment from him. She was his, after all, in the eyes of the family. She was his to watch out for, and wrangle back in when she got to be too much.

             “Next time you think it’s a good idea to be pokin’ your head out when I’m not around, think twice. You’re lucky it wasn’t one of the bigger boys- that hit is nothin’ compared to what they can do-” Himself, Hands- Bubba even, lethal when it was needed. “I just don’t know what was going through your head- if you were tryin’ to get out again… you know what that looks like. You know I won’t be far behind either…” Was an attempt at freedom really worth the pain? Was she truly that unhappy? The thought left him pausing, finger coming beneath her chin to scoop upward, meeting her gaze with a pair of dark eyes. “You know they’ll kill you- if I don’t find you first.”

@markedprey: she failed. again. it's a litany of attempts that lead her back to this same spot. this same dark, cold room. she's caught in some sort of purgatory. a time loop with no end. the same scratches on the wall. the same background noises all around. there's a chainsaw revving here and there. once, she thought she heard voices. someone with a voice that didn't belong to any of the faces she'd seen shuffling in and out in a blur. she'd asked them for help and a long silence was all she got in reply. another time there was screaming. the only way she's able to count time passing has become the frayed state of her shirt. the bruises or scratches or cuts she tallies up a long the way.

sissy sliced her cheek the other day. tuesday. she remembers that.

the one with the birthmark on his face took her picture. took her picture with her own camera. that was thursday. she remembers that.

how many tuesdays and thursdays have passed now?

at the focal point of everything, it's always him. with the crooked grin. the scarred face. the guy from the diner. from the gas station. the guy with the charm. the one she got close to. johnny.

he's here again. at every corner. at every turn. and he'd stopped the next hit from landing. why?

her temple throbs. adrenaline has long since left her. they got her. the older man. the one with the sharp bark and the hard stick. her vision still blurs along the edges, but she doesn't lash out or bite at the hand that brushes hair from her face now. he's helping her right now. isn't he? ( why why why why why ) forcing herself to focus against the onslaught of exhaustion, maria watches johnny. she watches the way the shadows play against the sharp lines of his face. she waits to see if his eyes will glint like his blade.

"i'm not sorry," she says after a second, voice small, but the look in her red-ringed eyes suggests her fire hasn't burnt out. she's scared, but not silent. idly, she rubs at the raw skin around her wrist. no longer looking at him. "i hope he limps because of that kick. he's awful." drayton, she means.

[markedprey]

[markedprey]

bringing this back because hearing that one line with hands now i'm like aw they do stuff like this together.

The aesthetic of Johnny out in the woods killing random college kids who are out camping is just chefs kiss to me. People who are overly friendly to him because he's handsome, stopping in at the gas station and him asking where they're headed off to- probably even being invited to little gatherings like that only to show up and kill them all. A total blood bath, and then to drive them all back in whatever van they were camped out in, piled up in the back, listening to whatever they were jamming out to on the radio and whistling along soaked in blood like it's a casual thing to do. Just fun summer activities for Johnny!!

[markedprey]

             Thinking about how truly intimidating Johnny can be when he’s hunting someone, just from the sound of his footsteps to his nonchalant, playful way of speaking to his victim. The unsettling nature of how friendly he is, that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that's seemingly etched on his face at all times. Even as he fights with people he enjoys it, laughs, and despite any frustration he knows he has nothing to fear because he will find his victim. His confidence in his tracking is what’s truly scary. His sing-song tone of voice as he will play dumb, following a blood trail, knowing exactly where someone is but letting them think they have a chance to hide. The genuine laughter and amusement when he pulls them out of hiding to see them scramble and fight for their life. It can be such a game to him. And despite Bubba in game being the only one to carry victims, I definitely see Johnny being able to drag whomever around he might need to, knocking victims upside the head to take them back down to the basement. He’s so haunting and creepy at times, to think it’s rare to ever let anyone see a softer side of him. 

[markedprey]

beg me to carve my initials into your body

[markedprey]

predator animal falling in love with prey animal. You really love to see it.

[markedprey]

"That's it, die for me."

[markedprey]

Song Of The Day:

Me & The Devil - Soap & Skin

Riley Torres

[markedprey]

             It was dry dirt roads, that sweltering summer heat, the taste of copper on his tongue as fresh blood would dry, sticky as it clung to his neck and arms. Slowly but surely they were falling away, one by one, until only she remained. Not surprising, given how determined she was to fight- compared to the rest of them. In a way, she reminded him of his first victim- the one that started this whole mess. The girl with the love for flowers, Maria Flores, almost a spitting image of the girl he trailed after. How it felt almost the same, taking him back to that very night that started this whole ordeal. With luck, capturing her would finish it, once and for all.

             She proved herself thus far, fighting tooth and nail to escape her binds, free herself from the confines of the basement, and make it as far as the yard, so close to freedom it no doubt made her reckless. Clear to see, by the trail of blood she’d leave, her tracks small, but uneven, practically dragging her feet in desperation to get space between them, to keep going- get away from it all. How he wasn’t far off now, knowing that even if she thought herself free on the road, he’d simply find her, and drag her all the way back. No longer having the luxury of dying on her time, he’d play with her until he was done with her.

             It was all too clear when a victim would trail off to hide, seeing the way she veered from the straight path to freedom. How it usually went, hiding out in the tall grass, the sunflower fields, the nearby sheds for some way to hide from his line of sight. But there was no escaping this, not now, hence why his footsteps were slow, confident in the way he’d close the space between them. She was hiding nearby, he knew that now, her trail had gone cold, giving indication that she was trying to find a way around him. Game over now- but it wouldn’t be fun without twisting the knife in the wound, calling out to her, knowing she could hear.

             “Your little friends were easy compared to this, to think most of them could hardly even put up a fight- but you…” His voice trailed, a low rumble, lingering in his chest as he wandered through the run down shed, listening, waiting for any sign of her to peek her head from hiding. “Y’know you remind me of your little friend, the one that you all came looking for… what was her name? Maria? Y’know she put up a struggle like this but… they all end the same way… No one ever makes it out of here alive.” His laughter would fill the air, a sinister chuckle, loving nothing more than to play the sick mental game that would surely make her snap.

             Most would take off running, shout or scream, but what came next was a surprise even to him. He was quick, catching the sound of her scuffling feet, boxes toppling and a ragged, desperate scream. Half expecting fists to be thrown, it was much to his surprise to feel the sharp plunge of a weapon, tearing skin and carving deep into his flesh that left him suddenly alert- keen to his surroundings as the adrenaline would kick in. In a moment it was fight or flight, and when they chose fight, how he couldn’t help but get some twisted pleasure from the pain that was inflicted. “I knew you couldn’t resist- that’s it- try and kill me-!”

             His eyes were wild, the smile on his face so unsettling, given the situation at hand. Already blood began to pour from the open wound, his hand on her wrist, stopping her from trying to pierce the same spot, as if she was determined to hit his heart. With a violent shove he’d force her back, throwing her against the wall so he could pin her wrists to something solid, squeezing tight enough to bruise, to release her grip on that makeshift weapon of bone she found for herself. “Aren’t you clever- smarter, and faster than everyone else you brought here…” He could see how weak she was becoming though, that exhaustion in her eyes, she was on her last leg. Giving up, now knowing there was no way out of this. Why, despite the pain that lingered, blood pooling down his shirt, he couldn’t help but laugh, his head tilting to a side, studying her now that he had the chance of holding her close.

             “It’s a shame, all you had to do was mind your own. You really think you were gonna come out here and be a hero? You think your little friends should have stayed right where you were- but it doesn’t matter now…” He lowered himself, leaning in just enough so that their eyes were forced to meet. Unsettling, the way his eyes were so dark, so void of life, despite the smile that he wore. It was all one sick, twisted game of cat and mouse- and he just won the prize. “You’ll be stayin’ here, with me. Ain’t nobody comin’ for you- and nobody’s gonna find you. This little game of yours is over.”

Dry grass surrounded Ana, scratching at her exposed arms as she pressed herself into a secluded corner. She grit her teeth, forcing herself to take quiet, shallow breaths despite the pain from her wounds. Blood had streaked across her skin, it stained her clothes. Bruises bloomed across her hands, her wrist, her arms. Her muscles ached. Her head throbbed. She was hurt, exhausted, and yet by some sheer miracle adrenaline still flooded her veins. It dulled everything just enough to keep her standing. Kept the pain and the fear and the disgust at bay. Come on, Ana, you can do this. A self-assuring promise. She could do this. She had to do this. The escape was just within reach. She'd managed to evade the rest of them, was sparred the horrible fate at the end of a chainsaw, sparred the same terrible end the rest of her friends had succumbed to. She swallowed back bile at the thought of them, lifeless and mutilated, covered in lacerations if not completely dismembered altogether. Focus, Ana.

All she needed to do was make it past the gate, down the path winding up the house. She could make it to the road, someone would have to see her. Someone would have to hear her, someone, God, please. All she needed to do was make it past him, the only one that seemed know just where Ana had run off to. She figured it was the blood, droplets that alerted him to her tracks. Footsteps in the dry earth. He was all that stood between her and her escape, but by the sheer grace of God or whoever was listening to her, it seemed he lost her scent along the way. He knew she was close though, this was certain, but she figured he wouldn't spend too long searching one spot. He couldn't afford the time, what if she already made it out? What if she doubled back, some attempt to lose him? There were hundreds of different reasons he couldn't just stand around and hope he'd stumble across her by chance -

He spoke. And her entire body stilled, her breath halted. He knew she was around, hiding somewhere nearby like a rat on the farm, unaware of the traps being laid around it, baiting her out. He spoke of her friends, slaughtered by him and his family. She remembered them being tossed back down into that pit, thrown away as if they were garbage. Her jaw tensed, her fingers tightened around a sharped piece of bone - no, no, Ana. Don't fall for it. Don't-

He spoke of Maria, a girl he liked. Liked the way she ran, hunted down like an animal. How she died begging, crying out for help that never came. For a sister that never came.

Ana's feet moved before she could even bother to stop herself, any thoughts of remaining hidden shoved out of her mind and replaced with the all-consuming desire to kill the monster that taunted her. That hurt her friend. That killed her sister. Anger and hate twisted inside her, burned in her stomach and chest and under her skin. She charged from her hiding spot with a strangled shout caught between her teeth. He spun to face her. He wasn't quick enough. Not this time. Her arms swing down and the bone collides with his chest, punctures through flesh. She tears it out, as if preparing to strike again, rage and grief fueled attacks with no goal other than to leave him just and bloodied as her.

" Don't talk about my sister! Just- just die! "

@markedprey ;

[markedprey]

characters cleaning blood off their partner's face is just PEAK romance actually. bonus points if it's someone else's blood

[markedprey]

             @bloodybcrbie asked: " hold still. let me take care of you."                           inbox prompts : always accepting.

             It was instinct, that knee jerk reaction when it came to being hurt. That desire to recoil, to flinch away from any touch- always assuming the worst. To think he had been this way for so many years, tending to his own wounds, he’d forgotten what it was like to be loved at all. Then here she came, seemingly out of the blue one day, so unsuspecting, up until the body she tried to hide gave her away. Now to think this sick twisted game they played was something they didn’t have to do alone. Whoever she wanted, wherever she wanted, he would see to it that her little playthings were rightfully disposed of. When the men would get too out of hand at the bar, it was always he who would step in. When a victim would try to run, rest assured he was there to keep them in their place. 

             Yet all it took was a single slip up, a makeshift weapon or a swinging fist, and it would be enough for him to take it into his own hands. Usually it was the men, too drunk to have logic or reason, nor take no for an answer when she wouldn’t put up with their advances. Fights that he’d spill into the street, a back alley, riled up by flying fists and his hands around someone's throat. Every once in a while they’d get a hit in, a particularly rough right hook coming in contact with his face, a loud crack resonating through the empty back alleys as he’d take it upon himself to brandish a knife and finish the pathetic drunk off. The body would be disposed of later, but all that mattered was getting her home safe that night.

             It’s how he ended up at her place, the corpse tucked away in the back of his truck for now. His shirt lingered with specks of blood, that which fell from his nose, past his lips, having dripped down his chin, a bloody nose and a split lip from where contact was made. Thankfully, it was the worst of it, and truth be told he’d forgotten about it for the most part. Alcohol and adrenaline still buzzed in his veins, and it wasn’t until she tried to help did he flinch as a well manicured nail reached up to touch the tender spot on his bottom lip. 

             “Damn-”

             He hadn’t realized just how bad it hurt, not until she was keen on helping him out. Attempting to see the damage done, when he’d been so accustomed to dealing with it on his own. Truthfully it was the last thing on his mind, her being the first priority. Taken off guard by her tenderness, his brow knit tightly with the internal struggle of trying to push away a loving hand, knowing there was no maliciousness, that she was genuine about the concern she held for him. Why, he would simply exhale, slowly through his nose as she’d try and examine him like a child that fell and bumped their head. He’d never had a lover so keen on helping, her full lips set to a focused purse as she turned to grab cloth from the sink to help. How he could imagine her as a housewife, that tender love and care, with the way she’d try and clean away the blood. He couldn’t help but smile, feeling the wound tear at the gesture, but hardly cared as she’d press the cloth harder to his bleeding skin, half muffling him as he tried to talk out the other side of his mouth.

             “What would I do without you sweetheart…” Hands moved to her waist, playing sliding around to her lower back to pull her in close, half tempted to kiss her with a copper mouth, teeth stained with his own blood as he chuckled. “ Y’know, one of these days I’ll get you a ring, mark my words…”

[markedprey]

“Just the tip” I say before burying my knife in you