#WAIT I MIGHT HAVE SOME STILL. MAYBE. I THINK I FOUND A LITTLE BOX WHEN I WAS CLEANING. WILL UPDATE U ON THIS MATTER IN LIKE A WEEK | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

psychedelic-ink · 9 months

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.

DAY SIX OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: slasher au (still takes place in the tlou'verse) + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, soft dark fic, horror, murder mystery

summary: bodies have been dropping left and right in the most brutal ways in jackson. as the relentless wave of deaths continues, your mind becomes increasingly restless. however, you find a sense of comfort and solace in the presence of joel. who might be hiding secrets of his own.

word count: 10k (i don't know what happened)

warnings: dubcon at the end, knife kink, descriptive canon typical violence, blood & mild gore, grief and death, an unpleasant guy hitting on you, murder, face-sitting, throat-fucking, mutual oral sex (69), dirty talk, possessive!joel, exhibitionism (tommy watches very briefly, he also kisses you in a platonic way), sex in the woods, piv, Joel is actually quite nice if you exclude the murders, mild breeding kink, size kink, little bit of blood kink

a/n: the owl mask joel wears in this to hide who he is is inspired by @softlyspector's post about the tawny owl mug joel uses in tlou part 2 which I still get sad if I think about it for too long 😭

Bodies have been dropping dead all around you long before the outbreak.

Maybe not in the everyone-you-know-is-getting-infected-and-killing-people type of way, but more so in a death-never-felt-like-a-stranger-to-you sort of way. Yet, you still don’t know how to deal with death. Your grief is as violent as a butterfly flapping its wings; the strength of it non-existent but you never know where, or when, it’ll cause a storm.

First, it was your grade school teacher. You didn’t have a particularly strong bond with her but you did like her. You still remember how your friend's voice quaked as she gave you the news on a landline. You couldn’t believe it and had to accuse her of making a joke, even though you knew she would never joke about something like this. Then your dad took the phone from you and you just assumed your friend's mom did the same. The next week, when you went back to school and the funeral was now behind all the children in the classroom, the custodian cut the last tablecloth your teacher had used for her desk and gave a piece to each and every one of you. It was a vibrant orange cloth with daisies scattered around – ugly, but you still cherished it.

Then it was your pets, grandparents – there was also the time when your pet-crazed neighbor adopted another smaller dog while she still had two untrained, over-energized dogs, and the two twins ripped the other dog apart. You had seen the carnage. By some miracle, that small, fluffy dog named Sugar was still breathing, alive. You had held a blood bag over the dog's head, hoping that the small animal wouldn't die.

She didn’t die that day, but it sure as hell left a scar on you.

As a kid, you never seemed to quite grasp the ways of grieving. You didn’t get angry. You didn’t cry. You just. . thought about it. However, the emotions came differently when you became an adult. Now when someone close to you died, you felt it more violently, oddly enough you still fought against the tears and only cried when you were alone.

On Outbreak Day, you lost everything.

Your family, your friends—your life, now it was all about survival, but survival towards what, you didn’t know. You killed for it, fought for it. Yet every move you made felt automatic like you were wired to at least try and survive — to wait it out and not be left behind when civilization rebuilt itself once more.

You made some friends along the way and lost some friends too. You locked their faces and their memories in your heart, only unlocking the box when you were truly and utterly alone.

Then you found Jackson.

And you met Joel and Tommy Miller.

Your official title is scavenger but you much prefer to label yourself as an explorer instead.

You’ve adapted to your quite well life at Jackson. You go beyond the borders, sometimes alone and sometimes with other fellow explorers, and gather supplies or try to pinpoint other locations threats might be lurking in. You’re about to go on another trip, this one shorter than your regular one to two-week expeditions, but before heading out you decide to stop by the only bakery in Jackson named The Last Crumb—previously named The Cordyceps Crumb but Maria decided it was in bad taste. You, on the other hand, had found it funny and topical.

As you patiently wait in line, your camping bag waiting for you outside the bakery, someone bumps into you from behind, then never moves back.

You turn with a raised eyebrow, not enjoying the close proximity, “Excuse you,” you snap. The man looks at you with a hint of mischief in his eyes, you roll your eyes when you recognize the face. “Move back a beat Tucker, I’m not in the mood this morning.”

“Someone didn’t get her beauty sleep,” he grins but moves away regardless. “Want me to come with you this time? Sweet thing like you alone out there? It’s ain’t right.”

“You can barely aim. Why would I want someone that’s most likely to get me killed around me?”

“I think you’ll find my company to be plenty entertaining.”

You’re about to gag when the bell of the bakery chimes, the sharp sound echoing through the wooden walls. Your face must've shown immense signs of relief because Tucker turns around to see who you're looking at. His instant frown makes you want to laugh and chuck him between the two men you’d describe as a wolf den.

“Well, if it ain’t the Miller brothers,” Tucker tuts, attempting to give one of them a friendly pat on the shoulder. He stops midway when Joel’s gaze flits between you and him, his glare hard enough to cut diamonds.

So he ends up slapping Tommy’s shoulder instead, which isn’t the best thing since you know the younger Miller hates Tucker. But among the brothers, he’s probably the one with less probability of getting your hand bitten off.

“Mornin’ Tucker,” Tommy answers, forcing a smile.

Joel is less friendly, his words directed at you, “Is this dumbass botherin’ you again?”

“I wouldn't exactly call a greeting among friends “botherin’,” Tucker says. “We’re just catchin’ up, no need to get your panties in a bunch Miller.”

“God, you’re one word away from ruining my morning,” you hiss, glaring at the unpleasant man. “And we’re not friends.”

His brows furrow, eyes going hard with an ugly snarl accompanying them, you feel braver when Tommy and Joel are around so you hold his gaze, not flinching away.

Tommy is the one to ease the tension. He lays a hand on Tucker’s shoulder and squeezes, drawing the man’s attention away from you. “I’ll get you what you want a’right Tucker? It’s on me. Just go wait outside.”

“But—”

“Outside, Tuck,” Tommy repeats and you shudder at his tone.

Tucker’s shoulders drop, defeated, “Fine, get me a raisin bagel.”

He doesn’t wait for Tommy’s response and heads out the bakery. You finally release the breath you’ve been holding, your muscles relaxing along with the exhaled breath. Joel is by your side in the blink of an eye, his broad shoulder brushing yours providing comfort.

“You sure you’re a’right?” he asks, gently curling fingers under your chin. “The prick didn’t do anythin’?”

“Nah, nothing. He’s all bark but no bite. He asked if he wanted to join me today as if that buffoon wouldn’t get me killed.” you shrug, men being assholes was nothing new to you. You’re just glad that in Jackson it seems that there are more good apples than rotten ones. “Too bad even paradise comes with drawbacks.”

Joel snorts as Tommy cuts in, “Maria would be thrilled if she heard you calling it paradise.”

“What are you smiling at? You think you can find anywhere better?” You playfully nudge Joel with your elbow. “You know there’s nothing but hell out there.”

“I do, I just think callin’ here a paradise is a bit of a stretch is all.”

The line moves and the three of you are finally at the counter, “You’re just a grump,” you tease Joel before turning your gaze to Poppy, the barista who knows everything about everyone. “Hey there, Poppy, the usual please.”

“And a damn raisin bagel,” Tommy adds.

“Well, isn’t it my favorite trio,” Poppy grins. “I’ll get all that ready for you in a second,” she locks her blue eyes on you and leans closer, you mimic her by instinct. “By the way have you heard of Ian? He wound up dead right outside the chopping block, an axe right through his chest.”

You frown, “Good morning to you too, Poppy. Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll confess I didn’t love the guy but isn’t it worrying that there’s a killer among us?” she murmurs while stuffing the goodies in paper bags. “Be careful out there.”

“Well, if the culprit is here I think I might be safer out there,” you say and turn to Tommy. “Does Maria know?”

“Of course, she does,” when you part your lips to say more, he lifts a finger and shoots you a crooked smile. “It’s confidential.”

“Aw man, can’t you just tell us who she thinks it is?” Poppy asks, Tommy shakes his head and she lets out a dramatic sigh, “I miss my murder mystery books.”

“I’ll try to find you something while I’m out,” you say, ignoring the way your heart began to race. Jackson is still a small town, it’s jarring to think someone might be out there, looking for their next target. “Though I think we could all do with a little less murder.”

You hadn’t expected your voice to crack but your tone had betrayed you. Poppy extends you the bag of goods and a latte, as you reach out you feel Joel’s hand on your waist. His lips touch your ear. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m sure whoever it is is only goin’ after those who deserve it.”

You lock your eyes with him, blinking heavily at the weight of his words. His voice had dropped, nothing but gravel as he whispered the words into your ear. A cold sensation slithers down your spine, chilling you to your core and making your throat tighten.

His hand never leaves your waist as the three of you head out, and after a while, that chill slowly dissolves into a pleasurable warmth.

You find solace in the woods. You love Jackson, but being in the woods away from everyone and everything makes you feel comforted. The first time you went scavenging, there was a slight fear in your movements; no matter how good your aim was, any kind of infected was difficult to kill.

But now you walk with ease. There isn’t an ounce of worry in your bones. The trees rustle happily and the smell of flowers and pine fills your nostrils. You can feel your lungs rejuvenating with every breath. Trickles of orange sunlight pour from the gaps of the trees. The sun sets, meaning you need to set up camp soon.

While unpacking, you think of this morning. How Joel and Tommy stepped in when Tucker started bothering you. Honestly, you didn’t need their protection; Tucker is just one of those men who think they might have a shot if they bother you enough times. Still, it was nice to be claimed in a way, to be accepted into a family and cared for.

Your breath hitches slightly. Tommy, you see as a close friend, a brother perhaps, but Joel... Joel is another thing. Just thinking about him is enough to start a wildfire between your legs. You wish you were brave enough to do something about it, though. Whenever you two patrol together or stay awake late at night drinking, you always chicken out in the end. It doesn’t matter how his hands linger on your thighs or his eyes drop to your lips; you're just never convinced that the Joel Miller would be interested in you beyond a friend.

An unease starts to settle in the pit of your stomach. As the air grows colder with the approaching night, your skin prickles and you feel the phantom sensation of claws dragging down your back. You set the tent as quickly as you can, your eyes darting around the depths of the forest. Briefly, you bend over to adjust the ropes.

A breath warm and damp ghosts the back of your neck and you jump, gun in hand as you turn around only to find—

Nothing.

And no one.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, a drop of sweat trickling down your forehead. You've never had a trigger finger, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want to just shoot every shadow you see.

“Dammit Poppy,” you mutter, annoyed that she gave you the brutal knowledge of Ian’s death right before you were heading out. Guilt stings at your heart. Ian was an asshole for sure, and you don’t exactly feel bad that he’s gone, but still, it was an eerie thought that someone had murdered him so violently. It had to be personal.

Some part of you wishes Joel was here, or even Tucker, just another human being to tell you you’re just seeing things.

You take a deep inhale and follow it up with a long exhale. You’re fine. There’s no one here.

You give your surroundings one last suspicious look before going back to setting the tent.

No matter how hard you try you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you amongst the shadows.

Joel hears crickets and owls. The night had always been his friend since the outbreak. He had become a violent man with an equally violent heart. He waits in the shadows, watching. Laughter and playful shouts echo from the bar, and soon the door swings open; the man he's been waiting for crawls out of the establishment, shit-faced. The drunk man shouts his farewells and staggers toward his home.

Joel follows, his mask heating up the skin that lays underneath. His fingers itch with the need to wring that asshole's neck. One by one, he had been cleaning Jackson for the better. His tendencies subdued while also doing some good. Ian was one of those people who deserved it and Joel had enjoyed the chase, the pleas, he especially enjoyed the way he tripped and cried right before he sunk the blade of the axe through Ian’s chest.

Tucker trips, making Joel want to laugh. The idiot might not even realize he’s being hunted. Joel looks around, they are far enough for the chase to begin. Tucker continues to slip and fall as he attempts to get up. Taking the opportunity, Joel walks towards him with quick steps, making sure the first thing the asshole sees is his mask.

Tucker notices him before he gets up, his hands bracing the ground, his eyes go wide, “What the fuck?”

Joel only tilts his head. He sees the trembles rolling down the other man’s body, he relishes in his fear.

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble, whoever the fuck you are so. . . scram.”

Joel’s eyes dart to his hand on the dirt, without a second thought he lifts his foot and curb stomps Tucker’s hand. Then he kicks the side of his face, an audible crunch echoing before his scream could. The man whimpers and falls back in his attempt to crawl away. He holds his jaw, blood streaming down his broken nose.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

He steps closer and watches as Tucker’s eyes bug out. He’s too drunk to properly run away or even scream. Such an easy target. He grips the other’s hair and lifts him to his feet, he can feel the strands starting to rip from his scalp one by one, Tucker’s face twisting in pain. “Your worst fuckin’ nightmare,” Joel answers eerily calm. It doesn’t matter if Tucker recognizes him. He’d be dead soon enough anyway.

“P-Please,” he begs, realizing the same thing. “I’ll do whatever you want promise. I don’t want to die.”

Joel grunts, not dignifying his pleas with an answer. Lifting his other hand, his knuckles connect to Tucker’s face with a loud crunch, body flying to the ground headfirst.

He pulls out his knife and drops down, ignoring the ache in his knees, he grabs Tucker’s arm and aligns the sharp blade against his wrist. Tucker notices, his face going pale as a ghost. “D-Don’t—”

Joel doesn’t bat an eye as blood spurts violently over his clothes and the dirt. Drops of crimson seeping into the fabric. The knife cuts through the flesh like butter, severing hand from bone. His hand clamps over Tucker’s mouth. Joel smiles as his screams bounce off of the palm of his hand.

You come back to Jackson hand empty and earlier than intended. You were too much at unease, and being so jarred wasn’t the best while scavenging for supplies alone. During your trip, you did end up scribbling something for Poppy. It wasn’t finished but you hoped she would enjoy the first draft of the first chapter. It was mostly descriptions of what you felt, a cat-and-mouse game between two people who had bumped into each other accidentally.

While heading into Jackson, you notice a crowd in the distance. You promptly get off your horse and walk with haste. You recognize Joel and Tommy easily, both brothers standing on each end of the crowd like gates keeping a herd of sheep in check. Ellie is standing right next to Joel, lifting herself on her toes to see; Joel is holding her back by gripping the cap of her hood.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

Joel turns to you, his eyebrows raising when notices it’s you and not some random person he has to ignore, “You’re back,” he says. A statement rather than a question.

“Yeah, wasn’t feeling that well,” you shrug him off. “So what happened?”

His eyes turn to steel, his jaw locking in place. Before you can ask again, he gestures for you to move up the crowd with a tilt of his head.

“Lucky,” you hear Ellie murmur as you walk ahead, gently pushing those who were looking at the sight with concern. With every step you take, the murmur of the crowd fades into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. Maria is addressing the crowd, you think, though you're not entirely sure. The scent of blood is thick in the air, disorienting you as you get closer.

Your eyes go wide, the earth slips from beneath you but your expression remains emotionless.

It’s Tucker.

You feel as if you’re standing alone. As if you’re the only one taking in the sight of absolute horror and gore. Tucker is lying in a pile of his own blood face first, his eyes are open and lifeless, his one hand is outstretched like he’s about to crawl away.

His right hand, however, is chopped off.

It’s not even a clean-cut. The edges of his flesh are jagged and crooked, his blood-caked where his hand should be. Whoever did this cut it so it would hurt, so he would suffer tremendously.

You can’t help but gasp, covering your mouth with your right hand. You begin to shake, confusion churning in your stomach as bile coats your tongue. He’s dead. Just like Ian.

When Maria’s eyes find your own, she narrows her gaze, a small warning for you to keep it together. You can’t though. How could you? Tucker was alive and kicking a couple of days ago, just being his annoying self around Jackson.

“Calm down,” you hear Joel mutter into your ear. You shiver at the brush of his lips. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Safe. You want to laugh. You don’t even know what that word means anymore.

Joel’s mouth moves over the shell of your ear, “He was a nuisance. Don’t feel bad now that he’s dead.”

“I didn’t want him to die,” you hiss back. “And knowing there’s a serial killer out there doesn’t exactly make me feel safe.”

Despite your half-angry tone, you find yourself leaning into Joel’s presence. Your shoulder presses into his broad chest, and without missing a beat he wraps his arms around your shaking frame. Relief comes in the form of warmth spreading along your chest, tingles forming at the tips of your fingers and toes. The voices of the crowd gradually come back but you only hear one of the many questions.

“What do you think the message means?”

Confusion crosses your face, brows furrowing as you try to make sense of it. Joel makes a choked-out sound that could’ve easily been taken as an amused chuckle.

Then your eyes drop to Tucker’s outstretched hand and his dying message written in blood.

O W L

A week had passed since Tucker’s death.

You've been thinking about both murders relentlessly, trying to piece together everything that you know so far. During this time, you're grateful for Poppy, who comes by almost every night to help you try to solve the case. That's been your sole focus for the past few weeks; you haven't been scavenging since you spooked yourself so badly that you returned early, only to find Tucker dead.

Some part of you thinks that the eeriness you felt that day was a sign of what was about to happen. It's also an odd coincidence that he ended up dead the same night he harassed you in the morning. However, there are no forensic investigators in Jackson, so it’s almost impossible to determine the exact time of death. That fact alone makes you anxious. It only means that whoever is killing everyone has nothing to worry about because even if they leave traces, who’s going to know?

In order to keep your nerves in check you end up writing a lot. You haven’t shown any of it to Poppy yet but you’re excited. You never thought writing a thriller would be the perfect way to escape the horrors of your actual life. At least in your stories, you have control.

You also visit Joel and vice versa.

Something had shifted the day he held you as you both gazed upon Tucker’s lifeless body. Maybe it was just you who felt bolder since death was once again right around the corner — or maybe Joel just felt more protective now, wanting to check on you as much as he could.

“You’re really writin’ a whole ass novel?” he asks, pouring you a glass of scotch. You still can’t get over the fact that it nearly tasted identical to the actual stuff. Jackson is truly a miracle; at least when bodies aren’t dropping left and write.

Ellie’s at a sleepover, which means you and Joel have the whole house to yourselves. With everything going on you’d expect your libido to diminish a bit but it’s as strong as ever, ready to go.

You smile as he places the glass in front of you, “Yeah,” you say, picking up the glass and heading toward the living room. “I couldn’t find Poppy anything to read and it helps me relax.”

“Relax, how?” he asks, taking a seat next to you. The couch dips with his weight, and heat crawls up from your chest to your neck when his knee brushes against yours.

“Well, it’s a horror thing. Horror slash mystery? I don’t know—whatever it is, it’s nice to have an outlet to escape what’s been happening lately.”

“So to escape brutal murders you write more brutal murders?”

You chuckle at the way his eyebrows raise, eyes going wide, “I don’t really focus that much on the gore. It’s more psychological, my sweet brute. Things don’t need to have blood to be scary.”

His grin is wide and instant, dark eyes lighting up with amusement, “What did you just call me?”

“I. . .” Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, suddenly realizing what you’d said.

“What cat got your tongue?” he teases. Joel leans closer, fingers dancing along the curve of your shoulder. You can feel the gravel in his voice. “You just called me yours, sweetheart. Does that jog your memory?”

“I also called you brute,” you quip back immediately, cheeks aflame. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t it?” his palm now presses fully into your shoulder, keeping you in place in case you might run. Joel tilts his head slightly, the plush of his lips only an inch away. “I like you callin’ me that,” the pink of his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. “Say it again.”

“S-Say what?”

A small chuckle parts his lips, oddly enough it almost feels like his patience is wearing thin. He comes closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “That I’m yours,” he clarifies. “Been waitin’ to hear those words come from your mouth since I met you.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper against his lips, eyelids fluttering but not quite closing. With the confession, you feel the brush of Joel’s lips on yours. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth. You part for him with a moan, and taking the opportunity, he slides inside, tasting every inch of you.

His lips taste and feel like the forests you wander off to; it soothes you, calms your nerves, and has the taste of home. They’re chapped from the sun, yet soft. You can’t have enough of him, if he’d offered, you’d gladly kiss him forever.

Joel parts with a shaky breath, his chest heaving, “And you’re mine,” he groans, his eyes dark with arousal. It’s an involuntary action but your eyes drop to the front of his pants where you see the thick outline of his cock.

Your mouth goes dry, yet you manage to speak anyway, “Are words all you’ve been waiting for?” It’s bold, you’re highly aware, but you can’t help it when he’s this close. His scent suffocating, pulling you to him like a moth to a flame.

He stares at you silently. His thumb touches your bottom lip, slightly tugging it down. He’s not smiling anymore, only observing.

“No,” Joel answers slowly. He leans towards your ears, the thick hairs above his lips tickling your skin. “I’ve also been waitin’ to feel that velvet tongue on my cock, honey. And to feel how tight your throat gets when you take every inch of me.”

Joel blows a puff of air, it caresses your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He brings your hand to the front of his pants, dragging your palm up and down his length. You shudder. The heat of it seeps into your palm despite the thick fabric of his jeans, you lick your lips absentmindedly. “This is all for you sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Joel. . .” your eyes roll back when he kisses your neck, open-mouthed kisses laid upon your skin like a gift. Your nipples tighten and if you look down right now, you know you’ll see them peeking through your shirt.

He reads your thoughts, eyes moving down before meeting your gaze again. “Didn’t know you walked around without a bra, sunshine.”

“I only go braless when I’m comfortable,” you answer. Joel cups your breasts roughly, kneading the flesh, he simultaneously sucks on your neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin. “Oh god,” the fabric of your panties grows damp and you clench your thighs together.

“Not god,” he says sharply, sinking his teeth into you. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you moan and arch your back, filling more of yourself into his palm. You squeeze his cock, relishing in the way he makes a strangled sound. “I want to suck you off, Joel.”

“Be my guest.”

You push him until he’s lying on the couch. You’re about to unbutton his jeans but he stops you.

“Turn around,” he says.

“What?”

His wide grin nearly stops your heart, “Want to taste that sweet pussy, sunshine. Strip down and take a seat.”

“On—On your face?”

“Where else?”

You’re too embarrassed to speak, tongue suddenly too big in your mouth. Quickly, and a bit clumsily, you strip down and turn before straddling his chest. You don’t need to touch yourself to know that you’re soaked.

You swallow, “I’ve never done this before.”

His hands come up to cradle your hips, urging you to move back towards his face. You feel the blunt sting of his nails.

“That’s alright,” he mutters. “I won’t let you fall if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m more worried about how I’m gonna move, or accidentally suffocating you.”

“What a noble way it would be to go.”

“Joel!” you laugh, playfully smacking his thigh. He answers by giving your hips another squeeze, you surrender and move back until you’re hovering over his face. Your hand planted firmly over his hip bones, you lower yourself. You shudder as his tongue licks a stripe between your folds. He moans into your cunt, pulling you flush against his face.

Meanwhile, you finally unzip his pants and pull his cock out, the heft of it bumping against your nose and lips. You drip at the smell of him and swear he smiles as he sucks on your aching clit, short-circuiting your brain with arousal. His cock throbs in your palm, a drop of precome glistening at the tip. Your mouth watering, you lean forward and clean him off. Another groan echoes within his chest and he thrusts forward, the tip of his cock kissing your lips.

Eyes fluttering closed, you suck on the bulbous head and force yourself to go down until he hits the back of your throat. You wrap a hand around the base, stroking where you can’t fit, and hallow your cheeks.

“Come on, sunshine. You can take me,” he rasps. “You’re mine, aren’t you? That mouth is meant to take me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Joel pushes his tongue inside, your walls clenching around the wet muscle—you let out a loud gasp and grind down, then you feel the sting of his palm against your ass, pain blossoming from where he smacked.

Your throat rattles with a moan and Joel takes the opportunity to drive forward, your eyes go wide as you feel the length of him sliding down your throat, cutting the air from your lungs.

“Oh, fuck—” he moans unabashedly, the sounds sending a pleasurable tingle down your spine despite the strain on your throat. “That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Fuck, fuck—”

Your throat tightens around him, your lungs starting to burn. His hand caresses both sides of your ass, the abrupt pain of the smack from before subduing, “Relax,” he says, swirling his tongue around your clit. “Breathe through your nose. Just a bit more. . .”

Your nails bite into his thighs as you attempt to follow instructions. You relax your throat and slowly begin to breathe from your nose. It’s still difficult, but your lungs rejoice in the minimal amount of air that comes through. You make a mess of him. Saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth and down his length.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Gonna fuck that pretty throat now and make this pussy come, understood?”

Eyes tearing up, you nod. From the way your stomach convulses, you know that you’re close, your skin tight over your trembling muscles. The nod is all that Joel needs from you. Holding you in place, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself completely down your throat while flicking his tongue against your clit. You scream around him, eyes rolling back as he continues to devour you and take you apart at the same time. He licks you with fat strokes of his tongue, a hint of teeth scraping your folds here and there as he fucks your throat with shallow thrusts.

You’re limp against his broad body, allowing him to use you as he pleases while all you can do is hang on for the ride. Pleasure licks the base of your spine, a searing heat caressing your skin while Joel continues to build you up only for you to fall spectacularly. Your lips start to ache, your throat squeezing around him whenever he snaps his hips forward—

And all hell finally breaks loose.

You come undone with a devastating cry only for it to be muffled by his cock going down your throat. You gush around his tongue, soaking his facial hair and mouth, Joel is underrated, licking and sucking until you’re shaking above him, every bit of tension draining from your body.

Joel comes shortly after, his hand slides from your waist and he manages to reach out in order to hold your head down. You don’t have a choice but to swallow as he spills down your throat, thick spurts of come going down while he shudders and pushes even deeper.

There’s so much of it, cock twitching and throbbing in your mouth until your mouth sucks him dry. You’re lightheaded from the lack of air; you find that it adds to the pleasure that’s buzzing in your veins, your cunt still pulsing with the heft of him still buried in your lips.

He pulls out with a satisfied groan and you manage to scoot down so you’re straddling his chest instead of head. Joel caresses your back, the gentle repeated motion sending tingles down your spine.

“That’s was fuckin’ amazin’,” he says, voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer sounding meek. “I think I need some water though.��

You get off, legs still shaking, but he grabs your hand, halting your movement. “Let me get it for you,” he says, sitting up.

“I’m already up,” you smile as his brows furrow with worry, the expression warming your heart. You quickly bend down to kiss him and he’s quick to lick himself into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. “I’ll be right back.”

You have no idea how you’re standing while feeling like jello but you manage to get yourself all the way to the fridge. You smile at the coolness touching your warmed skin when you open the door. Scanning the interior, you thoughtlessly rub at your throat in an attempt to soothe the ache a little. You grab the pitcher of cold water and notice a bit of apple pie left over.

“Hey, Joel?” you call out. He hums in acknowledgment. “Can I have a slice of pie?”

His humored chuckle follows through, “You can eat the whole damn thing after what you’ve done,” you smile and take the desert out. “Can you bring me a slice too?” he adds.

You smile and place the pie on the counter. The leftover is already two slices give or take so you decide to just take two forks with you instead of dirting a plate. Looking through the drawers, you try to remember which one is the cutlery drawer.

On your second try you find something else.

Something that makes your eyes go wide and heart throb painfully.

Your hands shaking, you pick up the owl mask from the drawer. The surface is smooth, and the color of it a light shade of brown just like a tawny owl. All the pleasant tingles fade away, the buzz of pleasure in your veins replaced by fear and adrenaline.

Heading back to the living room, you show the mask to Joel.

“What’s this?” you ask, your voice betraying your sudden outburst of fear.

Joel looks up, eyes flitting between you and the owl mask. He raises a brow, his confusion evident across his face. “It’s a mask, sweetheart.”

“No no, I know it’s a mask,” you answer, breathless. “But why do you have it?”

“It’s Ellie’s,” he stands up, his pants still unbuttoned but pulled up. You fight the urge to step away, fight the urge to flinch when he touches your cheek. “They were makin’ Halloween masks last year in school. I didn’t even realize we still had it.”

“Really?” you ask and he nods.

“Really,” Joel claims your lips in a chaste kiss, thumb stroking lines up and down your cheek. His hand slithers down your arm to your wrist and when he squeezes, you drop the mask. “Why?” he breathes into you. “Is this about the damn thing Tucker wrote down?”

You remain silent and he pulls away, dark eyes boring into yours.

“You need to relax, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Why don’t you just allow yourself to enjoy this? You deserve to be happy.”

Your eyes widen with surprise, his words crashing into you, “I. . . Do I do that? Really?”

“It’s normal, darlin’,” he answers. “I’m pretty sure we all have survivor’s guilt.”

You let out a shaky exhale. He’s right. You were just feeling guilty of being alive when so many had died. Joel smiles back and traces the curve of yours with his fingers. “There’s that smile that I adore,” he guides you towards the kitchen. “Now let’s go eat some pie.”

No matter what though, you can’t help but turn back to look at the owl mask one last time as it lays lifelessly on the floor.

“So, tell me about this book you’re writin’?”

You let out a low laugh, “I already told you about it. What more do you wanna know?”

You stare at Joel’s back as he takes the lead, he’d decided to join you in your explorations ever since you told him how nervous you had gotten the last time. You had appreciated the gesture but still felt a tad anxious around him ever since you found that damn owl mask—

A branch snaps into two under your steps and he turns, extending his hand to you. With a smile you allow him to lace his fingers within yours, your stomach jumping a little as he tugs you close so the two of you are walking side by side instead.

“If memory serves me right we got distracted when you told me about it,” he says with that southern drawl of his. “So tell me again what it’s about.”

“Okay okay,” you smile, squeezing his hand twice. “It’s all a big mess now but the premise is that there’s this guy obsessed with this woman and he stalks her and no matter what she does, she always feels like there’s someone watching.”

Joel looks ahead, “Sounds familiar. Isn’t that how you felt last time you were out here?”

“Yeah, and it’s when I started writing it.”

“So do these two people know each other?” his tone drops, his fingers suddenly feeling like barbed wire within your hand. You swallow. “I mean in their regular lives, does the woman know that he’s the one stalkin’ her?”

You roll your shoulders, a weak attempt to shrug off the eeriness that you feel.

“Exactly. I think that just makes the whole thing creepier. He’s just a normal guy, even a friend, but he’s also the one among the shadows.”

“Interestin’,” he murmurs. “You think that’s happenin’ to you?”

“I don’t think there’s someone stalking me, if that’s what you’re asking,” you utter every word hastily, your pulse quickening under your skin.

His lips curl in a half smile, “That’s good,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to be laying awake thinking about what might lingerin’ on the other side of the window.”

“I think I’m more likely to stay awake thinking about infected,” you say with a soft laugh. “But yeah, it’s all fiction. That day I probably just got scared because of what Poppy said about Ian.”

“Probably,” Joel trails off, his steps slowing. “How do you think it’s gonna end?”

“W-What?”

He stops and so does your heart. At least you think it does.

Joel faces you fully, his presence towering, he grips your shoulders and pushes you back until the air is knocked from your lungs by a tree right behind you. Your eyes go wide. He leans in, breath tickling your lips.

“How do you think your book is gonna end, sweetheart?” he asks again, eyes gleaming with something dark. “Is the guy gonna get the girl?”

“I—I don’t know.”

All you can think about is the owl mask and how it would perfectly fit his face. He cocks his head and taking a step closer, he slips a leg between your thighs. Slick gathers at your underwear—he feels the fabric dampening on his leg and grins.

“Fear turns you on doesn’t it?” he purrs. “Wicked thing.”

Relief drowns your senses. So that’s why he got all weird suddenly, he’s just teasing you. With a laugh, your head falls back against the tree trunk, “Jesus Joel, you scared the shit out of me.”

“It ain’t my fault,” he says, nipping at your chin. “You’re easy to scare.”

“Well, two brutal unsolvable murders will do that to a girl.”

Joel lets go and pulls away, smiling as he shakes his head, “What’s it gonna take for you to believe I had nothin’ to do with those? Even in death, Tucker causes nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble for me.”

“You don’t need to do anything, I’m sorry,” you pull him back, relishing in the way his strong arms wrap around your frame. “I’ll stop being such a chicken, promise. I’m still a bit jittery that’s all.”

“I forgive you,” he says against your lips, kissing you quickly before pulling you away from the thick trunk of the tree. “Now let’s find a place to settle down for the night.”

When you two return to Jackson three days later, the first thing you notice is the crowd. Your stomach drops at the familiar sight and instinctively you reach out to Joel, lacing your fingers together. He squeezes your hand two times.

The last thing you should be feeling is relief that now it’s not possible for Joel to be the one killing all those people but alas, that’s all you feel. Relief and love.

The trade fair sprawls before you. Stalls with makeshift awnings, tattered banners, and worn tarps create a patchwork quilt of colors, beneath which a diverse array of goods is proudly displayed. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, the tang of cured leather, and the earthy aroma of herbs. Laughter, chatter, and the occasional clinking of metal form a lively symphony, a chorus of life that drowns out the ever-present background hum of death and infection.

You’ve always enjoyed the time of the trade fair. People move like busy ants, weaving between the stalls. Children, their cheeks dusted with earth, dart through the crowd, their carefree laughter that should be comforting doing the opposite. Since Tina’s death— she was one of the council members— you had been sleeping at Joel’s. Neither he nor Ellie seemed to mind you staying there.

The purpose of the fair is to exchange goods – to exchange, to connect, to share stories of survival.

Your eyes scan the crowd for Joel's familiar silhouette. He and Ellie had headed out before you since you wanted a change of clothes. Just as your gaze begins to falter, a voice reaches your ears. "Hey!" It's Poppy, she waves you over.

You navigate your way through the bustling stalls until you stand before Poppy. She's leaning against a rough-hewn post, a glint of excitement in her eyes.

“Hey, Poppy,” you greet her with a smile. “I’m looking for Joel, or Ellie, have you seen either of them?”

“Well, Ellie is with Dina, hanging out,” She points to the forest that skirts the settlement. "I saw him heading that way not too long ago."

“Alright, thanks. I’ll see you later then,�� Waving her off, you head after Joel.

The trees are a bit more scarce here, there’s more room between them. The forest opens up, revealing a sprawling expanse that stretches as far as the eye can see. It's a stark contrast to the dense woods you often travel to, where the trees stand like guardians, their branches interlocking in a tapestry of shadow and light. Here, the gaps between the trees create pockets of sunlight that dapple the forest floor.

However, the expanses between trees can be deceiving, and without the markers and familiarity of the well-trodden paths closer to home, it's easy to lose your way.

For some reason instead of calling out for Joel, you decide to wander aimlessly. You’re not sure why. You don’t come to this side of Jackson often enough to feel comfortable with your surroundings and shouting his name would definitely be easier than walking without aim.

Soon enough you hear faint murmuring beckoning you deeper into the forest.

Survival instincts kicking in, you slow down your steps, making sure to step onto clear dirt instead of gravel or fallen branches. Hiding behind a rather large tree trunk, you stare ahead. In the distance, you see two men: one with his back against the tree, while the other holds him by the neck, the sharp blade of his knife catching the sunlight and reflecting it directly into your eyes.

You hold your breath and your eyes go wide. You hear the thrum of your heart. It’s the killer. It has to be.

You can’t quite hear them but you can decipher the tone of begging for one's life. The man holding the knife tilts his head slightly, your mouth waters at the prospect of finally seeing the murderer's face—

It’s the mask.

The same mask you found in Joel’s home in the shape of an owl. Your stomach churns violently, bile raising to your throat as you watch on. You rub at your eyes, take deep breaths—anything you can think of that would erase the image before you.

Goosebumps raising across your skin, you shake your head. It can’t be Joel. He was with you the day Tina died and no matter how competent he was not even he could be at two places at once.

A muffled scream echoes within the forest and your eyes snap to the two men, the owl had driven his knife into the flesh and bone. He pulls it out, and the body falls. You recognize who it is; Jacob. You heard his name a couple of days ago from Ellie, he was bothering both her and Dina because they were hanging out.

He’s still alive when the killer stomps his head in, blood splattering across the leys.

You’re frozen in place. Your throat dry and tongue motionless. The killer kicks Jacob one last time for good measure and finally stops. You observe the way his shoulders drop as if a great weight had been lifted off of them, then he looks up into the sky, the golden sun highlighting his mask.

Very slowly, he lifts his hand and takes it off.

Every feeling comes rushing back, too fast and too soon. Your tongue is alive again and so is your body, the world is suddenly vibrant with life and horror. The sun continues to caress the countenance of the unmasked killer’s face, his sunkissed skin the perfect canvas to soak up the light.

Joel.

You take a step back, every thought of precaution dropping from your mind. The forest starts to spin. It spins and spins and spins until the ground slips from beneath your feet. You catch yourself at the very last second.

When you look up you see his gaze staring directly into yours.

“Fuck,” you hiss out, quickly staggering up. The last thing you see before you start running is his extended hand as he tries to reach out for you.

“Wait!”

You don’t. You do the exact opposite of that. You run. You run for your life and those in Jackson at the fair.

You run with memories loud in your mind. How Joel had listened to you, comforted you, fucked you—

Tears sting your eyes. Every part of this feels like a nightmare that you hope to wake up from anytime soon. But as the wind hits your skin, you know that every part of this is very much real. Your chest burns from how fast you’re going, your legs starting to falter underneath you.

Before you can react, an unexpected force slams into you. The impact sends shockwaves through your body as you collide with something—or is it someone?—their presence as jarring as the jolt itself. Your momentum falters, and for a fleeting moment, time seems to slow as you stumble, desperately trying to regain your balance.

Two arms grab at you and without even seeing who it is, you start to push the person away, fighting against it like a wild animal.

“Let go of me! Let go of me!”

“Hey hey hey,” you hear a familiar voice repeat. “It’s me, you’re okay,” you’re shaking all around, only when you feel his hands cradle your cheeks do you open your eyes. He smiles when he sees your eyes flicker in recognition.

“Tommy?” you whisper. He nods and without a thought you jump him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging him close. His arms coil around you in response, promising to not let go. “Oh, thank fuck it’s you.”

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I—I am okay but—Joel—It’s Joel, Tommy he’s been the one behind all those murders. We need to warn everyone, we need to tell Maria!”

You grab his arm and tug him along toward what you assume is the right way out of the forest. He remains still. Turning around, you shoot him a confused glance. 'Tommy, we need to tell people.'

“Can’t let you do that sugar, sorry.”

“Why. . . Why not?” you let go and slowly step back, heart pounding. “Is it because he’s your brother?”

You wish that was his excuse. Some moral obligation towards Joel because he’s his brother, that you can relate to. Your heart still pounds for Joel and in your brain, you’re still desperately seeking an explanation.

But Tommy allows the silence to linger, your fear and worry quickly turning into anger.

“Fine, I’ll tell them. It’s wrong.”

It only takes a blink of an eye; you feel Tommy’s iron grip around your wrist, yanking you back into his chest. He holds you. Oddly tender for someone who had made your arm nearly fall out of its socket. You thrash within his arms, pulling and hitting his chest.

“We’re doing good,” he grunts. “You gotta see that.”

You refuse to listen, your ear narrowing on the sound of your own blood rush instead of his words. By some miracle, you manage to slip your arm out and punch him square in the chin. It was a weak punch but strong enough to startle Tommy.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, calm the fuck down—” he tucks your arm back against your body and turns you around so your back is flush against his chest. You’re breathing raggedly, chest rising with every deep gulp of air. His lips touch your ear, his tone menacing, “I really wish you would’ve not done that.”

“Why?” you gasp. “You’re gonna kill me too?”

Silence follows, and with every passing moment sweat beads on your forehead, “It was you wasn’t it?” you continue. “You killed Tina. Joel only came along with me to calm my suspicions.”

Before Tommy can confirm your suspicions, you notice movement within the forest and your eyes are immediately drawn to the shadow coming forth.

“Smart girl,” Joel remarks with a half smile as he emerges from between the trees. There’s a splatter of red over his shirt but the knife seems to be tucked away. For now. “But you’re only half right, darlin’. I came along because I like spendin’ time with you.”

“Is that supposed to make me ignore the fact that Jacob’s body isn’t even cold yet?”

Joel curls two fingers under your chin, lifting your gaze while Tommy continues to hold you back. You shudder against him, a soft sound parts the younger Miller’s lips.

“He was a piece of shit,” Joel grunts. “He was botherin’ Ellie, callin’ her names, he deserved what he was gettin’.”

“So what, you guys are just playing hero? Killing everyone who’s causing trouble in town? There’s a system for that.”

“Honey,” he tuts, an involuntary warmth spreading within your abdomen. “The system didn’t work before the outbreak, it ain’t gonna work now either.”

“We protect our own,” Tommy says from behind you, breath fanning your neck. “We take care of it before it escalates. You have to understand that.”

“And why the hell would I understand?” you hiss, looking directly into Joel’s eyes while addressing Tommy.

Joel smiles, his lips curling slowly, “Because you’re one of us. And you like it when we protect.”

Your lips part with an exhale. He’s right, not that you still agree with them killing people, but you had enjoyed that primal protection coming from the Millers. It made you feel powerful, loved, cared for. All the things you craved deeply.

You ignore Joel and his words entirely, averting your eyes with embarrassment and shame.

“I just don’t understand why you did it, Tommy” you murmur. Tommy tenses behind you, his arms tightening around your frame, drawing the remaining oxygen from your lungs. “I understand the other’s to an extent but Tina didn’t do anything wrong.”

Joel looks towards Tommy, it was his kill after all and the older Miller had nothing to say about it.

“She was wrecking what Maria is tryin’ so hard to build,” he answers. “She’s pregnant, stress ain’t good for her or the baby.”

“Does. . . Does Maria—”

Tommy cuts you off, “No.”

Joel leans closer, mouth an inch away from yours as he parts his lips. “I killed for you,” You hate the way your body reacts to him, wanting to close the distance between you two despite how unsettled you feel. “Ian was a piece of shit, so was Tucker and Jacob. They don’t deserve your empathy, honey. And you can’t deny that you’re glad they’re gone.”

His hair is a delightful mess. Soft locks going in every direction. All you want to do is thread your fingers within and forget about all of this. Joel’s gaze is observant, dark eyes darting all over your face. You don’t know what he sees but whatever it is, he nods to Tommy for him to let you go and he does. Legs lifeless and shaking, he catches you, his warmth welcoming. He’s still tender with you. Hands delicate as they move over your arms, shifting you so you'll be facing Tommy.

Joel’s hand curls around your neck and holds your chin so you can’t look away. You can’t read Tommy’s expression. You’re not sure what he’s feeling. However, you think he looks almost relieved that you’re not fighting anymore.

You shudder as Joel drags his lips down your neck, taking deep breaths of your fear-induced scent. His hands slip under your shirt and cup both breaths, making you squeal. Your objection is short-lived when he brushes his thumbs over both nipples, awakening them with slow strokes.

Tommy’s gaze drops to your chest.

“He’s been watching you, you know,” Joel says. “When I had things to settle in town it was him who looked after you,” his voice drops, eyes observing his brother. “I think he deserves a bit of a show, don’t you think?”

The whimper you let out is enough for Tommy to meet your gaze curiously. Joel smiles into your skin and your eyes widen as he pulls out a knife—a different one from the one he used on Jacob, you realize with relief.

Your breath hitches as he slides the knife under your shirt and cuts your shirt clean from the middle, exposing you completely to his younger brother’s eyes. Sudden arousal pools between your legs and you clamp them together suddenly, the movement not unnoticed by either of them.

“You like it when my brother watches?” he asks loud enough for Tommy to hear. “You got a little crush on him too, sweetheart, hmm? Don’t worry, he’s always goin’ to be lookin’ out for you. That’s what family does after all.”

Your neck strains as Joel tilts your head suddenly, claiming your lips in a violent kiss. He doesn’t wait for you to part your lips for him and pushes his tongue into your mouth, licking the surprised sounds of pleasure right from your mouth. Your heart skips a beat. He presses the flat side of the knife against your warmed skin, the chill of metal settling in your bones.

When he parts away, a string of saliva connects you still. “You’re mine aren’t you?” Joel groans, lips moving over yours.

You nod in a daze and he smiles, “And I’m yours too,” he says.

Your eyes meet Tommy momentarily, the younger Miller’s lips twitch in a half smile. He doesn’t say a word as he closes the distance.

Tommy cradles your face tenderly, urging you to come close as he envelopes your lips with his own, taking you by surprise.

The kiss lacks the intensity compared to Joel’s. Tommy caresses your cheeks with both thumbs. You don’t even feel his tongue, it’s just a gradual movement of lips, a type of affirmation and comfort.

“You’re one of us now,” he says pressing his forehead against yours. You don’t know how to react or what to say and you end up just nodding, your hands fisting his shirt. Him, parting away from you almost feels painful but you’re not sure why. Tommy gives you a smile and Joel a nod before he leaves.

You and Joel stand like that for a while, in complete silence, bodies flushed together, knife still resting over your stomach.

“I only did what was right,” he breaks the silence. His tone isn’t one of asking for forgiveness or understanding. His arms tighten around you. “Are you afraid of me?” he whispers into your ear, the thick hairs above his lips tickling the shell of your ear.

You don’t answer him.

“You don’t need to be,” he continues. He allows you to move within his arms, you want to see his face, you need to see him to not fear for your life. You ignore the knife grazing your skin as you turn around, your bare front snug against his chest. “I’ll never hurt you. And you’re the only person in this whole damn town that can say that. You and Ellie.”

“What about Tommy?”

“Tommy’s priorities lay elsewhere.”

He doesn’t allow you to inquire further about what he means by that. All you can detect is a hint of anger that quickly dissipates when he claims your lips once more.

You’re lost in him. His tongue captures you in a way that makes you forget the blood on his clothes—on his hands. His tongue slides against your own, pressing until you’re moaning into his mouth, your knees faltering at the knife smoothing down your skin.

Before pushing you down to the ground, he takes off the shirt he cut in half completely off of you, your bra following the pile on the grass. Your breath hitches as he takes his place between your legs, his mouth devouring your neck, “Joel. . .” you moan, fisting his shirt and grinding up to feel at least a bit of friction.

A silent laugh seeps into your skin, his breath sending shivers up your spine, “Do you still feel bad for them?” he teases, laying a wet kiss between your breasts.

You don’t think much as you answer, “No.”

And as a reward, Joel closes his lips over a nipple, sucking hard until your breathing goes ragged.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, moving towards the other pebbled flesh. “You’re too good, too kind, but they don’t deserve that sweetheart.”

He hooks his fingers into your belt loops and tugs down your jeans, laving you with soft, ticklish kisses as he moves lower and lower. When you’re completely bare to him, you have the urge to cover yourself, the grass tickles your back and the wind feels colder now. Joel smiles and pulls your arms away. He lays the knife right above your stomach and your breath hitches.

“I want to taste you,” Joel says. “But not in the way you think, darlin’,” he kisses the sensitive skin right adobe your belly button, and brings the sharp edge of the knife to your skin. “I want to taste the life that pumps through your veins.”

Your eyes widen as he nicks you. It’s a small cut and blood beads at the wound instantly. He doesn’t allow it to gather enough so that’ll trickle down, he quickly presses his lips against it, your essence coating his tongue as he gives it a tender suck. You can the blood leaving your veins, a pleasant tingle echoing from the wound and spreading throughout your body. Your eyes flutter, a moan escaping your lips as he flattens his tongue against the cut and licks with board strokes.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he rasps, pushing two fingers into you with ease. You gasp at the sudden stretch, your back arching into his touch. “So darn wet—All this for me, sunshine?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, grinding down. “Joel, please—”

You hear the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, his breath heavy in your ear, “Since you asked so nicely, sweetheart, I’m obliged.”

You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. Your eyes close in anticipation and you whimper as he slowly slides inside you inch by inch. You can feel it, that intense fullness that can only come from him, taking his time to make sure it feels good. His size is intimidating but you feel yourself melting around him, eager and willing.

“That’s it. . . you’re takin’ me so well, such a tight little hole for me. Fuckin’ amazin’.”

He presses his forehead against yours, nipping at your bottom lip before thrusting, sending a wave of pleasure that makes your toes curl. You cling onto him for support as he pumps deeper and faster, hitting all the right spots. It takes neither of you long to climb the edge, ready to fall. You can feel the warmth of his breath, and his grip tightens on your hips. His pace quickens as the intensity builds, and you clench around him as he groans your name.

“Gonna come inside,” he slurs his words. “Gonna fill you up—shit—”

You can feel him throbbing and pulsing inside of you, his hard length contracting. As he pushes deeper into you, your insides flutter, squeezing around him. Your orgasm is ripped from you, shattering and mind-numbing. Your head spins and you cling to him, afraid that the world underneath you might slip entirely. His hot come warms you from the inside out, spilling from where his cock stretches you.

Joel remains inside until he starts to soften. He pulls out of you, leaving you feeling a longing ache deep within your core. You shudder as his come trickles down your thighs, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Such a pretty sight,” he murmurs, entranced, as he gathers himself over his fingers and pushes it back inside you. “Try to keep as much as you can inside.” To emphasize his want for it, he slides your underwear up your legs.

You’re tied to him now. And even though you shouldn’t, you enjoy being the one near the beast. Joel helps you dress, at least helps you with what remains, and gives you his leather jacket to wear since your shirt is in ruins. Neither of you says a word as you walk back to where Jacob’s body rests. You help him bury the body, not feeling a single thing; no grief, no remorse, no sadness.

You always did have a complicated relationship with death after all.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #hauntedhoedown

1K notes · View notes

hotchs-bitch · 2 months

Text

The List || A. Hotchner x Fem!Reader

summary: you and Aaron check off a few new boxes.

kinks: D/s, daddy kink, threesome, mistress kink, praise kink, degradation, thigh riding

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader, emily prentiss x reader

content/warnings: in case it wasn’t clear SMUT 18+ CONTENT MINORS DNI

wordcount: 3.5k

You’ve been dating Aaron for a few years now, so you like to think you’re something of an expert on all things Hotchner. There are plenty of people, your coworkers included, who think he’s all work and no play. That simply isn’t true. At work, yes, he’s a stark professional, to his core. But they don’t see him at home, playing with his son and basking in the domestic glow the three of you have created in your little apartment. And they certainly don’t see the type of play the two of you get up to, either.

One of the tenets of Aaron’s work/play separation was that work stayed in the office. He had a home office, for when he needed it, but even there– nothing BAU-related got past the threshold. When he was home, he was home for you and for his son— work would wait as long as it reasonably could. So when you see him flipping through some paperwork in bed, you’re admittedly confused.

“Whatcha doing?” You ask, pure curiosity in your tone.

“I was just looking over the list. It’s been a while since we did these, I thought it might be worth taking another peek at,” he explains, looking at you over the readers you had bought for him a year ago, that he valiantly resisted for three months before finally admitting that they helped.

He’s talking about your kink lists, which explains why he’s made it out of the office. Just shy of a year into your relationship, you’d broached the subject of introducing a dynamic into your sex lives, just to see if you liked it. Aaron had agreed, but insisted on doing his own, extensive research beforehand. He, admittedly, was wary about the idea of hurting you– even in a consensual way— and wanted to make sure he was fully prepared, both for him and for you. So he’d presented both of you with lists— you checked off things you knew you liked, things you thought you might want to try, and things you definitely didn’t want to do.

“Why don’t you check yours, too,” he says, passing you your copy of the list. “Make sure it all still looks accurate. We’ve tried a lot of this stuff, so if you don’t actually like it—”

“Aaron, you know I’d tell you if I didn’t. I’d safeword if I needed to, or I’d tell you after the scene if I didn’t. You wouldn’t hurt me and I wouldn’t let you,” you remind him.

“I’d still like you to look. Maybe things we haven’t tried that sounded appealing then, don’t now. Or maybe you’ve found that you like things more than you thought you would. It’s all good to know,” he encourages you.

You agree, climbing into bed and taking the paper and pen that he’d offered. You move some maybes that you had tried into the solid yes column, and a couple into the no column, too, but there aren’t any major changes. After a few minutes, you switch, and you find Aaron’s form to be more or less the same. You’re not surprised, really— You and Aaron have an open line of communication. There were no surprises.

“So, I was thinking I might surprise you,” Aaron pipes up. You stand corrected.

“Oh?” You say.

“You’ve been working your ass off lately, between the team and the Academy Trainee course Strauss pulled you for,” he explains. “I wanted to do something fun for you. I noticed you still had ‘experience with two or more partners’ and ‘experience with a same-sex partner’ checked off as things you’d like to try…” he trails off nervously, and you can tell just by looking at him that he’s wondering if he should beg the floor to swallow him whole rather than continue this conversation.

“That would be a very special gift,” you agree with a smile, putting him out of his misery. “But who? I don’t necessarily want to bring a stranger into the apartment,” you say.

“You can say no, and we can never talk about it again,” he assures you. “But I was thinking… maybe Emily?”

You mull it over for a moment, taking Aaron’s hand in your own to let him know that you’re thinking, not shocked into silence. You… kind of like the idea of it. “Have you talked to her about it at all?”

“Not about joining us,” he says, and his phrasing is specific. You know him too well for that.

“But you’ve talked to her about… our dynamic?” You ask, confused. It’s not your real question— you know he’d never tell someone else about this without asking you, first.

“No, no,” he corrects. “That case a few months back, where the men were all bound— she floated the idea privately with me that the unsub may be a dominatrix, and it came up naturally, that she’s… similarly minded.”

“But with less murder,” you joke.

“Like I said, we can pretend I never even brought it up.”

“No!” You correct a little too quickly, making Aaron chuckle. “I want to. You can ask her about it.”

“I will,” he says, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Anything for you.”

+++++++

Emily says yes the next day when Hotch asks her about it. It’s the waiting that’s torture. It’s two whole weeks before the three of you find a day that works for everyone– and if you thought that was bad, the hours leading up to it were even worse.

You’re on edge the whole day— you’re nervous, yes, but it’s an excited kind of nervous, like the moments after you pull the safety harness down on a roller coaster. You plod around the house all afternoon, tidying things that don’t need to be tidied and wiping down the countertops, mopping the floor, baking a banana bread just to do something with your hands.

You nearly jump when Aaron wraps his arms around you from behind. “Go take a bath and ground yourself, my love. Use your fancy bubbles and take some deep breaths. I left you something to wear, it’s hanging up on the back of the bathroom door. Emily will be here in a bit. Would you like to sit with us while I explain your limits to her, or do you want me to do it?”

“You can do it,” you tell him softly.

“Okay angel. Then you go on up, take your bath and put on the pretty outfit Daddy got you, and sit at the foot of the bed and wait for us, okay?”

“Okay, daddy. Thank you.”

He smiles, giving you a quick kiss. “Nothing to thank me for. See you in a little bit.”

You go upstairs and see that Aaron has already drawn the bath for you, and has set out your favorite soaps and bubble bath and a fluffy, warm towel. You sink into the warm bath, and let yourself soak, focusing on your breathing. It helps. Once you feel ready, you drain the tub and look over to the lingerie Aaron had bought for you. It’s a lacy red bodysuit, and it’s crotchless. You get yourself good and dry before slipping into it, not wanting the delicate material to get caught on your wet skin. Once you’re dressed, you go into the bedroom and kneel at the foot of the bed the way you normally would if you were playing with just Aaron. You can hear the two of them talking, laughing, even, as you sit and wait for them.

Your anticipation builds the longer you listen to them– are they still talking about limits? Are they plotting– deciding what toys they’ll use, how they’ll tease you, when they’ll let you come? You can feel yourself getting turned on the longer you sit and think about it— you wonder if that’s part of their plan, too.

You snap back to attention when you hear footsteps coming up the staircase, straightening your spine and turning your gaze towards the floor.

The door swings open— you don’t move. You know better.

“Aw, she’s so cute,” Emily cooes. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks, try to bite down on your smile.

“Kitten, why don’t you say hello to our guest?”

You look up now, at Aaron. “What should I call her, Daddy?”

Aaron looks to Emily, who answers. “You have such good manners, sweet girl. You can call me Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you for coming,” you tell her with a smile. Looking her in the eyes for the first time makes this feel a hundred times more real, and you can tell that when they finally touch you, you’ll be soaked.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she smiles. “I understand that you and your daddy have a lot of fun together. I’m excited to have some fun with you, too.”

“Come here, kitten,” Aaron beckons, and you oblige him, crawling a few paces across the carpet and coming to sit next to his left hand. He runs a hand through your hair.

“Ladies first,” Aaron smirks, looking over to Emily.

Emily crouches down, nearly eye-to-eye with you, but she’s still a bit taller. She traces a finger down your cheekbone and the column of your neck, over your shoulder, sneering a little at the goosebumps that appear in the wake of her gentle touch. She pinches your nipple through the fabric of your lingerie, and you gasp a little, not expecting the sensation.

“Hmm,” Emily murmurs a contented little noise at your reaction, not letting up on her grip. “A good pinch, or a bad pinch?” She checks in.

“A good pinch, Mistress,” you assure her through gritted teeth.

She smiles. “Good,” she says, reaching for the other nipple, rolling it between her thumb and index finger. She gives them both a sharp pull, causing you to cry out, before she stands back up.

“That’s it?’Aaron scoffs.

“We have the whole night ahead of us,” Emily reminds him. “I’d take advantage while I’m still in a sharing mood.”

He rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, pulling you to your feet. “The thing about my sweet little slut, is that you don’t even need to touch anything significant to turn her into a mess,” he informs Emily as he uses his big hands to spread your thighs apart. You suddenly remember that your panties are crotchless, and tense up, worried that you’ll drip on the carpet before you’ve even begun. For his part, Aaron seems determined to make this happen— he kisses his way up your thighs, sucking at the tender flesh nearest where you were practically pulsing for him, but intentionally ignoring any action that would provide you with any relief. You take in a sharp little breath, trying not to whine.

“That’s it. I can smell you, already. You like that, don’t you, angel?” He whispers against your skin.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer breathlessly.

“I know, I know,” he says sympathetically as he rises to his feet. “But not yet,” he whispers before sucking a bruise into your neck.

“Let’s move this party over to the bed, shall we?” Emily says, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the mattress, stripping herself of her pants and her top. Aaron follows suit, losing all of his clothes and climbing on top of the mattress, giving his cock a few cursory strokes, spreading out the precum that had gathered at his tip. Emily gestures to her thigh, and you straddle it accordingly.

“Why don’t you tell me more about your daddy, angel?” Emily encourages you as her fingers sink into the flesh of your thigh and pull, encouraging you to rock against her.

You oblige, riding her thigh as you speak. “I love my daddy. He takes very good care of me,” you say as you rock against her once, readjusting to try and find a better angle for your clit. “He reminds me to drink water and take care of myself,” you continue rocking and find the place where your clit rubs up against her thigh in just the right way, moaning a little. “And he always reminds me that I’m his good little slut. He loves to make me cum,” you say, your humping gaining intensity, causing you to moan a little “Oh, and I love to make him come too,” you say, chasing your release against her.

“How do you like to make Daddy come?’ Emily asks, pushing your hair out of your face where it’s sticking to your sweat.

“I like to take his cock in my mouth,” you moan. “I like feeling him all the way down my throat. Oh, Mistress, may I come?” You ask as your rocking against her grows more frantic.

‘Not yet, baby. It’s too early,” she cooes. “Keep going. I heard Daddy call you a name earlier, do you like that? Do you like when we call you pathetic little names?”

“Yes, Mistress. I like to be called a needy little whore, or Daddy’s desperate slut.” You cry out.

“Oh, you are a desperate slut, aren’t you? Trying to come on Mistress’s thigh,”

“Yes, yes, I’m a desperate slut,” you agree, hoping your acquiescence will earn you an orgasm.

“Good girl. Stop,” she orders, and you hold back your sigh, not wanting to be punished. You step away from her, get back into your kneeling position on the floor. From your new vantage point, you can see Aaron– he’s been stroking his cock, watching you and Emily. He’s erect and slick, and you’ve never wanted him in your mouth more. You’re practically drooling.

“Kitten, you’ve made quite the mess of my thigh,” Emily tuts.

“I’m sorry Mistress. May I clean up my mess?”

“Of course, go ahead,” She grants you permission, and you begin to lick your own arousal off of her. Her skin is so soft, and she smells so nice, that you start to get lost in it, mouthing at her long after is necessary, until you feel a tug at your scalp.

“Don’t get distracted, kitten. Daddy’s waiting for you,” Emily reminds you, gesturing to the other side of the bed. You crawl over, looking at Aaron with glassy eyes.

“Daddy, may I suck your cock, please?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” Aaron says, extending two fingers, which you greedily pull into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down on them and taking them as deep as you can manage for a few moments until Aaron pulls them away.

“Come on up, angel,” Aaron says, pulling you into bed. “Go ahead,” he grants you permission, and you settle between his legs, licking the underside of his cock and looking up at him as you do so.

As soon as you have as much of Aaron as you can take in your mouth, you feel two fingers sink inside of you– Emily’s, you realize with a moan.

“Thank you, mistress,” you warble out without removing Aaron’s cock from your mouth.

“Focus angel. Mistress had her turn, now Daddy wants you all to himself. Don’t get distracted.”

“Yes, daddy,” you answer, refocusing your efforts on him, Even as Emily makes you squirm and whimper under her touch.

“Your pussy is so tight, sweet girl. Does Mistress make you feel good?”

“Yes, mistress, feels so good,” you answer, but as soon as you do, you feel a sharp spank to your backside.

“Focus, slut. Don’t make me remind you again,” Aaron says.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you say, taking him in your mouth again.

You’re content for a few moments, but when Emily removes her fingers from inside of you, you can’t help but whine.

“I’m feeling neglected, here. Kitten, why don’t you lay back against the pillows,” Emily encourages, and you look up at Aaron for permission, which he grants with a simple nod, getting up and taking one of his pillows with him.

“Lift your hips,” He tells you as Emily comes to the head of the bed.

Aaron slides a pillow underneath you just as Emily comes to straddle your face. “Mistress and Daddy want to come, angel, and then you can, okay?” Emily explains.

“Yes, Mistress,” you say, craning your neck up to kiss her entrance.

“Good girl, go ahead,” she tells you, lowering herself down towards you. You mouth at her with purpose, trying to remember all of the tricks you like best when Aaron does them on you, paying attention to which maneuvers make her tense up and cry out.

A few moments later, you feel Aaron’s cock sink into you, and your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head– you feel so deliciously full, not to mention how thoroughly fucked you had been throughout the evening. You felt… saturated, in the best way. Each one of your senses was laser-focused on pleasure. You were so grateful to Aaron for doing this for you– the thought motivated you, had you kicking it into high gear with Emily.

“Oh, good girl. You’re going to make Mistress come. You’re going to make me so happy. Don’t stop, angel. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t— fuck!” She cries out as she reaches her peak, her pleasure overwhelming you.

“Good girl. You did such a good job, you made mistress so happy,” Emily cooes breathlessly as she gets off of you, not wanting to suffocate you when she collapses against the mattress to catch her breath. She leans in, starts to kiss your neck. “Where’d you learn to do that, sweet girl? Is my perfect angel a little slut?” she asks, mouthing at any exposed skin she can reach.

“Yes, Mistress, I’m a little slut,” you agree.

“Who’s slut?” Aaron booms as he pounds into you.

“Your slut, Daddy. I’m your slut,” you amend.

“That’s right, kitten. Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You, daddy, my slutty pussy belongs to you!” You cry out as he taps your clit, and it sends him over the edge. He keeps pumping in and out of you as he comes, and Emily reaches down to your clit, rubbing at it.

“Go ahead, come. You earned it, baby, come.”

“Daddy?” You cry out, wanting to make sure you have permission.

“Yes, angel. Come for Daddy, my perfect girl. You did so good.”

You careen over the edge at his praise, arching your back and letting out a moan that turns into a cry. You’d been on edge for so long— before Emily had even arrived today, and it made the relief that much more gratifying.

“Thank you,” you pant out as you come back down to Earth.

“Give her a minute to settle,” Aaron warns Emily– the two of you had learned that rushing into aftercare could be a little overwhelming, so Aaron usually gave you a moment to catch your breath before he touched you.

“You did such a good job, my sweet girl. I’m so proud of you,” Aaron whispers gently. “When you’re ready, I want you to sit up for me, okay my love?”

You nod a little, taking another few deep breaths and scooting up towards the mattress.

“Good,” he whispers. “I will be right back,” he says, climbing off the mattress and leaving the room momentarily.

“Did you have fun?” Emily asks quietly, screwing the cap off of a bottle of water and handing it to you.

You gulp at it aggressively while you nod. “Yeah, I did. Did you?”

“Careful, you’ll get a stomachache,” she warns. “I had fun, but this was a treat for you.”

“Still. It’s only fun if everyone’s having fun,” you remind her. “Would you… want to do it again sometime?” She asks, feeling bold.

“Yeah. You should talk to Aaron first, though,” Emily says.

“Talk to Aaron about what?” He comes back to the room with a plate of fruit and a damp washcloth, sounding concerned.

“Nothing, baby. Later,” you assure him, and he gives you a little look that lets you know that he’s holding you to it.

“Alright, angel. You need to eat something, and I need to clean you up,” he says, handing you the plate and bringing the washcloth between your thighs. You extend the plate towards Emily, and she takes a strawberry, popping it between her lips as you bite down into a crunchy apple slice.

“Em, you should feel free to stay, if—” Aaron starts, but she cuts him off.

“I’d love to, but I can’t. Sergio is a very lonely boy,” she explains. “But this was a lot of fun. Thank you both for inviting me,” she says, kissing you both on the forehead as she dresses and packs up her stuff. Aaron insists on walking her to the door and watching her get into her car, as if she didn’t have a handgun in her purse and enough combat training to take out half of Northern Virginia. You’re snuggled up against his pillow when he returns, and he smiles.

“You had fun, angel?” He asks as he climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest.

“Of course I did. This whole thing just begs the question…” you start, trailing off.

“Begs what question?” Aaron asks.

“Who are we going to invite over to check off those boxes for you?”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #hotch x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

159 notes · View notes

aurumacadicus · 3 months

Text

Y'all I'm sorry this post was not finished here is the end 😭

Tony doesn't know what to do. He'd thought his breakup letter was lost forever, not just misplaced to send later. He doesn't want to break up with Steve anymore. But apparently he doesn't have a choice in the matter anymore. Steve had finally read his first letter, his intent to break up on his first month deployed. How cowardly he'd been, saying goodbye in a letter instead of face-to-face. How bad a friend he was, when Steve knew how Tony had promised to never send one specifically because of how much Rhodey had been hurt in the past.

He shoves it into the couch cushions and stands, backing away from it as if the couch might attack him. Then he goes to grab it, to put it in the trash. Then he backs off again, too scared to see those big, blocky letters blaring at him like he's Hester Prynne or something. Maybe he can call Pepper to dispose of it. Except she's in France right now. She won't be back for a week. He rocks back on his heels, feeling jittery and sick.

It can wait for a week, he decides, backing away.

But he's too ashamed to tell Pepper about it when she comes back, and he's too ashamed to tell her that he's been dumped. She'd probably ask if it wasn't what he'd wanted all along. And maybe he did, because he was scared, because he couldn't believe that Steve was different from every other person he'd dated, but he doesn't want to be dumped now. Now that he's written and received hundreds of letters, has fallen even more in love with Steve, had hopefully given Steve some reason to love back--

He deserves this, Tony thinks, hurt fading into a hollow in his chest, until he just feels numb. What was it Steve had joked? He was his own tragedy. That had been in response to him getting an ice-cream and then immediately dripping it down his silk shirt, but apparently Steve had had him pegged from the beginning: All of his unhappiness has been because of his choices. And this was just the unhappiness from his stupid Dear John letter finally coming back to bite him in the ass. So he puts all the letters he's kept in a box, hands it to Dum-E, and tells him to incinerate them.

If Pepper notices that Tony's not picking through his mail anymore, she doesn't say anything, and Tony puts it out of his mind. This was always the conclusion with his letter, he reminds himself. Just because it took a little longer to reach this point, it was always coming.

"What's this?" Rhodey asks a month later, digging the envelope out from under the cushions after the corner pokes at his hip. Tony tries to snatch it from his hand, but Rhodey bats him away, looking it over. "Dear John," he says a moment later, raising an eyebrow. He looks up at Tony. "Did you label this yourself?"

He looks so bewildered that Tony just lets it spill out, even though he's certain that Rhodey will hate him for it. How he'd sent Steve the breakup letter, but it hadn't gotten to him, and he was too cowardly to send another, and how he'd fallen even more in love with Steve and was getting over his trust issues and was looking forward to Steve coming home so he could tell him about his stupid letter and how glad he was that it never made it to him and he was so certain Steve would laugh about it and--

"Oh boy," Rhodey sighs, pulling him down into a hug as Tony blubbers about how sorry he is that he ever found out his friend was a hypocritical coward who did the one thing he promised to never do. "Tony, that was ten fucking years ago. We were young. I don't blame her. And I don't blame you."

It takes a weight off his shoulders, even if the ache of losing Steve still sits heavy in his chest. Once Rhodey is gone, Tony hands the letter off to Dum-E, telling him to put it with the others. He's healing, he thinks, as Dum-E does a spin before zooming away with the envelope in his claw.

So of course Steve arrives on his doorstep two weeks later, crutches under each arm and a bandage over his right eye. Tony gapes up at him, stunned.

"Sweetheart," Steve breathes, hopping closer. "You stopped sending me letters."

Tony steps backward. "You," he finally manages to sputter. "You sent it back. Returned to sender. I. I didn't know you could do that."

Steve squints at him, brows furrowing together. "It's... the mail? Of course I--but I didn't? I've been in a coma. For the last three months."

Tony reaches up to cup his cheek and stops when he remembers he doesn't get to do that anymore, fingers curling back toward his palm as he draws his hand back. "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Can I get you anything? I can--I can pay for a specialist if you need--"

"Tony," Steve cuts in, gently but firmly. He reaches out to grab Tony's arm, pulling it so his hand is back up, and he leans his cheek against Tony's palm. "I got your letter."

Tony stares up at him, unable to comprehend. "You... got lots of letters."

"You tried to break up with me, but Colonel Rhodes warned me that might happen, so I ignored it, and just wrote to you like I normally would. I figured, if you meant it, you'd send another, and if you didn't, you'd be too awkward to say anything," Steve says, smiling. He's missing a tooth, Tony notices vaguely. "And it worked! You kept writing me back."

"What the fuck kind of convoluted logic," Tony chokes out, but he finds he can't quite bite back a slightly bewildered smile, either.

"And then I got got," Steve sighs, his own smile fading. "Grenade. Had to put me in a coma to heal right. And one of the guys found your Dear John letter when he was grabbing something for me and decided to send your last letter back. He thought he was helping me I guess." He looks down for a second, then back up, smile back in place. "But! I'm here now. I'm on medical leave!"

Tony blinks at him slowly. "...Steve," he says after a moment. "Are you supposed to have a chaperone right now?"

Steve sways forward. "Tony, I'm going to be real honest with you," he whispers. "I am still on so many painkillers. I took Bucky out at the knees with my crutch and booked it."

"...Steve, you are in a lot of trouble," Tony tells him gently, then lifts his other hand, cradling Steve's face between them. "I am going to let Bucky yell at you. But! I will hold your hand while it happens."

"Well," Steve sighs. "As long as you hold my hand." Then he brightens again. "I had Dum-E store my letters for you. I knew you'd try to get rid of them. That deserves a kiss, right?"

"...How long did you plan this out?" Tony asks, frowning at him.

"Colonel Rhodes was very explicit about what would happen. I'm better than all your previous partners," Steve tells him proudly. "I! Am going to marry you someday. Also! Don't worry! I know I am not better than Pepper."

"What?" Tony asks, but then Steve is pressing in, peppering his face with sweet kisses. "Steve. Wait. Wait a minute. I have to--"

"We have maybe ten minutes until Bucky gets here and beats me to death please let me love on you," Steve whines, and Tony doesn't have the heart (and is still too confused) to tell him no.

#ideas #stony #welcome to the suffer club i guess #tony: i don't want rhodey to hate me #rhodey: *sigh* tony's a dumbass so i better tell steve

115 notes · View notes

five-rivers · 1 month

Text

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 9

@greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“Okay, for the next one,” said Danny, doodling on a piece of paper, “I think I’m going to pick from the older end again. Like, I’ve done number one, number five, and number seven, so that leaves two, three, four and six. Could just do the middle one, four. That’s the biggest group. Or I could do one of the single people.”

“You could pick any of them,” said Clockwork. He placed another piece into the puzzle he was working on at the dining room table.

“I know,” said Danny. “I’m just thinking out loud.” He’d been leaving Clockwork’s after breakfast, but he’d broken that habit this time around. It was almost noon. He just couldn’t make up his mind.

Part of him wondered if he should have stayed with Vlad a bit longer. Maybe he could have pushed him to tell the truth. But… he didn’t know how Vlad would have reacted to that. What if it had been bad?

On the other hand, it might have been good to know if his reaction to being pushed had been bad. If it had been, Danny would have known not to pick him. Maybe… maybe deciding to leave was a little… cowardly.

“Hey, Clockwork?”

“Yes?” He looked up from the puzzle, but kept inserting pieces.

“Am I different than I was with my memory? Like, am I acting different than I would have, if I still remembered?”

“Of course. You would have knowledge that you currently do not, if you remembered.”

“Okay,” said Danny. “Sure, I get that. But what about… I’m… Am I acting like, not as… brave?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Vlad said I was sort of a, I don’t know, a superhero, kind of.”

“I see.”

“But I kind of feel like if I had been, then I’d be more… I would have acted differently, with Vlad.”

“Hm,” said Clockwork. “I think I understand what you mean.”

“And?” prompted Danny.

“And, I have often found that it is easier to be brave if you have something to be brave for. When it is not a choice so much as it is a necessity. You do not need to be brave, here. This isn’t one of those situations.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I am,” said Clockwork. “You aren’t unmonitored, when you are visiting the candidates. Part of my role is to enforce the rules.”

“I don’t really see how that means I don’t need to be brave in this situation. I kind of feel like there’s a lot I need to be brave about, here. I could be hiding out in my room instead of out here.”

“You could be.”

“But I’m not. I’d say that was… brave… Wait, that’s not the position I was arguing before.”

“It is not,” said Clockwork.

Danny scowled at him, then slouched down in his chair. “You know what else is brave? Your new decorative choices.”

The walls of the kitchen - not to mention the rest of the house - were now covered in clocks of various sizes and shapes.

“Mhm. Well, in your absence, I must occupy myself.”

Danny looked around the room again, eyes lingering on the clocks. “I don’t know that I’m that… occupying. Like, I’ve not been here for more than a day at a time, and usually less than that.” He hesitated. “And we don’t… do that much together, do we?”

“We’re doing things together now.”

“I’m mostly just complaining at you about my choices, but okay.”

“Even so.”

“What if I just… take another day? To decide who to go to next, I mean.”

“Take as long as you want. In the meantime, you could help me with this puzzle.”

“Or,” proposed Danny, “we could play some video games together. A lot of the ones I like are multiplayer.”

Clockwork put the remaining puzzle pieces back in the box. “We can certainly try that. I’ve never played before.”

Danny grinned. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Are you sure you’ve never played before?” asked Danny.

“Quite.”

“You’re good.”

“I have always prided myself on my timing.”

Danny groaned as he died again.

“Okay, I’ve made my decision,” said Danny, a few days later. Breakfast that day consisted of french toast.

“Really?”

“You don’t have to sound so skeptical.”

“This is my normal voice.”

“Is it?”

“It is. What is your choice?” asked Clockwork.

“Eager to get rid of me?”

“I am merely curious.”

“Sure,” said Danny. “Sure you are.”

“Daniel,” said Clockwork, with a faint air of exasperation.

“I want to visit the third person,” said Danny. “I figure I might as well be symmetrical.”

“It’s as good a system as any. Do you want to leave now, or later?”

“Now,” said Danny. He did not say, ‘before I change my mind again.’

“Very well.”

Clockwork raised his staff, a spark of blue swirling off the tip. The portal would form in just a split second.

“I’ll miss you,” blurted Danny, impulsively.

Clockwork’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not respond before the portal swept Danny away.

The first thing Danny noticed about the new place was how cold it was. He wrapped his arms around himself, and cursed himself for not realizing that someone named Frostbite of the Far Frozen would live somewhere cold.

“Oh, dear,” said a deep voice. “Great one, my apologies. I did not realize your core would be inactivated.”

Danny was bundled into a pair of furry arms and swept away to a much warmer area. That wasn’t to say it was warm. Just. Warmer.

“Oh, wow, that was cold,” said Danny. He rubbed his arms and wrapped his tail around his knees.

“Yes,” said Frostbite. “Usually that’s not an issue for you.”

“I can’t imagine why not.” Danny shot a look at his latest temporary guardian.

Frostbite was a huge, tall, white-furred ghost. He had a long muzzle and horns, along with ears that had more than a passing resemblance to Danny’s. Danny ran a hand over his own ears, wondering. Were they related somehow?

“Generally,” said Frostbite, “in the normal course of things, that is, you are quite cold-resistant. You have a cold core, like myself, although that aspect of your core seems to have been rendered dormant.”

“Vlad mentioned cores,” said Danny.

Frostbite's furry eyebrows went up. “You have already met Plasmius?”

“Um, yeah. Just before you, actually.”

“What?!” Frostbite patted Danny over with his large, paw-like hands. “Did he harm you? Are you injured? Did he do anything to you?”

“Um,” said Danny, stepping back. “No. He was pretty chill actually.”

“Chill.”

“I mean, like. He didn’t do anything bad to me. He was pretty nice, even though he didn’t tell me we’d been enemies. The Dairy King did.”

Frostbite got a sort of pinched look on his face. “The Dairy King was assisting him? How unusual.”

“I don’t know about assisting,” said Danny. “He did tell me about how Vlad and I used to fight and all.”

“Even so,” said Frostbite. His eyes were still roving over Danny, apparently worried. “I would like to give you a full medical checkup. I was unable to do so… before.”

“Before the trial?” asked Danny, tilting his head to one side. He felt one of his ears flick.

“Yes,” said Frostbite, heavily.

He seemed to be struggling with whether or not to say anything else, so Danny took the opportunity to look around.

The room he was in was… strange. There was really no other way to put it. It was small. Only about the size of Danny’s bedroom at home with Clockwork. The walls, where they were visible, looked like ice-covered stone, but they mostly weren’t visible. They were covered with layers of fur and strange tapestries. Some of the tapestries looked more or less like Danny imagined tapestries to look: lengths of tightly-woven and embroidered fabric. Others looked more like carpets. Still others were embroidered furs. The floors, too, were covered in layered furs and carpets. Illumination was provided by globs of floating blue fire.

Other than that, the room was empty.

“I was your doctor before, Great One.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Danny imagined that Frostbite was facing the same dilemma he was. He couldn’t decide what to ask next. He couldn’t decide what was safe to ask.

“So, you’re a doctor?” That seemed like a safe question.

“I am,” said Frostbite. “Medicine for cold core ghosts is one of the specialties of my tribe. When you have been ill or injured in the past, we have taken care of you.”

Danny hadn’t really thought all that much about the social structures of ghosts. He remembered the Observants, and he had a vague recollection of kingdoms and tribes being a thing, but he was far more familiar with the workings of a republic, his human life taking precedence in this case. He made a mental note to ask Frostbite more about how tribes worked later.

“And I have a cold core like you? That’s why you’re my doctor?”

“Yes,” said Frostbite.

“Are we related?” asked Danny. Frostbite’s tail - what Danny could see of it, anyway - wasn’t quite like Danny’s, but he did have white fur and pointed ears, so…

This question surprised a laugh out of Frostbite. “It would be my honor, but, no, Great One. Although we share some similarities, that is not one of them.”

“And you’re calling me Great One because…?”

“Because you saved my people, and, indeed, all the Infinite Realms, from a terrible fate when Plasmius released Pariah Dark, the old king of ghosts, from his prison.”

“The superhero thing?” asked Danny.

Frostbite chuckled. “I believe you referred to your tendencies as that a few times in my hearing. You, and your friends. But, truly, it would give me a great deal of peace if you let me make sure that you are, indeed, healthy, and that whatever technique they used to remove your memory has not damaged you unduly.”

“You could tell if it did?” asked Danny, suddenly a lot less reluctant.

Frostbite nodded, gravely.

“Okay,” said Danny. “But I’m not sure if I can really handle it if the way there is as cold as the way here.”

“I will carry you,” said Frostbite. “The medical bay itself is heated, to accommodate your human half, as are many of the rooms.”

Danny sighed in relief. This would have been a very short visit if they hadn’t been. This room was fine, but he didn’t like the idea of being confined to such a small space indefinitely.

“And perhaps we could take one of these,” said Frostbite, pulling a thick, fluffy-looking fur from one of the walls. “Just to add another layer between you and the cold.”

“Right,” said Danny, feeling nervous again as he contemplated being bundled up like that. It was fine. Clockwork was watching. Monitoring. Whatever. He had the pocketwatch.

It took a bit of maneuvering for Danny to get into a comfortable position, but once he did, Frostbite wasted no time pushing aside the thick, curtain-like door of the room and walking back out into the cold. Danny drew in on himself, shivering, despite their precautions.

(In a slightly less frigid environment, being held in Frostbite’s arms would have been downright cozy. He made a note to experiment later. If Frostbite was trustworthy enough for cuddles.)

“S-so,” said Danny, trying to take his mind off the cold. “Wh-what did I do with Pariah D-Dark?” Vlad had told him a version of the story, but he doubted it was complete, especially given that he’d failed to mention anything about who released Pariah Dark in the first place.

“You rallied the ghosts of the Wastes,” said Frostbite. “a veritable and largely lawless rabble. You convinced them to fight, even convincing Walker and Dorathea of Mattingly to lend their power. You led them against Pariah Dark’s thrall armies, and stormed his keep using a suit of armor that sapped your life even as it increased your power. You fought the mad king one-on-one, and forced him back into the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep, whereupon Plasmius was able to lock him in again. You very nearly died, you very nearly ended, and were willing to do so, in order to stop Pariah Dark.”

“H-huh,” said Danny. He couldn’t really imagine doing something like that. But it did more or less line up with what Vlad said… except that in Vlad’s story, Danny’s role had been less… prominent.

They reached the medical bay, a large cave full of mysterious machinery, shortly after that, and Danny was again happy to find himself in relative warmth. Frostbite started explaining the medical exams he wanted to carry out, and Danny listened half-heartedly.

“Hey,” he said, during a lull between explanations. “Do you think you could fix my amnesia?”

“It is not impossible,” said Frostbite, slowly, turning away from the thing he’d been fiddling with . “But it would depend heavily on what method they used to give you that amnesia in the first place. For example, Lethean waters are very effective and entirely irreversible. On the other hand, they could have removed and stored your memories via a memory jar, in which case you would need to have that jar to recover your memories. Alternatively, there are several ways by which your memories could be bound in place, or obscured. However… attempting to restore your memories would be a blatant violation of the rules of this trial.”

“But would you try?”

“If you asked me to, Great One.”

Danny frowned and looked away. “Why are you doing this?”

“Giving you a medical checkup?” asked Frostbite. “Because I am concerned for your health.”

Danny waved that answer away, and forced himself to look back at Frostbite. “No, I mean, why are you participating in this trial? Why do you want custody of me? I mean, if you’re just my doctor, that’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

Frostbite huffed. “I do like to think of myself as more than ‘just’ your doctor. I mentored you extensively after your ice powers developed. I daresay you are one of my more successful students, at that, even if your, ah… first attempts at control were rough.”

“You know what I mean. You call me ‘Great One,’ and that’s flattering and all, but it isn’t really a parental kind of thing, is it?”

“I suppose not,” said Frostbite. “It would bring me nothing but joy if you did choose me, Great One, and I would do my utmost to live up to the task and dedicate myself to parenting you, but I do have something of an ulterior motive in joining this trial.”

“What is it?” asked Danny.

“I came to warn you.” Frostbite squared his shoulders. “I never met your birth parents, only your sisters, but from your words and theirs… I believe they harmed you, Great One. Intentionally and repeatedly. And I believe that it is their actions that necessitated this custody trial.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Danny. “Why? Why do you think that?”

“First,” said Frostbite, “you mentioned to me on several occasions that your parents were ghost hunters.”

“Oh. Ow,” said Danny.

“Secondly, a few times - only a few, but they stand out sharply in my memory - you visited me for help after being affected by one of your parents’ weapons. I have the records of those visits here. You brushed aside my concerns regarding your parents then, saying that they did not know you would be harmed, or that the incidents were mere accidents.”

That… certainly sounded bad.

“Thirdly, and finally, the existence of this custody trial in and of itself. These are beyond uncommon, even considering the Observants’ interest in you.” Frostbite’s snout wrinkled. Speaking of which, you should be wary of them as well.”

“Already ahead of you on that one,” said Danny, thoughts racing. “But I thought the reason for the custody hearing was that they were dead.”

Frostbite’s eyes widened slightly. “Who told you that? I know that at least one of them is participating.”

“What?” said Danny. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. My spy wasn’t able to be more specific than that, curse the Observants, but I have full confidence in them as a member of my tribe.”

“Do you know their names? What they’re called, what they look like?” asked Danny.

Frostbite shook his head. “As I said, I never met them.”

“Maybe we can work it out by elimination, though,” said Danny. “I could tell you the names of the other people on my list of candidates–”

Frostbite’s head-shaking became more frantic. “Goodness, no. I’m limited in how specific I can be about the…” He sighed. “Competition.”

“Right,” said Danny. “But you just came to warn me? That’s all?”

“And to give you some measure of safety. I knew your parents were participating, I knew Plasmius would not miss the chance, and I haven’t a clue about who else might be involved. I wanted you to have at least one safe option.”

That was nice and all, but Danny couldn’t help but feel a little put out. He didn’t want to be an obligation that someone was picking up because they felt like they had to.

He was probably just being ungrateful, though.

“Great One?” asked Frostbite.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you would like me to try to get your memories back.”

“Oh,” said Danny. He thought about it for a while. “No. I don’t want you to get in trouble. But maybe… could you find out what’s going on with my core? And help me remember how to use those ice powers you mentioned?”

“Of course, Great One! It would be my pleasure.”

#danny phantom #phic phight #fic

81 notes · View notes

asliceofzosan · 5 months

Text

i'm thinking of sanji growing up with a pet cat at the baratie.

how sanji finds him hungry and cold and shivering on his doorstep. he's frighteningly thin, almost as if a single gust of wind could turn his bones to dust. a chill runs through sanji's spine as he picks up the little green and black kitten — something like a distant memory — of rationing out tiny portions and drying water skeins and the rumble rumble rumble of his stomach as it begs him for more food to eat. just one more crumb. maybe it would sate his hunger.

so he takes the little kitten in, nurses him back to health, and endures the scolding from zeff for bringing the little stray in. sanji gets his reparation by pretending not to see zeff bottle feed the kitten when he was too weak to stand. he doesn't try to hide his knowing smile when he and patty find zeff passed out in his office chair, the little kitten curled up on his lap as it took shallow breaths in his sleep.

sanji took to calling the kitten marimo. he never saw a green kitten before, and certainly one not as fluffy as him once he was regaining his strength. marimo was playful and mighty mischievous. just like every other cat, his life's mission was to rile sanji up with each vase knocked over and each cat tree he refuses to use in favor of the box it came in.

but sanji adored his little marimo.

he always made sure he was well fed and quenched. not a single day went by where marimo didn't have a bite to eat. it haunts his dreams still. when baby marimo was shaking so much in his hands, sanji was afraid he might break him if he moved too fast. now he was a fierce cat, always lazily wrapping himself around sanji's legs when he's waiting tables or doing prep work in the kitchen.

marimo pretends he's not protective. but he's bared his fangs at more people than sanji could count. carne's got the scars on his arms to prove it too. sometimes sanji would catch the little rascal with a small paring knife in his mouth to chase one of the poor line cooks with.

despite his chilly attitude towards him when others are around, at night marimo would already be curled up on sanji's pillow, purring and purring until his owner was sound asleep. sometimes sanji would pull marimo onto his lap and brush him while humming a sea shanty zeff taught him long ago. he cherishes these quiet moments with the once hungry little kitten.

he doesn't want to admit it out loud — and maybe he never will — but marimo gave him another reason for living everyday.

so when sanji found a naked green-haired man where marimo is supposed to be on his bed, it should be understandable that he kicked the guy straight into the wall, right?

"who?!?" sanji couldn't even finish his question, he was hysterical that a naked man was in his bedroom! he long dreamed for a beautiful woman on his bed ever since he hit puberty. this is not how he wanted this to go. not at all. the strange man thankfully got tangled in sanji's bedsheets (note to self: must wash and/or burn those sheets now) when sanji landed a mouton shot to his chest.

but most importantly...

where the fuck was his cat?!?

"i should have dressed first, huh?" the man says through a pained groan. sanji somehow found himself feeling sorry for him, but only for a split second, because he was back to glaring at the stranger as menacingly as he could. sanji watched him warily, trying his best not to stare at his bare chest.

"who are you and what have you done to my cat?"

the man decided then to open his eyes and sanji let out a small gasp.

gray eyes.

his marimo had gray eyes exactly that shade.

"you know, don't you?" the man says, not looking the least bit afraid even after sanji literally kicked him in the chest. sanji backed away when he stood up, the blanket still wrapped loosely around his frame. "you know who i am, cook."

"no i don't!" but even sanji could admit that his tone wavered with each step the man took towards him. "if this is some fucking prank, i'll kick your ass again!"

"careful, curly." the man smirks, baring razor sharp fangs. "cats like to scratch."

and within the blink of an eye, the man was gone. an indignant meow sounded from the pile of blankets at sanji's feet. without really thinking, sanji knelt down and lifted the blanket up. marimo laid there, limbs paws tucked up against his body, and licking one of his paws nonchalantly.

"please tell me i'm dreaming," sanji murmured, running a single hand through his hair. marimo just tilted his head at him, slinking out of the blanket fortress and onto sanji's lap. sanji looked down and saw marimo staring straight up at him, those same gray eyes he saw on the stranger boring holes into his soul. sanji couldn't bring himself to look away.

because something tells him that he might get a visit from the green haired man again very soon.

or maybe he never left.

#back at it again with brainrot but this time CATS #zoro my favorite little shit cat #niki's fics: purrfectly impurrfect #i hate myself for that title take this keyboard away from me #roronoa zoro #vinsmoke sanji #sanji #roronoa zoro x vinsmoke sanji #zosan #one piece #one piece fanfiction

104 notes · View notes

see-arcane · 30 days

Text

Blood of My Blood: Never Loved

One more Blood of My Blood cinderblock for you @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush. Put on your most dramatic breakup song playlist.

Summary: Castle Dracula is abandoned. By son, by subjects, by its Master. The latter finds himself dwelling in the dirt and dark as he waits to strike the English shore once again. Thinking on traitors and thieves. And on his dear friend, who makes him bleed still into the grave earth.

Warnings for: Violence, coercion with and without hypnotism, and domestic abuse.

He woke with a draining ache behind his eyes. A worse one in his chest.

The surprise had gone out of this nights ago. Anger rushed over the sensation like a balm. More, he rushed toward anger. Spurred it, stretched it, wrapped it around himself like a gossamer membrane. It would thicken as the night wore on and his mind roamed its new gamut of bile and rage, snapping at itself until the sky overhead should have roiled in time with his internal tempest. But no. Only favorable winds here. Not that such winds were wholly necessary now. He and his grave earth rode a ship without sails. How fast the mortal mites and their innovations worked in this age.

Jonathan had spoken of traveling by one. An idle comment in their talks of England. One of many. The travel, the choice of estate, the precautions needed to counter the possibility of a second attempt to thwart the setting down of roots. Always in that measured way. Always with the mien of one laying out itinerary rather than laying the foundations of an invasion. Always looking his Master in the eye. Always with that sad grey shade in his pallor, the face of a man who hates his work and knows the alternative is worse.

Poor villain against his will. Poor martyr. Poor Jonathan.

Thunder grumbled high overhead. He heard voices through his box, warm bodies exclaiming and jumping. One of them was close. There was a spiced whiff of cigar smoke. A cheap odor.

Not like the ones you gave him. He dropped so many vices after the boy was born. Smoke and drink vanished from his lips overnight. Just in case they might have tainted him somehow. Spoiled the blood. You told him it was nonsense. Even she did. But he would not have it. Not until this year. He used his allowance for one single box of cigars; cheap, like the ones he’d had back in his shriveled nothing-life in Exeter. You caught him at it in January. Within the month he found the little box gone, replaced by a pack of Romeo y Julietas. One, maybe two a month since then. And what did he say when you asked him why? Why return to the habit now?

“Almost time,” he’d said. That’s all. “Almost time.”

He had pressed Jonathan on it. Oh, gently, gently. Barely a nudge of the mesmer; because he’d thought he already knew.

Jonathan had looked at him through the coiling smoke with those dead starlit eyes. The same glowing shade of the ghost-light on St. George’s Eve. And he had simply raised his hand to his chest, rubbing the place over his heart as if there were still a crucifix to wear there. Worry and sorrow had rolled off him like cologne.

“I may as well, Sir. I think I am saying good-bye to it this year. In whatever way.”

And oh! Oh, what an idiot child he had been in that instant! Later that night he had laughed aloud at himself. He had actually felt a pang of fear. Had even strained his ears to be sure of his friend’s heartbeat. It had drummed steadily enough, he thought. Mostly. Steady, but thin. Always thin, for the tide of his blood was necessarily fickle by his exsanguinations, but…

But you did not know for certain if there was some threshold near to being crossed. You’d never had a case like Jonathan Harker before you. Not even to experiment with. Why bother? You never thought in terms of keeping a single body as your reservoir when you were content to either starve or glut yourself at random. No one like Jonathan existed to you until he offered himself up as the living meal to you and two other hungry mouths for twenty years. And, childish thought, you’d wondered if he could do thirty. Longer. However long the charade could last before the inevitable came and you bled yourself back into him, feeding him from your heart’s blood to end the game of humanity and lock him in your thrall. And then, finally, you would get to see him drink. Master’s orders, my friend. Gorge yourself.

But that presupposed there would be no issue come the time of turning.

That this state, the ghoulish and gauntly haunting form that existed on the line between life and death, was not itself a spoiling factor in the process. Would the rules change if he died as this creature? Would he rise at all? If he did, would he be a Vampire or something else? Something still beholden to his Master only because he was chained by love and not the unshakable tether of being sired into undeath?

He did not know.

Having acknowledged that he did not know, he had almost ripped the cigar from his friend’s mouth so that he might force the man to drink from his veins that second.

Jonathan had seemed to read this in him. He tapped his ash into the tray with something very nearly like a smile.

“No, Sir. Not now. There is every chance I could be wrong. Perhaps it’s age alone whispering to me. Many men start to dwell on these things once they reach the 40-year mark. So I was always led to assume. For myself, I remain shocked that I have lived this long in the first place. I only feel as if there is now a clock ticking somewhere in all this. That it will end before the year is out because…”

He had paused to puff and shrug.

“…because it must end. Either because this state is finally preparing to collapse or because, with three adults to feed, I have begun to deplete too much to sustain the meals and myself.”

It was true. The boy was now a boy only in feeling. Somehow the calendars had piled up and the child was now a young man. Careful with his Papa—and no, even now he did not envy the boy learning his Lesson from his mother the night his adolescent hunger had slipped too far and left the man as pallid as his hair—but still taking more than he ever had in his boyhood. He and his mother had agreed in silence to feed a little less, alternating on their meals each feeding. Even he had stopped short of a full draught more than once. And it was not enough.

Still, Jonathan had been unperturbed. His Master had thought little of that calm. Time had not broken so much as smoothed him. An unfinished stone sanded and shined by a waterfall’s endless pressure until what had been his nightmare was reduced to mundanity. Ah, he woke to the New Year feeling that death was imminent? Hmm. A shame. May as well enjoy a smoke first.

Months passed since that scene. Though his blood did not change, his mien did. Each turn of the calendar’s pages brought some unknown weight down heavier and heavier on him. Distraction drew his attention away, his ghost-light eyes blazed like warning flares in the dark sockets, he lost himself for minutes or hours at a time at the desk, and once, in the far end of March, his Master had caught him weeping silently while eating. A tear would roll every few bites. Savoring and saying farewell at once.

Whether this unknown mortal clock really was ticking or not, his friend believed in it. Felt it was real enough to say his good-byes to human sensation. Such a fuss, his Master had thought. Tried to think.

You did try. Truly, painfully, you tried to make yourself laugh. Jeer. Hold to certainty and joy at the approaching finality. Humanity shed to give your friend his stalled eternity. Still, you caught yourself worrying. Wondering. What if something went wrong? What if something was wrong already? What if, ha, he was making plans to short you at the last? What if he had made plans with some conspirator in the towns to pierce his heart and take his head? What if the turning somehow did not take at all? What if, what if, what if?

What if indeed. You fretted so much over those months, old devil. You worried about every little thing that might go wrong before you made your move. Before you ended the game and took your prize and burned the nuisance of mortality on the pyre it deserved two decades ago.

The prize you never thought was waiting at the end of someone else’s long game.

He made a noise into the soil. A coughing bark of a laugh. Out in the cargo hold, the smoker stirred.

“Hello? You down here, Mikhail?” He leaked himself out of the box. Fog to flesh. The smoker squinted in the half-gloom, coming closer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he echoed. The smoker swung around to face him. There was not much to face, as he stood still in shadow. He watched the man’s brow furrow. Trying to squint his way toward recognition.

“Who are you? One of Arnold’s new boys?”

“No,” he answered, stepping into the glow of the man’s lighter. The squint turned to a gawking mask of horror bordering on disgust.

“Jesus,” came out in a gasp that reeked of cheap smoke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Trouble at home,” he admitted with a flash of teeth. Within a blink, he was tearing into the man’s throat. He inhaled blood and cigar fumes until he was iron-grey, until he was at his prime, until he was a youth. Hating the taste with every gulp. Unable to glut himself further, he sighed and twisted the man’s head off. The heart he tore out with more relish than he preferred to admit. He crushed all three pieces of the body as if crumpling paper and did not rise to the deck until he sensed it was unoccupied. Up he went, tossing the balled up remains into the waves. “My thanks,” he whispered after it.

The corpse had provided him with something like a lackluster disguise. A jacket to match the rest of the seafarers.’ He hoped the sight of it might let him go unbothered on deck. Though it was an easier thing to simply slip back down to the cargo’s shade, he wanted the openness of the night and the sympathetic frown of the moon peeking through the clearing clouds. He looked up to it now the way a drunken man sulked up to his barman. A barman who had waned a few phases since he was last seen.

The moon had been so full the last time he saw Jonathan. Rather, times.

Once while alive. The other…

“Which one are you, then?” Swallowing a curse, he slid his gaze to his right. A man with a flask stood there, pausing mid-sip to scrutinize him. His lip curled as he gestured with the liquor. “Who said you could have hair like that and work a vessel, eh?” He did not pause for an answer before shaking his head and taking a full drink. “Arnold’s getting sloppy if he’s hiring from…from…” A cloud of hazy concentration came and went on the ruddy face. “What? The Nordics? The Slavs? One of those lots with hair to their knees.”

He did not answer. Only looked again to the moon. He imagined the wedge of it gazed back at him with apology. The man blundered forward a step, reaching to take him by the shoulder.

“I’m talking to you, boy—,” A callused hand passed through his shoulder like mist. For it was. The flask made a tinny sloshing sound as it struck the deck. “Oh.” It was a small sound. The frightened moan of a child in a rancid dream. Feeling the moment warranted it, he turned his young man’s head to fully face the man. Letting him see the maimed display of the left eye. The dried maroon crust that streaked his cheeks. The man made another noise, even reedier. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Arnold never said anyone died on this one. It’s too new, he said.” His throat worked like a thin tangle of pulleys. Bloodshot eyes bulged. “The Persephone’s only been on the water three years and no one’s ever…”

“Newness is no guarantee against death any more than age is a guarantee against foolishness,” he grated out.

“Right. Right, of course, apologies. I’ll just—I’ll just—,” the man didn’t seem to know what he’d ‘just’ for several tediously agonized seconds. But, between the drink and the rarity of the moment—How often did one cross paths with a spirit, after all?—his feet remained anchored. Then, “…How did you die?”

Of idiocy. Here and now. Requiescat in pace.

“I was betrayed. Over a woman.” Sour needles pricked along his throat. “Over a child. The years made me blind. Soft. Comfortable. So certain that all was in order, that I held everything in my hands. But I lived among thieves without knowing it. I woke one night to find all that was mine was gone, stolen, and the one I had handed my heart threw it away as though it were the sole piece of filth that could not be bothered with. And then…” He gestured to the mark upon his face. His eye now a ball of blazing arterial red set in a spray of wild scarring from the lightning bolt. Even after a deep meal, he felt that the damage had scarcely receded. Had he not twisted in time, the blast would have struck him square through his skull.

The wretched woman had fine aim.

And that’s not all she has, is it?

“Sorry to hear it, son,” came from his right. The man had retrieved his flask again. It winked like tarnished silver in the moonlight. Though his face showed a bleary bafflement as to what exactly the manner of death could have been, he went on, “And here I figured the worst that could happen to a man at sea was drowning.”

“Terrible ends can happen anywhere. But if it saves you worry, I will not remain on this ship forever. I will disappear once it docks in England.”

“Reckon you’re off to haunt the bastard who did this to you?”

“Not yet. First I must go to my son, who they sent away all oblivious to their work. Then,” his hand drifted of its own accord to his chest, dipping under the hanging coat to feel at the lump in a high pocket. It sat cold and out of place there, like an elaborate little tumor. Touching it brought back the pain to his chest and eyes. “Then I shall see to the traitors.”

“Cannot say I envy them.” Another sip, nearing the bottom.

“Few would. They thought me a monster to slay together. But they have yet to meet the worst of me. For they grew comfortable too, seeing me docile, hospitable, giving them my home and my love and a thousand allowances that no other in my life has ever wrung from me. Yes, I will haunt them. I will hunt them. And I will deliver to them a recompense so much worse than death.” The man was trying again to drink from his flask and finding himself thwarted. “Empty?”

“Afraid so. Do you ever miss that, being dead? Getting to drink?”

“No. I still drink. But I am full for the evening.” He bared his teeth in a gleaming crescent. Some of the man’s crewmate still stained his fangs. He watched the man’s face abruptly lose all its tint. “I am glad you got to enjoy your own. It is a rarity not to face this part sober.”

So saying, he plunged his hand into the man’s chest. He twisted out the heart with the ease of one plucking a ripe apple from its bough. The man croaked out only a small noise at this. Nothing more than a damp little bleat, smothered by the steady roll of the waves. He was still gawking at his heart in one clawed hand while the other snared him and hurled him overboard. The sound of the splash was nothing. Sighing, he shrugged off the apparently useless jacket and cradled the heart in it to prevent a drip. Back to the cargo hold it was. Down to the dark and the dirt and—

He left it waiting for you. Even in the midst of all the confusion, the haste needed to get out, to be gone, he made sure to leave it right there in the sow’s coffin.

The cold lump shifted in its pocket.

He bit down a curse as his eyes stung, burned, boiled.

A roost was made in the furthest corner of the hold. The heart sat in his hands. Huge and dense with old smoke and liquor and fatty seaside meals. He’d lied to Jonathan before, about how certain consumed vices changed the blood’s quality. There was no alteration in what it fed, but the taste shifted. Between the crewmate he’d siphoned and the swollen muscle in his fingers, he realized he was indulging in the nearest thing he had to slovenly eating after a hard day. He took an experimental taste of a ventricle.

Immediately acrid. A rich and awful tang that ran to the back of his throat.

Nothing like the spigot that had flowed for him like careful clockwork for two decades. So meticulously tended by diet, by caution, by the vessel it sprang from. Twenty years of ambrosia meted out in scheduled mouthfuls and the occasional drop snuck between meals, as was his right.

“No, my friend, not the wrist. The boy would know someone was taking extra. And from his own plate! So to speak. Undo your collar, you know she will not complain…”

And Jonathan had. The brilliant eyes sliding away from his Master as he stole one, two, three, four or more little tastes from neck and shoulder, collarbone and breast. A single sip from each bite. He had not even winced. Not until Jonathan’s Master brought his mouth up to his face. Printing the blood there like a girl with her kiss’ lacquer. It had taken his Master’s hand around his jaw to make Jonathan turn and face the second one, pressed into his own lips. Eyes shut against the threat of a trance, mind fluttering frantically out and away.

He had let him then, back in those early nights. Always so shy, his Jonathan. Even after the whirlwind of that long-ago summer, the thresholds crossed and barriers erased for the sake of playing his Scheherazade, still he quailed from the gentler edges of his better. Hiding up in his head or in his Master’s teeth or under the flimsy shelter of his duties whether they were self-assigned or not. Anything to not accept what lurked and grew under the veneer of mere surrender to an enemy.

Had that too been a trick? Laying bait the way his Master had once drawn the hunting dogs back to his genius loci with the woman already tainted?

A Wolf did not chase if the prey did not run. And he did love to chase. To play. Up to a point. He had tried more than once to smother the overgrowing feeling in him as the years marched and his friend continued to drop his eyes and tense away from tenderness. When that failed, he told himself it did not matter. He owned his friend through the woman and their son, and whatever performance he sought—the rent owed to many a charitable landlord, really—could be ordered from him.

And he had ordered it.

In specific, he had, on a particularly maudlin night, ordered his friend to kiss him as he would her. He would know the difference. He’d leeched through her senses on occasion when they were, quote, ‘alone’ together. Sometimes he thought Jonathan even saw him staring out of her eyes. Or else the woman simply gave him away by some private sign or other. Whatever the case, Jonathan had never once withheld his love with her.

So, the order. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. An order given without even a trance to smooth the act, just to see how he would muscle past the walls of indignity and a lover’s loyalty as he had back when he thought he had been charming for his life in their supple sabbatical once upon a time.

Instead, a magic trick.

Between one blink and the next, Jonathan had been the self he reserved for the woman. Even the smile kept for her had been there. A necessary prelude to the hands that bookended his Master’s face and pulled him level. Just like that, there were their mouths together. Not the press of a patient doll’s lips as its owner mashed themselves there in pantomime of intimacy. If he had not known better—

But Jonathan made sure he did. As soon as the kiss elapsed, he’d receded into himself. Less a tortoise into his shell than a closing fist praying not to be pried open lest the treasure in it be snatched away again.

“Was there anything else, Sir?” asked in the rug’s direction. Shame and a miserable whiff of apology yet-to-be had stamped him. He would throw himself into making amends to the woman, of course. Whether or not he wounded her with tattling on this little service, he would meet her with whatever kindnesses he could muster that were not already given. It was one of many moments in which he was convinced that his friend would give of himself until he was down to bones and then try with his last breath to gift someone his ribs. “Sir? Am I dismissed?”

He was not. All at once, his Master had a list of tasks for him to perform over the course of days. Weeks. Months. A year and more. And was that not where the mistake of it all had begun? The willing leap at addiction? Commanding his friend, his immaculate actor, his Scheherazade, into a hundred little indulgences. And not just in matters of sampling each other. Sometimes he would wring whole nights out of the man, without even the boy to perform for, trapping him by the fire or in a moonlit room or down in that half-secret glade by the stream where they played hunter and hunted and hid together from the walls of domesticity, spurring his friend into the easy and smiling talk of companions, of intimates, of…

Go on, old devil. You can admit it. Why not? What point is there in pretending he did not perform so well as to leave you reduced to this?

Fine.

Talk of those in love.

Yes, he had used the exact word. More than once.

Do this, do that, do any and all these things as if you loved me. Just as you do her.

And Jonathan had. Always with the bracing misery before and the shuddering withdrawal after. But he served his Master’s wants. He did so with such an ease that his Master had invented half the trap himself; he had convinced himself somewhere that he was giving his friend permission to do what he truly wished to do, freed from the yoke of duty and fealty to the woman, to his morals, to his sanity. Yes, that was it. He was giving his friend release. Lifting away the leaden weight of his beloved martyrdom and letting him know, yes, it was alright, he could want something other than what was ‘right’ or ‘good.’ What had such scruples brought him besides pain? God and humanity no longer had a place for him or his family or his love; that bottomless fount that had more to give than his veins ever would.

Here, my friend, I will take it. I will catch it all as it spills. Love me. Love and be happy. It’s alright.

The cold lump in his pocket felt heavy and frigid as a glacier on his chest. Scrubbing his hand clean on the jacket, he fished the hateful treasure out of its home and glared at it in his fingers.

A brooch the size of a dove’s egg. Antique gold ringing a garnet of such brilliance it might have been frozen claret. Splitting it was an ornate dragon, rampant, seeming to cling to the stone like the mythic hoards of legend. One of few mementos kept in his bedchamber from mortal days and nascent immortal nights that had gone sour in recalling their joy. He had taken it from its hiding place of velvet, shined it until it glowed, and, at the end of another race through their wilds, another capture, another victory drunk from the won throat…

“You have been here five years. Yet still I get word that you are not always recognized as being in my service.” This was fractionally true. At least in the sense that he knew there was a certain level of laxness that existed between Jonathan and a handful of those he did business with in the towns. Little mistakes or a dragging of feet on assorted exchanges and services that his friend would try to paper over with excuses on their behalf.

Once, only once, he had even tried to get away with hiding a newcomer’s attempt to swindle him outright. He had only seen a tourist of means with an Englishman’s lilt and tried to rob him over a new toy for the child and a novel for the woman. Jonathan had not pushed back, only gutted his allowance while the seller’s neighbors threw their shocked and silent looks. Perhaps that would have been the end of it but for Jonathan idly mentioning the encounter to the woman as they shared his bed post-feeding, thinking little of it. His Master, listening through her, had thought otherwise. Enough to find and inform the seller of his misstep personally. The next time Jonathan went to town he came back somewhat shamefaced with a burden of extra wares given ‘as a courtesy.’ The peasants were careful to point him out to new citizens ever-after.

All this in mind, Jonathan had looked at him oddly over the excuse.

“If that is the case, it has not hindered me in any way. The people have been nothing but gracious when I come through.” Gracious and afraid, he knew not to say. His Master had shooed the words away like flies.

“You remain ever lenient, my friend. You would apologize to the wheels of a carriage as they ran you over. It is for your own good that you must wear this, lest you and your goodwill are trampled by the opportunists among the chattel.” Out had come the brooch. “You will have this visible at all times. Be it to clasp on your coat or wear at your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes, S—,” A look was caught. No, no. He knew the rule out here. Away from mother and child. “Yes, balaurul meu, I understand.”

Not well enough, of course. Not even when he was made to sit still, his chin up so that his Master could pin the thing in place. No, he had not understood then. Not until the next night when he took his place in bed for the family meal. There he had sat, undoing his shirt collar—with the brooch nowhere in sight. Not before the feeding. Not after he buttoned himself up with strengthless fingers. Not even on his nightstand.

The boy and the woman had looked up with curiosity and ire respectively when Father hadn’t taken his usual leave for the saccharine post-bleeding period with Papa. Papa himself had looked concerned and lost. No one had made a mistake, had they?

“Father? Did you want to stay too?” from the boy. A thread of worry in his voice, as was natural whenever Father deviated from his routine, but far more of eagerness. Father so rarely lingered overlong with the entire family in the room. And, he would admit it, it stung to deflate the child’s hope.

“I am staying,” he’d said, “But you and your mother must go for a time. There is something important I must speak with Papa about.” There had been some bristling at that. But he had yanked the woman’s leash and the woman had taken the boy away by the hand, thinking soft assurances and lies at him until they were out of the tower. Jonathan, dear oblivious Jonathan, had peered at him with genuine confusion.

“What is it? Has something happen—,”

His Master had flung the full weight of the trance into him like a boulder. A boulder that became a crushing fist around the flailing mote that was Jonathan’s ostensibly free will. Having hold of it, he wrenched his friend up to his feet and prodded sharply at his mind until he turned to where he’d stored the brooch. There, the wardrobe. Go. Fetch.

Jonathan had managed two steps before the weakness of his emptied veins dropped him to hands and knees. He crawled the rest of the way. Staggered back upright. Worked the doors open and shuffled with trembling hands through the hanging clothes. Here was the coat. There, fastened at the chest, was the brooch. He fumbled at it with twice the difficulty of fastening his shirt. So much so that it pricked his thumb bloody and slipped through his fingers. He made a small despairing sound before falling back down on his knees, searching in the shadows and shoes for it. When his hand finally closed on it, his Master tugged again at his mind, ordering him back the way he’d come. Across the floor, up into the bed. Holding the brooch.

His Master tugged again. Jonathan held the brooch out on his palm. The one now striped and smeared from the bleeding thumb.

“What did I tell you to do with that, Jonathan Harker?”

“To—to wear it in town—,”

“No.” He’d paused to watch Jonathan’s face. The shift of expression that sketched such a perfect epitome of dread, especially in a bloodless face. “I said, You will have this visible at all times. And where was it instead? Thrown away, out of sight, out of mind. Is it not so?”

“N-No. No, I did not mean to—,”

“Must I make it simpler for you? The boy still has the collar he never bequeathed to the trapped wolf. I am certain it would fit you. The emblem would never be misplaced again.”

“Sir—,”

“Do you think I gave it to you as a whim? Another token to cast aside, to ignore like all the rest you are showered with all unconscious to, stewing in your precious stringency, self-deprived as a monk?”

“Please, I swear, I only thought—,”

“What? What did you think? Do tell.”

“I thought,” his voice caught and rasped, trying not to be a cough. “I thought it was meant for strangers. As something official, part of a uniform. I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t know it was…” But here the words dried and his face showed again that crumpled confusion. The pain of a kicked dog unsure of what mistake he’d made, only knowing he had erred. Jonathan’s eyes had found his Master’s, as much plea as fear.

What? the look begged. What is this? What did I do wrong? I cannot act without my lines.

There was no questioning of his Master’s anger. Such storms were known to pass and one could only brace and weather them. This was all he knew.

But you knew better, didn’t you, old devil? It took you a moment to catch up to yourself. To truly admit it to your own mind, even knowing from what happy old era’s dust you fetched the thing from. You made no ceremony of it. You buried the giving of it in a disguise. But the meaning was there even as you fastened it to him without fanfare, without warning. All you did was stitch an importance to the ornament that was invisible to him. And look where it led.

Jonathan hadn’t blood enough in him to hold rigid as he usually did before his Master’s moods. He shuddered even as he fought to be still. Afraid. Cold. Eyes of pale blue glass pinned to his Master, searching desperately for a reason to it all, for the thing he must make amends for.

Still with his hand outstretched. The brooch in a bloodied palm.

Just as it is now. Here in the brine-scented shadows. It looked more precious in his.

It had.

Jonathan had kept the hand out even as his Master joined him on the bed. As his Master plucked the brooch up, tasting it clean of the red stain, then kissing away the same from the bleeding thumb. As his Master gently tilted the quivering chin up and fastened the emblem in its proper place. As his Master did not move except to close the last of the gap between them, stroking the white curtain of hair from his brow.

“I am sorry, draga mea. You did not know because I did not explain. It is too easy to forget you are the only one here who does not go walking into others’ minds. So often you fool us all into believing otherwise.” The stroking hand traveled down to trace Jonathan’s jaw. No longer shaking. Not as badly, anyway. “You did not recognize that it had a mate, did you?” Jonathan turned his head an inch, frowning. His Master tilted up his own chin. For a moment, more confusion. Then realization.

The stone worn at his Master’s throat had no beast stretched across the stone. His was a coil that encircled it entirely, an ouroboros of a dragon.

“I know that rings are the tradition. But you are a creature of loyalty and I did not wish to test my Harkers’ ire in demanding you remove the gold band for something of mine, be it a signet or a stone. This is as close as we can come the way we are. At least until the night of consummation. Baptism. Whatever you prefer.” He trapped Jonathan’s eyes with his. “When that time comes, we can talk of more classic rites, insofar as our arrangement allows for such things.”

Jonathan had nodded at this. Perhaps tried to speak. A ‘yes, Sir’ seemed to snag on his tongue. The shock was too much to work around on his own, so his Master hoisted him over it with a final hook of the mesmer and gave him words to say:

“Of course, balaurul meu. I look forward to it.” His mouth had snapped shut around the last word, pallid eyes huge and almost teetering in their sockets. He was shaking again. Ah, it was too much as he was, poor thing. His Master had left him swaddled in another blanket, asking if he was prepared to see mother and child now. Jonathan could only nod, his hand rising and falling away from the space before the brooch. As though he feared the thing would bite him.

Good.

Good enough, you reasoned. He would grow into it. He would accept it. He had accepted it already. Enough that you had to deal with a particularly entertaining round of aftermath from the woman’s mind. For all her collaring of herself when she had to grovel for something—and was her own peasant’s past not fine training there?—the Vampire of her could not be smothered when it came to theft. Not even sharing! This, when you could have ordered the ring off him. Could have had him write up divorce papers for the dead, if only as a prop to hang in the office. But then the boy would have questions. Perhaps even tears. Was Papa not allowed to love more than one parent? It would not do. To think you offered to let her be Maid of Honor.

Amusing fireworks had ensued.

They had cooled, he thought, as the years continued to stack. On and on until the end of their second decade made its way to them. Jonathan never misplaced the brooch again. The woman appeared resigned to joint custody of both her Loves in her sullen way. And the boy, his little diavol, barred from full knowledge and unhappiness, had grown to manhood under their care.

A fine excuse the latter had made.

He thought back to it now. That last scene with the grey and ghastly shape of his friend in his surreal mortality. Another cigar lit, the smoke curling out the library’s window. What a strange image he’d made. He had looked like…

A month or so ago he had found his friend thumbing through an American magazine of all things. Some publication or other that had made its way across the Atlantic and the Channel to join its English siblings. It had been one of his few vices over those latter years, catching up on the newsworthy pulses that beat outside their mountains. The American one had shown an advertisement at the back. A rather charming illustration of a man in what had to be a modern eveningwear suit. Arrow Collar and Shirts for Every Occasion the image declared.

Jonathan had seemed to be a macabre translation of the man posed in the picture.

Seeing this, an abrupt needle of mourning had pierced his heart. Twenty years of feeding had made his friend into this wasting enigma. Twenty years of allowing the arrangement to unspool on and on without end, simply for the fact of Jonathan continuing to breathe and bleed unimpeded, as if his will alone were enough to hold his half-life existence together. Twenty years of letting his friend’s incessant need to give of himself down to the marrow get in the way of sense. Of what was right. Of what was long past due.

How did you allow this? How did you agree to let this carry on so long? Look at him, look at the calendar. So many years lost in which he could have already been what he was meant to be. Why? For your agreement? For the charade of the bitter conqueror taking his consolation trophy? It made sense at the start, perhaps. Those early years of gloating. It was your due. But once the sting was gone, once it became clear what he was to you under the vitriol of old, what excuse was there to drag this on, to make a living ghost of him? What excuse is there now? Look at him, old devil. Look at him and think of what he could have been, should have been, for the last quarter of a century.

And he had. He’d stood in the doorway, staring, overlaying the haggard reality with what should have been. Here was Jonathan Harker, forever young, the flesh back on his bones, his eyes free of shadows and crimson as an opened throat. Jonathan Harker, still and strong, a beautiful killing thing like a spider waiting in its silk.

Instead, he was this. A ghoul waiting to find out the when and how of his death before the year concluded, seeming far deader than the thirsty revenants he called his family. The unfairness of it wrenched in his Master’s chest. Worse still was the hindsight of its pointlessness. As if this arrangement of the household had done anything but ruin his friend and cripple their son against the reality of the wider world waiting for them. He had even felt a twitch of pity for the woman, if briefly. She had lost her Love to the needs of their hunger and their Master’s whim, watching every year as that Love was shriveled and shifted into a wretched grotesquerie of what he ought to be. Her prized possession spoiled by mishandling and a refusal to simply tear their Jonathan free of his scruples and do what needed doing.

“Was there something you needed, Sir?” Jonathan had asked without turning. His eyes were on the moon. Full as a pearl.

“There was. Is.” His friend did not jump upon seeing him abruptly at his side. Nor did he turn his head. “You are almost replenished.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am.” A tap of ash. Still not taking his attention from the sky. “Did you wish to steal a drink ahead?”

“It is not stealing. Only taking what’s owed.” There was a soft sound of fabric pulling away. Jonathan had turned and froze. His Master had removed his own clasp and the cravat under it. Vest and shirt hung open. The skin above his heart was already cut open. “And giving what is long overdue.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary. Not already.”

“When, then? How much longer will you reduce yourself like this? They are beginning to go hungry even with your sacrifice, my friend. Mother and child both. But he is not a child anymore, is he? He is grown. He must feed as such. Yet he tries to feed only as a boy, just as his mother feeds in her little halved tastings. Even I have taken less than my share. All to bow to your craving for self-destruction. No more of it.”

“This seems somewhat—,” Jonathan first tried to sidle away from the sill, only to have himself caged back against the stonework by his Master’s arms, “—abrupt.”

“You have until you finish the cigar.”

“Case in point.” Another drag was taken, neither rushed nor prolonged. Jonathan blew his stream of smoke out into the breeze. Then, “Was that why you had so many of these on hand before? The food and drink and assorted sensory comforts?”

“Before?” Jonathan looked at him. Waiting for him to—, “Ah. Then. No, not precisely. There was an act to perform. Had it been Peter Hawkins there in your place, he would have had the same to consume before his…dismissal.”

“That’s what I mean. You were always planning to either ‘dismiss’ or ‘retain’ your solicitor of choice. You went out of your way to provide the equivalent cuisine and indulgences of a noble’s home, even when the reality of things had set in. I might have had, say, a week’s worth of fine dining and then bread and water from then on. But you kept at the kitchen regardless. Why was that?”

“To drop the quality would be to ruin the masquerade,” his Master said, wondering at the turned subject. Knowing not to be swayed. “Had you proven to be a lowly churl not worth my time beyond the completing of paperwork, you would not have eaten at all. The wolves would have had your bones for toys in the same week.”

“Mm,” another puff. Jonathan was halfway through. “My mistake, then. I had assumed you were interested in giving your pawn a long last meal before his life ended, permanently or otherwise. That or fattening the metaphorical calf. It was hard to imagine you enjoyed playing the role of host and staff without it being part of some standard habit.”

“So it might have been when you returned home.” Oh, only twenty short and endless years ago. Still with their enemies’ blood under his nails. Begging sanctuary for his Loves, bartering his own throat. Memories, memories. “For some reason, you seemed hesitant to trust my culinary skill a second time.”

“Yes, well. Blame that on a joke too many made about the wine and red meat on the menu. I’d not expected you to throw aside pretense to the point of…” Jonathan nodded at his Master’s bleeding chest. “…this.” More ash tapped over the stone sill. A third of the cigar was left. Jonathan’s eyes floated from the oozing cut to the moon. The effect erased all but the furthest edges of blue from his irises and made them into coins of silver. His brooch glowed like fire. “Do you know what I ate on my wedding night?”

Stop. Plug your ears. A trick. A trap. Laying bait again, old devil, do not listen, do not let him talk, do not hesitate, this is how he works, how he has always worked, how he has been the only one in all the infinite hell of your unlife able to steer the storm of you. In pain, in suffering, in servility or supplication, the silver of his tongue did more to tame you than any holy relic, and you knew it and you did not care, did not think to care, because he made himself satisfied with crumbs, with vapor, even when you tried to force bounty into his hands and down his throat, do not listen, do not wait, take him, own him, seize his mind and soul and senses now now now before it is too late—

But this was the bellowing of the present into the past.

All he could do in the ship’s dark was muffle his curses by biting into the bloated heart as the memory unfolded in all its hopeless reality.

“No,” he’d half-whispered to his friend. “You never said.”

“I had what I’d been having since I was taken in by the nuns. Broth and bread. Small simple soft things. I was half-dead then too, albeit in a different direction. Mina and I married and made love on my sickbed, in a rush of joy and tears and illness. I left our wedding venue with one hand in hers and another on a cane. Now I am here, twenty years on, with another marriage to begin in haste. The marriage that will also be my death knell. Lenore again, but without any hope of resting in peace.”

Jonathan watched his Master through his lashes.

“When I am drunk from a last time and I drink in turn, it will be the moment I say farewell to what is left of the good man who existed before I turned the kukri on those I trusted with my life and who I would have died to shield, had it not been for God putting my Loves on the same altar He set before Abraham. The last of that good man will die to the blood baptism, to an unbreakable chain of connection with what is reviled by the divine. Fickle thing that it is. But before I was a Christian, before I was taught the lie that God is absolute love, I already held Love as holy. I held kindness unto others as a mission. It hurt me then as it hurts me now to envision pain wrought on another without cause but profit or cruelty.

“But that feeling will be sunk into a spiritual chasm once I turn. Already I dropped a piece of it into the dark when I bloodied my hands. The rest will follow and I shall become a Judas not only to a select few, but to the whole of humanity. While I can see the logic in throwing myself into consummation for fear of turning back at the last second, I do not think I can stomach yet another threshold where I do not get to walk, but must hurl my way across. Another sprint, another crash into one world out of the last. I would ask—,” his throat had caught, eyes gleaming, “—I would like to have the day.” He cracked a sad smile. “St. George’s Day. A fitting hour to say good-bye to the good of me. And for our son’s birthnight, we shall have our last family meal. No meager shares. No restraint. I shall be too weak by then to hold off. And it will not be done behind closed doors. Behind my Loves’ backs, like another secret. Please.”

The eyes, the eyes, no power in them but what his Master put there, but they held and they drowned and pleaded for this, this last meal, this final allowance, and—

And you swallowed it. Inhaled it. Drank it from him like he’d slit himself open over your mouth. You did, old devil.

He had.

He’d looked his friend in the eye—eyes still vulnerable, still susceptible, still able to be hooked and pinned like the rest of him, ready to be stolen away into his thrall without another puff of the cigar left between them—and said, “Very well. But know that I will accept no hesitation tomorrow. No rescinding, no stalling, no last-minute dawdling. You make your good-byes to yourself tomorrow. Make your peace and apologies to the world if you must. But then I will eat the martyr out of your blood and fill the space with something better. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” This he said before taking his handkerchief from its pocket and wiping the dark smear from his Master’s heart. For almost a minute said Master held still enough to pass for a waxwork as Jonathan righted the shirt, the vest, the cravat. He took his Master’s brooch from a clawed hand that had turned suddenly feeble before pinning it to the silk. It wasn’t until Jonathan tried to pull his hands away that they were caught. “Was there something else?”

“Yes. You finished,” he’d nodded to the smoldering nub of the Romeo y Julieta, “and I will not go without something for my patience.”

“I need my hands if I’m to open my collar.”

“Everything I want is above the neck.”

“As myself? Or is this a commission, balaurul meu?”

“Surprise me.”

“Only if you do not bite your tongue.”

He’d not understood. Not until his face was brought down and he had seen the flash of parting lips and teeth and then—

You should have bitten your tongue. Should have trapped his head in your hands as he played at catching yours, should have bitten and fed yourself into him while he was snared. If he would dare lie to your face your deserved to bleed yours into his. Bastard. Delilah.

He thought these and a thousand curses even as he warred with the recollection of that taste, that consumption in two directions. What he had thought was a mere prelude to all the ages yet to come for them. Never thinking for an instant that it was only the last helping of honeyed poison. Even the sheepish fraction of a laugh that had left his friend was another dose of venom to numb him with.

“Forgive me. I just now imagined how we must look. An old man preying on the youth.”

“Indeed. You are still all but a gamin, draga mea. In any case, this is hardly novel for us, is it? Merely a change of position. A slow dance.”

“We must all be cautious about said dancing in England, you know. The laws are still—,”

“I am aware. Just as I know what lawmaking parties are at the top of my list to be invited to dinner once we secure the new estates…”

And they had talked. And talked. On and on toward the sunrise. Jonathan had insisted on taking himself to sleep lest he spend his grand farewell to humanity passed out the whole day. Away, Master, away. Shoo.

Off he had gone. Dense and careless.

Did you smell coffee on the way down? Did you? If so, did you think it only imagination or just shrug it away? Your friend, ever disdainful of wasting an hour. Fine, fine, let him wring St. George’s out in his way. What did you care? Fool.

The boy had still been up with his books and, he saw, some his Papa’s magazines. Odd. No less odd than seeing him return to the coffin rather than exercise his ability to doze where he liked; his miracle of a child, born alive and undead at once, able to sleep without a grave earth as bedding. Odd, odd. But he had not cared, had he? What reason was there to care when he had tomorrow night already dangling before his eyes?

The woman was already in her coffin, either sleeping or feigning sleep. He had not bothered to check. Had not cared whether she knew of her husband activity or not. If she now mulled the vision of her Master tasting what was hers, his, theirs, making plans for the future while she gathered dust in the chapel. How pleased he’d been. How sure.

“Father? Are you alright?”

The boy, the child, the son. His son. A young man who’d looked now so agonizingly like his fathers it sent a shamefully fond dart through his chest. Bless the fluke of the woman’s own features, kin of his kin, blood of his blood, by design or accident. He had smiled. Not grinned, not leered, but smiled with an ease he had forgotten he was capable of for so long. The look had made the boy’s face go even slacker with wonder.

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“You look different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You look…I don’t know. Not younger, but,” the boy had fumbled for a word, “lighter, I guess. Did something happen?”

“No. But something will. Ah-ah, no prying,” when the boy perked up in his coffin, “Go back to your books. You will know more tomorrow.”

“Alright,” came the half-false sulk. “Good-day, Father.”

“Good-day, diavol.”

And he had gone to bed in his tomb fattened on bliss and craving more.

And then.

Bastard. Delilah. Thieving scheming viper of a traitor.

So much accomplished and destroyed within a day and night. Oh, his treacherous Harkers. Had they only been loyal, been wholly his in mind as much as will, he would have drowned them in praise and prizes for such work against a foe. The patience of it all. The skill. The performance. It surpassed the immaculate and made him ponder for one dumbstruck instant in the midst of his rage whether they had ever been human and not some stealthy pair of incubi come to prey on him.

Such a theory was only an excuse, he knew. It would not do to whittle down their ability to that of mere imps. No, they were but a man and a woman, however altered now, and they had proved themselves to be of such sterling cores of concentrated resolve that their Master had laid barely a scuff mark upon their joint machinations all these years. Their labors had born an unthinkable fruit; one it would have doubly shamed him to behold had he been victim to anyone less canny. But no, no. He had harbored his Harkers for a reason. They were uncommon creatures. Singular. Rare pets he’d thought he could tame. And given another century, perhaps he’d have managed it.

But like the fool who mistakes a tiger for a housecat, he had let his guard down too soon. Too quick. A mere two decades. And now his beasts had bitten and torn and robbed him.

His boy, his son, gone inside a day. Shipped away and on toward the teeming masses of England. This alone had been enough to spur him on. Or would have been.

If not for the impetus that the clever sow and her stolen Lessons from the Mountain had brought down on his head. He had fled before the next bolt could strike. Running, running. Just as he had been running since missing the boy’s departure, since realizing he was the only one left in the castle.

What had actually come first? His mind still spun when he tried to concentrate things into a clear order. The entirety of that period was still a swimming blur in the way the events of a nightmare will reach the waking mind as disjointed pieces.

He had awoken to the nettling pressure of the wild rose upon his coffin lid. The annoyance, the struggle, the hard toss and soul-deep agony that had come with booting the thing off. The blossom crushed. A resignation letter crumpled under the cracked ebony of the lid.

He had known his son was missing.

He had thrust his mind throughout the castle and known he was abandoned in full even before he tore away the lid of the woman’s box.

He had seen the glint of Jonathan’s brooch left on her pillow.

He remembered a vision. Sent from her. Brief. Teasing. Baiting.

Jonathan looking upon her with exhaustion and exultation, with relief, with want, with Love. Drinking from her like a man in the desert finding his oasis. Just the two of them in that boxed dark of her coffin. Mere hours before he found them gone. Eloped. So to speak.

She had left a message for him too, though it had come later. The one that came firing out of the roiling sky he’d thought was solely his. Once again the bait had been too much to ignore, even in his hunt.

It had been him.

How long had it been since he’d first tried to claw his way back into the woman’s mind, into her senses? He could not say. Only that he had been shocked to find himself barred except when the moon was high. She had been hardening herself up from within. There was more of a fortress around her will within two decades than his first trio of Loves had built up in centuries. She had been playing lame all this time. Preparing. Working in the shadows cast by her the distraction of her husband. Sharpening herself all along.

What irony, that they had left Jonathan’s old toy behind. The forgotten memento left in its hiding place in favor of being out and away before their Master fell upon them. Before he thought to whip them into the chase after their child. He’d had the kukri on his hip when he came upon the mist. A tell-tale wisp made visible only by the flash of lightning.

You recognized the essence in it. You knew it and you knew what it would lead to. And still, old devil. Still you threw yourself after him, maddened as a Wolf outran too long by his prey.

Only now it was not a Wolf and a hare, a Wolf and a hart. This was the bitch’s dog, her hunting hound, made to race and tear and follow commands—but not his. Not directly. No lashing of his will into Jonathan Harker’s mind would slow him. No order, no threat, no curse found traction upon the spectral rush of him. Cloud and man and spirit and beast flitting away, away, away, a parody of the hunts of old down their hill. It seemed his friend had been playing lame too.

He knew the speed of the Vampire, as was natural. Man or woman, fit or ill before their change, would have roughly the same gait.

But where he and the woman held that equal speed, Jonathan Harker was lightning on the ground. What had he truly been before he was turned? What blight or miracle had he kept hidden under a guise of constant frailness? He had not cared enough to mull it then. It was simply another frustration for the pile. Another nettle, another spur. The whole of it grated to the point of torture as, idle as a child at play, Jonathan had slowed long enough to throw a look back over his shoulder.

Grinning. Mocking. And there, at last, his own internal voice flying back into his ex-Master’s face:

Have you truly grown so slow, Count?

Through trees, over hills, onward, away, steering him off course, away from where the coast waited. The ships. The boy on the other side of the Channel.

Again, you did not care. Once in bliss, now in wrath. You went blindly after. Never learning your Lesson, old devil.

I see you wear my knife. Is it for my head? Or is it just to let you pretend something of me will still hold you against my will?

His own mind had leapt out after the fleeting shape, all champing teeth and thunder. Not in words. There was too much anger to fashion into coherence. Only the intent made its way out. Hate-fury-hate-fury-hunt-catch-punish—

Mine!

It had slipped from him. Flown. Bright and cutting and horribly naked in what was both a craving and a declaration. Had his eyes stung? It did not matter. The thought-snarl came again.

Mine mine mine mine mine mine you are Mine as the boy is Mine as the woman is Mine and you You YOU were Mine first by right by claim MINE and I will not be robbed by her by you thief traitor bastard Delilah—

Here came an echo from the deepness of the past, that cruel Lesson that Jonathan had once taught them all as his preying family warred over the greater claim to him, tugging at his mind like spoiled children over the same plaything, and Jonathan had thought those horrid sharp thoughts, the woman think-scream-ordering…

You can't, Darling, no, no, no, never. Don't you take yourself away, no one can steal my Jonathan, not even you.

But now here he was. Jonathan stealing himself out of reach. Just out of reach. His claws had scraped the back of his shirt, a lock of his hair. Close. So close.

Never yours, Jonathan had thought back. Never. You knew it then, you know it now. If you were ever so oblivious as to think otherwise, my Darling would have been slain the moment the Conqueror became the Coveter. When it stopped amusing you to see us huddled together and instead began to fester. Red eyes turning green. Because you knew. For all you made us do, all you ordered from me, it was only possible because I belonged to my Love. First, foremost, always. While you were only ever the thief stealing from her bed.

A thunderclap above. A pounce upon the quarry below. Just slow enough. Just as they made it to the clearing.

They had tumbled and Jonathan had thrashed until he was pinned in the grass. His grin had curdled then, deforming into an expression barely an inch removed from that of a bat’s grimace. He did not look at his captor, but bared his teeth in feral loathing at the hands locked around his wrists. There was a hiss as the grips tightened; enough to have broken bones had he been human. Jonathan’s face contorted into a horror of twitching muscle, his fangs crowding with the spires of sharp neighbors that jutted out and snapped so close they might have torn a swatch of flesh from his ex-Master’s face.

“Off me,” came a glottal excuse for a voice. The quintessence of revulsion.“Off me get off me off OFF—,”

“No,” he’d grated back, daring the nearness of the rabid jaws simply to press himself nearer. The closeness itself seemed to repel another bite as Jonathan twisted under him. “I am Master of your Mistress, thief. I am lord of your lady. If she is above the Son, I am above All, and the moment I loop my thrall through her blighted skull, I shall make a noose of the collar your soul donned for her and drag you screaming by it.”

Thunder had rolled again. Louder, louder, until it had irritated. He could not hear himself aloud and was barely better in his mind.

Why so coy now, draga mea? You have missed the wedding night and your funeral! Not to worry. I have what you left for me. It will stick so prettily in your throat.

The sky roared. And its Master, its Weathermaker for over four-hundred years, puzzled at that. He was not ordering the tempest to make such a din. Under him, another change. Jonathan was still. The monstrous face smoothed. Still unhappy, but abruptly devoid of any emotion greater than disdain. Perhaps with a hint of disbelief.

“Even now you insist upon the act. I had thought you would finally drop your mask entirely for the sake of rage, but no. Still you insist on pretense as though sincerity were as great an anathema to you as Him.” The grimace shifted briefly to an upturned rictus. In a lilting voice, brittle and musical as tinkling glass, “You yourself never loved. You never love! Ha. Twenty years of playacting fooled me no more than it did them after half a millennium.” Jonathan’s face hardened again, the grin turned to a razor. “I will never return to your stage again, Dracula. No more acts. No more charades. No more using me and the imitation of affection as another thing to steal from her. We are all but finished with you.” His fangs bared to the gums with a smile. “Now comes the denouement, balaurul meu.”

Then, fired into his head:

This is the last time you will touch me.

And like that, Jonathan Harker was gone. Dissolved and slithered away with such speed he might have been a puff of smoke blown away by the storm. The thunder boomed again. Not by his will.

There was a sound almost lost under the noise. An animal’s cry. A bird?

He looked up, feeling the skim of something familiar—

Her, her, the woman, thief, wretched bi—

—and had only a heartbeat in which to notice first the silhouette of a great owl outlined against the clouds, then the bolt of lightning racing down to find him.

He had dodged. Not quite fast enough.

Not before the pain landed and made its home from face to neck to arm to everywhere, everything, every possible niche of being that could feel agony. A blast that would have killed a mortal man. Had it taken both eyes, the second bolt may have landed too. But he was not blind and so outpaced that one. And the next. The woman was trying to track his motion once again, the old reverse turned on her Master, but he threw up the wall of fire between them and shot away toward the waiting coast. Running from his own sky. His own creatures.

Now here he sat in the present. In the gloom and the sea-salt air, crammed hastily away with a bed of thin earth in a stolen crate, hunting after his own son while his subjects herded and hounded him, dancing through the gaps they had found in his grip upon them. The old tricks of his perished Loves who had known that his hold was not as complete upon a mass as he would have wished. Animal minds were simple to coerce. The Vampire was its wants before all else and that very nature could war with a Master or Mistress if the focus was split enough.

And his focus was in splinters now.

You would have laughed to see another suffer it, wouldn’t you, old devil? You took all that was hers once upon a time. Now she takes away all that is yours. Even your storm. Even the shapes of the animals. And him, of course. But then, he gave himself away. Is it not so?

“Silence,” he hissed to the cold mound of the heart. The blood was already starting to congeal within it. “Silence, damn you.”

If you have resorted to talking to yourself, you may do well to keep a diary of your own. Record your last nights for posterity.

He sat up quick enough to crack his neck.

I do apologize for the interruption, Jonathan hummed on. I can only assume you are terribly preoccupied. Either trying to pry into her head or trying to keep her out of yours. Even now, I remain banished to the outskirts of the conversation.

He felt himself smile for the first time in too many nights.

Oh, dear. His poor unschooled friend, who had not had needs or means to build up the walls as his wife had. Well. Let this be a Lesson for him then.

His own mind sprang upon Jonathan’s like jaws snapping shut. He felt the younger psyche spasm and raise phantom hackles at the intrusion. Scrabbling with an unpracticed grip at the Presence that bulled its way in, clawing, breaking, crushing his way across the waters that he could not pass in flesh, and then they were—

How do you like flying now, my friend? Everything you hoped it would be?

In the theatre of the mindscape he was launching himself and his catch back across water and shore and hill and mountaintop, wind whistling around false bodies. He was the Bat, Jonathan pierced a dozen times in his teeth. They were—

This is enough for me.

In the snow, the sun frozen an inch from setting, dead men watching as Jonathan brought down the kukri. Head, heart, limbs, over and over, carving and splitting. There was no collapse into elemental dust here. Only the mincing of a carcass. Even here, even wearing the skin of the living man he’d been, his eyes ran red. They were—

Ah, for a thief, still you go after too little. Let us at least be comfortable.

In Jonathan’s bed, each bite into his throat another night, and all those nights were his ex-Master’s. Kissing, mauling, drinking, sinking teeth to the gums. Only now his friend fought in his jaws. Jonathan’s teeth and claws tore at him as if he meant to shred him out of existence. To no avail. He was the practiced mind, the greater mind, greater will, and in mind and flesh his will was Law. But now he heard the whistle of air overhead, metal and timber swinging down. They were—

You still feel this one, don’t you? Mina feels the one in her throat on the same day it cut her. Does yours come like a blow at the end of each June? Again, Count, my apologies. You’ll not suffer the headache of me once your head is gone.

In the morning of departure. The shovel was in Jonathan’s hands, the edge bloody. No basilisk gaze pinned him now and his ex-Master’s brow was not merely scratched, but cracked like a grisly egg. The spade came down again. His ex-Master’s hand came up. They were—

But my friend, you know from experience how much I love to suffer you. To suffer for you. Saving—

In the ladies’ chamber, Jonathan torn out of three different suckling jaws as the dead Loves of old shrilled and grasped at him—

and sheltering—

In the grim first night, the woman in a deathly Limbo in Jonathan’s arms, the boy barely more than a twitching thought in her belly, on his knees, knife cast aside, bartering and pleading for the safety of his Loves, thankless and ungrateful already in his traitor heart—

and supporting you all this time. Even now! Do you think me angry for your little trick? Your theft? Your lies? Why, it is nothing but heartening! To think I ever worried you were too soft for the eternity ahead of you! You, so cunning and patient, laying your tripwire over twenty years’ worth of convincing me—me!—that you were a thing worth trusting. Once we clear up this mess with the boy and your pending penance, I could see you eating holes through whole countries with your sweet venom.

Jonathan was in his hand now. A cursing, struggling mote trapped in a fist the size of a small house. The hand tightened. Jonathan howled. Not with pain, for there was no real sensation here. But the revulsion was true enough. He fought and pried at the knuckles of his ex-Master’s grip as if trying to break free of a cesspit.

The fist broke into other hands. A hundred thousand flashes of as many memories, cold clawed touches finding him wherever they felt like landing. Not injuring, of course. Would he hurt his dear friend? No! Only come closer, draga mea, the better to see you, feel you, count your pulses, that is all.

Jonathan bayed and swung and shuddered in the flurry. Every forced turn of the head with a hand on his jaw. Every talon of a nail tickling along chin and throat. Every idle raking of hair or stroke of his shoulder. Every seized arm, caught hand, grabbed hip, rubbed back. All of these blasted Jonathan’s unvarnished hate and disgust through the shared plane of their mind. And the worst of them all had been—

There.

The window in the library.

Their last night as man and monster. When he had spoken his last lying promise and slipped it into his ex-Master’s mouth like candy. Only hate had been there. Hate, disgust, shame. The weight of it staggered.

He staggered.

Jonathan broke free, but did not run, pausing to bare psychic teeth.

I can feel your scandal from here, Count. Even had you been short all the hundred other evils I had to ignore, I think your hypocrisy alone would have nauseated me. How do you sit there stunned at the obvious? Did you seriously believe my mind so pliant a thing that it would ignore the cruelty you held over our heads at every hour and fool myself into think you capable of love? This, when we both know you only consented to the terms for the sake of my payment in pain. Another performance, meant to last all of eternity, as you reveled over how I sunk to nightly agony behind every measured word, every smile, every taste of me ‘freely given.’ Our precious little summer together made infinite.

Here was the crackling fireside, a client and his solicitor beside it, white hair and dark switched around again. One of the early nights to judge by the healing cut on Jonathan’s cheek, the newness of the shadows under his eyes. Eyes whose fear had been so carefully reined in as he’d goaded his host into talk of the land, of its history, of himself in the guise of ancestors. Rapt young thing. After, he had sat then as he sat now, trapped against the arm of the couch, his host almost crushing him into the tufting as the old devil purred incessant questions about what there was waiting for him in England. Were there others like Jonathan there? Ah, he should not build up his hopes too much, souls such as his young friend were a rarity in any place…

Now the pleasant-pleading eyes flamed. Running red again.

This here. Even before the Weird Sisters laughed the truth in your face and you insisted on a lie of a rebuttal. This game was the core of all the years to follow. And now you complain because I played it too well and ran away while you were having fun? Over four-hundred years old and still a petulant child throwing tantrums over a lost toy.

The castle fell away into the heart of a storm. Veins of lightning wound through the black of it as the ex-Master loomed over his subject, his vassal, his traitor, his—

A toy? This alone?

Jonathan was seized in thunderbolts. Marionette strings that burned scarlet.

This is what you think would earn my interest? My protection?

Jonathan bowed and danced and split his face with grinning as the strings pulled.

I could have that from anyone, Jonathan Harker. I could have had that from you for twenty years, no longer leaving the sword hanging above your head, but walking and talking you through every night while your mind sat bound and mute behind your eyes. I could have laughed in your face that November night after I had twisted your head off your shoulders and burned what was left of your wife on my fire. I would have too. If you were anyone other than yourself.

The strings were a net were a web. Jonathan strangled in it, unable to die, to move, to look away as the parade of that prelude to his life in Castle Dracula came and went before him. The deaths and undeaths, the pains and the promises. Mother and child, Master and vassal with the blood never clean from their hands.

All of this, my friend. All of this is because of you. You, who came to make the sale of Carfax. You, who refused to stay in your proper place among my lost Loves, waiting for my return and all the future I would bring. You, who set the hunting dogs upon me and so forced my hand with the woman. You, who faced the consequences of going among good men, pretending you were a mere hound instead of a jackal, striking them down for a Love you put above their mandates and their cherished divinity. You, who brought that Love to my door, groveling for the sake of your selfish heart.

You, Jonathan Harker. You are my equal in this ‘game’ you say I played. It is one impossible to play alone. If you had not baited me, not teased and strung me along, not made yourself into a vital thing to my heart rather than a mere curiosity, all would have ended swiftly.

Something shifted. He couldn’t say what. A tipping, a sliding. The fraying of some final tether left straining in his friend’s mind. Jonathan had despised his touch and shown it well enough. Jonathan had raged on behalf of his Loves and the slain and their life that would never be. Jonathan had even managed to offer wrath on his own behalf.

This was not that.

This was an incandescent, a righteous, a Holy conflagration of fury that turned the clinging threads to ash and boiled away the storm into a flaming void. For a moment, Jonathan was not Jonathan at all. He was only a blistering red light. The fire trailing behind him spread like wings, either those of Eros or one of the Fallen. Whichever he was, he seared in his ex-Master’s mind like a torch.

Your heart? YOUR HEART?

A hand of flame pierced him, cooking the centuries-old heart before it was torn out as a cinder.

Even now! Even in your own skull! Even with the stage forsaken and the audience of our son finally free, still you must shroud yourself in this act!? STILL YOU FEIGN KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE BEYOND USING IT AS COLLAR AND CUDGEL!?

Jonathan fractured then, an inferno of indignation and devotion, flaring with the memory of all he had cherished and loathed in his life. Mother and child for the former. His ex-Master for the latter. All smiled for, all made happy as he could endeavor. Yet only mother and child were given all of himself in earnest, their own love reflected back into him, keeping filaments of joy alive even as he brutalized himself with the conviction of his being a worse monster than they could ever be in potentia, deserving of nothing, of worse than nothing, of—

Flashes of his ex-Master, of his voice and embrace and the steady grinding away of his sanity and will and soul under the lord of the castle’s heel, crushed by the weight of self-loathing, dragged up and eaten again and again by the bottomless pit of his ex-Master’s want, of the threat that he must play the game or leave his family to suffer, of a conviction that all of this, every minute of every night, was no more than entertainment, a distraction to grow bored of and smash to pieces should he fail to cozen and serve and be a good Scheherazade ever-after. His penance for the dead men. For his wife. For their son.

That was all it was. All it ever was to Jonathan Harker.

The shock of it came on too quick and too heavy for its owner to catch before it tumbled into the mindscape. It shattered open as it fell and showed all that had been true behind its owner’s eyes. Twenty years’ worth of truth. What he had taken for truth.

The woman, no longer even dreamt of as a companion, but a brittle-bitter comfort. A sibling he had never asked for, but could not deny for her use in keeping his own barbs sharp and for the guarantee of what she anchored to him.

The boy, so suddenly grown, his love uncomplicated and real and awed, an experiment fostered and festering, burrowing into his Father’s heart as blithely as an insect left to gratefully build its nest in the home of a welcoming corpse.

Jonathan Harker.

The keystone against which the sheltering of mother and child, the performance played for the boy, the willingness even to entertain the farce in the first place, all leaned. Why? Why, when he would not have suffered any other victim, any other enemy, any other dear friend to wring such a feat from him like blood from a stone? Why, unless..?

He could not hide it. Could not bury it. Could not raze or deny or shred it into dust. It was too loud, too vivid, too strong. Too starved.

It lunged at Jonathan like its own living thing, an excited Wolf gone mad with hunger, seeing the only thing it wished to eat. Raced, leapt, pounced, dissolved into a frantically grasping wraith of red tears and a heart, unburned but hanging open and raw in its cleaved chest, coiling around Jonathan’s mind and forcing the reality of itself down his throat. Choking on it, the fire of Jonathan Harker went out. Only the man—what had been a man—was left. Staring.

Now would come the laughter. The insult. The dismay. The sour-mocking questions. Oh dear, old devil. Had he really tripped and fallen so? Had he really dared to think that the feeling was returned?

Jonathan, no longer flame or fury, only stood in the black of their shared mind. Still staring. Still…

The shock was not just his ex-Master’s.

The void cracked and splintered. Now. Now the laughter would come. Now another act. Now a sardonic bat of lashes, a false swoon, a coo of cloying flattery, or else the woman herself would dare to graze his mind with her own, the better to jeer alongside her Love, yes, yes, any moment now. Now. Now.

Count. I did not know.

The laughter did not come. No act. No sneer. Not even a ripple of disgust. Nothing. Nothing but—

I’m sorry.

The sentiment was attacked with a thousand tearing teeth. Shredded down to psychic atoms in the hunt for the disingenuous core, the hidden chuckle, the lie, the trick. But Jonathan was no less bare than himself in this space. There was no more to find in the sensation than the feeling itself. It repeated:

I’m sorry. And, just as sincere: I never intended to break your heart. Only to impale it.

The whole of it saturated with an honesty and apology that cut deeper than any bludgeoning of hate.

Sorry is not good enough, my friend. There is no taking it back.

Jonathan, a pillar against the abyss, nodded.

I know. Not for either side. I did tell you. This will end before the year is out. We shall kill you or you shall kill us. It is all that’s left.

Now came a laugh; a familiar hideous sound that unfolded into a trail of chuckling. Giddy, almost.

No, Jonathan Harker. You misunderstand once again. Yes, you and the woman mean to slay me at last. But I remain nothing but loving in my design. All that is left is that you kill me, or—

The void was gone.

They stood in the castle’s chapel. With the certainty of a dream, they knew that the boy was returned. Their only witness as he clung and wept over his mother’s coffin. She had been willed into paralysis by her Master, moving only to maim herself in the box or to gorge herself. Her meals’ dried carrion lay piled and broken around the coffin. The infants’ heads lined in rows while the tiny hearts were left to shrivel.

‘Please, Papa, you have to, please…’

And Papa was, of course. The woman’s Master had slipped the noose of himself through her at last, and now her orders were his orders, and the order was being carried smilingly out by their dear Jonathan. Pardon, his dear Jonathan. The picture of bliss despite his running eyes. Under his chin, the brooch shined. On his knuckle, the gold band had been replaced with a matching stone and clutching dragon. His vows, leaked through the permanent stamp of his grin:

‘I will never look at her again. I will never respond to any word from her. I will speak of her only as if she were dead. And I will love you as you are owed. I will be yours alone. Always. This I will do, or she shall never leave the box or know a moment without pain again. Te iubesc, balaurul meu.’

‘Te iubesc, draga mea.’

And then they were together, in the snug gloom of the great coffin that had been built and delivered in secret months before, undetected in the same chamber as the kukri. Two Grooms lay within it, one joyous and one merely smiling as he wept a stain into his Master’s breast and eternity finally began.

This is how our game ends and the next begins, draga mea. There are consequences to becoming what a monster loves, by accident or intention. He crushed Jonathan to him in their box, hissing. You stole our son. You stole my heart. You stole yourself. I will have all back in time. And you will never slip free again.

For just a moment, he felt it. Fear breaking through Jonathan’s miasma of shocked anger and distaste. But it was not the whole of him. Horribly, cruelly, crawling up and out from the center of his friend, was that unbroken condolence.

Again. I am sorry, Dracula. This will not come to pass. And even in the dreams where you paint this future as reality, you will still have my sympathy in this single thing. Your love is only a chain. Never an embrace. Only a noose, not a held hand. Our son is perhaps the first and only soul to love you without coercion, and he does so only because we spent his life hiding the worst of you from him. You will shatter that illusion if you think to steal him back. And then what will be left? Only this?

Jonathan’s hand was on his cheek, sweeping away something damp.

I had thought your pretenses only another knife to twist in us. But the performance was for you as well, wasn’t it? It was as close as you could get.

Jonathan was crushed again. Tighter, closer. Enough to snap an ordinary man in half. The arms, illusory though they were, trembled.

Do not dwell like this. You have your conquest to think of, don’t you? Your march on the Living? Return to that, if it helps. You are four centuries deep in this existence. Twenty years should be nothing to scrape aside. We were a distraction, all of us. Let us go. Let us be enemies. It will hurt less.

There was no need for breath here. No more than there had been a need for breath for anything but speech since the day he ceased to live as a man. Despite this, he buried his face in Jonathan’s neck, his mouth opened to bite, but releasing only a choked and shaking sound. It was followed by more. Then:

I will—I will conquer. I will slaughter. I will rule. But I will not be alone. If I must have you all on tethers, so it will have to be. You should not have made me happy, draga mea.

There was no true contact in the mindscape. No touch, no sense. He shivered just the same as Jonathan’s arms slipped around him.

I promise to make you very unhappy once we cross paths in person. My hate is rivaled only by my Love’s and her endings for you are as imaginative or worse than my own. In the interim, I shall do my best to gain your hate, Count. But that shall be another time.

There was a change. A softening in the phantasmagoria of the dark as the characters in it began to lose their edges. He grasped at Jonathan all the tighter.

I have not dismissed you. It is a long way to England yet. I hope the woman is satisfied with riding the rest of the way with you in a coma.

The thoughts leered, but the intent begged. It wound around Jonathan in a serpent’s coils, holding, clutching, trapping—

Let me go, Count.

No.

Tighter and tighter on the disintegrating form, becoming a cage, a coffin, a clutching fist, a dragon winding around and around its treasure, no no no, mine mine mine—

Before it’s too late.

No!

Within the mind and above the Persephone, thunder cracked and lightning struck. A great, blinding, devastating bolt. It had her voice and a single message to share.

MINE.

And with that, he was back in the cargo hold. The sailor’s heart had been crushed to pulp in his hands. His fingers and eyes ran with the same scarlet runnels. Above deck, he felt the riot of a storm that was not his battering the ship. He cursed and threw himself out to it, wrestling until dawn to hammer the weather smooth again.

In another patch of water, under the same voyeur moon, the Aurora cruised on under a starlit sky. A girl and her young man stood on the deck, her hand over his as he gripped the railing so hard it bent to the shape of his fingers. The young man’s eyes snapped open, lungs jerkily refilling with a gasp they’d not yet learned was reflex more than need.

Jonathan?

“I’m fine. …How long was that?”

Less than two minutes.

“It felt longer.”

It’s like that. Even when conscious, it will try to drag things into dreaming. Ever a showman.

“Did you trace him? Do you know which ship?”

Yes. The Persephone. Our ports won’t be far apart.

Her smile curved, red as rose petals, thorn-sharp.

And I believe their vessel has hit some stormy weather just now. Though it is endeavoring to ease the worst of it.

“Do you need..?”

No, Darling. I only press when I feel it slacking. It will be wrung out by the time it reaches shore. I will merely be peckish.

Her smile dimmed a shade as she searched her husband’s face.

Are you certain you’re alright?

“I am, Mina. Even if I weren’t, we could not risk it being you. Not while he’s still scrabbling to take your reins again.”

It showed you, didn’t it?

“Showed what?” Mina looked at him. Read him. Turned over the stone that her husband had freshly laid over the revelations bled out into his mind. “Ah. That.”

That. Was this what hurt you in there?

“I am not—,” Her hand went to his cheek. A rust-colored drop was swept away. “Oh. I thought I felt lightheaded.”

Do not distract. Was learning it what hurt you?

“It did not hurt. Only shamed me, somewhat. It casts a different light on his pending demise.”

A slaying made into euthanasia?

“…That is certainly a word for it.”

There are few others to choose from. Extermination. Justice. Recompense. Safety. But, in its thinnest terms, yes, euthanasia. I would not be surprised if he welcomed it in the end. I think I would.

His hand seized around hers.

“Why?”

She smiled back. The ghost of the living girl made its edges soft.

You would not understand. You do not know what it is to love and be loved by you, Jonathan. To imagine the latter was a lie? Worse, a lie you assumed was known by the one who loved you? I do not know if I could suffer it. More, you remain Love himself. Coveted and giving and, even for the Thing we hunt, pitying. For you champion the feeling in its own right, even as you did not guess that you were more to the Thing than a trophy.

They were silent for a time. Feeling the creep of dawn coming for the horizon. Jonathan looked to her again. Searching.

“Mina. Did you know?”

The possibility occurred to me. It did not mourn the Weird Sisters for more than a year, despite their time with it. Lucy it was bitter for losing only because she was the first conquest of a new land, slain before she could be enjoyed. I, the supposed new companion, was relegated within months to an afterthought. No more or less than a necessary evil in its mind—the hostage there to keep you there. With it. And it speaks volumes that it kept even a fraction of its word to you at all.

It could have taken you at any time, Jonathan. Pounced and bit and fed and turned, all with no one to stop it. But it didn’t. Not merely to see you suffer through the performance as you had before, but because it wanted to hide in the fact that you had free will. That you were immune to all but the most superficial pulls of the mesmer rather than the permanent leash upon my mind. It wanted you free and human and in its company, ‘of your own choosing.’ Or near enough. I can think of no reason for it beyond the Thing hoping for the act to become real.

“I cannot tell if that’s a mark of insanity or sadness.”

Perhaps both. And you do not have to cover yourself in barbs here, my Love. There are things we do not wish on enemies, even if they are deserved. That being said—,

“My plans have not changed, Darling.” He leaned his face into her palm, smiling. “We will dance on his ashes for what he’s done. For what he means to do.”

When we finish, we can pour what’s left of him upon a garden of wild roses. Perhaps it will carry some peace after him.

The rest of their conversation was not in words. It carried on even as they pressed their lips into the perfect mold of each other’s, the tableau of them spied only by another couple who thought they must be their elders as they went along to their own room.

“Now when was the last time you kissed me like that?”

“Oh, hush. I’m sure it was only yesterday I did. Sometime after the banquet, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“And anyway, it’s not the sort of thing for our age, dear. These young people are growing ever brasher out in the open.”

“Yes, in public, on a boat. Most brazen. Lord knows there’s scads of witnesses…”

Daybreak came and the storm departed with it. The one in the sky, at least.

Down below, in the dark, in the dirt inside a box, a smaller tempest raged. Tried to rage. Tried to hold to thunder and lightning and hail. But the death-sleep melted it down into its truer shape, freed from the whipping of desperation in the guise of anger. The grave earth became rosy mud as new tears rolled. Between this and the toll of keeping back the storm, even nursing from the crushed heart had barely helped in stalling the change. Black hair had turned to iron, iron to ancient white.

Dreaming dragged him down and away from his own will. Through the foam of futures yet unborn, through the penalties and precautions yet to be inflicted, all the way to a moonlit window in the library. His friend stood before him. Alive and undead. Wasted and hale. Blue-eyed and red. Cold lips smiling and pressing into his. Joy frozen in place.

In the world outside his mind, the cadaver of an old man moved just enough in his bed of soil to hold the brooch tighter. Enough so that the clasp split his skin and poured ichor over the golden dragon and its treasure. He did not feel it.

But wept just the same.

#this AU has wrung four novellas out of me #I pray this is the last or my hands will be reduced to nubs #anyway #for maximum ambience imagine Dracula rocking back and forth in his dirt box listening to Annie Lennox's “Love Song for a Vampire”#but this time with the (grudgingly) appropriate Harker swapped in #he's about there #blood of my blood #dracula #dracula bad ending au #jonathan harker #mina harker #quincey harker #my writing

50 notes · View notes

luveline · 2 years

Note

Omg idk if you’ll still take this for shy fri but maybe for the next? Anyway I loved the reader wanting to sleep with James but was to shy to ask, could you write that but with Sirius? NO PRESSURE write what you want 💞💞

ty for ur request!!!! shy!reader asking sirius if she can spend the night ♡ shy!fem!reader | 1.2k words

Sirius yawns behind his hand and looks away from you.

"Are you tired?" you ask worriedly.

"What? No way, I'm just stretching."

You squint at him.

"Seriously, baby. Not tired." He stands up, dots a kiss over your forehead, and makes for the kitchen.

You watch his back and smile to yourself. You and Sirius have been taking things slowly for your sake, and though you sometimes worry he might be getting a little bored, he's proved time and time again that he doesn't mind waiting for you to be ready. Which includes your going home at the end of the night.

But Sirius makes you feel like you're ready for anything. This Sirius, slow with a creeping fatigue and hair rumpled and scraped into a low bun away from his face, has especially lowered any inhibitions you have about sleep overs. He looks so pretty you don't want to leave.

You have to take a step back and marvel at how you ended up with somebody that handsome. So cool. And so amazingly understanding.

He sits back down. A box of chocolates rattles in his grip. "Look what I found," he says, grinning. He loves seashell chocolates.

You bring your hand up to his face as he peels away the plastic. He slows but doesn't stop, so you stroke your fingers over his scratchy stubble and turn his face to yours gently. Before you can wuss out, you kiss him soundly.

He smiles into it.

You've done worse than kiss, although you've yet to end up in his bed, and still he acts like this is some irreplaceable pleasure. When he pulls away his eyes are creased with affection, and the smallest hint of amusement plays on his lips, the start of a smirk.

"I'm not sharing," he jokes.

You steal your hand back and drop your head against his shoulder. "Loser."

"Sorry?" he asks, shocked. Faux outrage has his voice pitching up high.

"You heard me."

You reach for a chocolate and he doesn't stop you, though he does ask, "Why did I ever think you were nice?"

You laugh and the sweetness of the chocolate has your jaw twinging. You recoil away from him, giggling through the small pain. Sirius watches your suffering with a great lot of humour.

"Don't make me laugh," you plead.

"But you look so pretty when you do."

You glare at him. If he's trying to make you feel embarrassed (he is), it's definitely working.

You stop glaring in favour of a giddy smile. He's lovely. You can't imagine being any happier than this, laughing and eating sweets with someone who loves you.

Sirius yawns again.

He slams his hand over his mouth.

"You're tired," you say. You hide your disappointment, say it matter of fact.

"No, I'm not. If I'm tired then you'll go home, and I'll have to miss you, so no."

"What a terrible ailment that would be," you murmur.

Sirius holds one of your favourites in front of your mouth and doesn't move until you take it. As you chew, you look at him through the corner of your eye and think it over. Sirius won't ask you to stay the night. He's too worried about pressuring you into something you're not ready for, though you know he never could.

Which means, if you want to stay, you'll have to ask. And you do want to stay.

He's desperately cute like this. The fat under his eyes has swollen and he's blinking more than usual, dark lashes fluttering in efforts to stay fully present. His skin is more pale than usual in the dim lighting.

He really needs to sleep.

You really need to ask.

You open your mouth and promptly close it, teeth audibly clicking. Sirius looks up in time to catch your wince.

"What?" he asks, perplexed.

You don't know how to ask. You don't know how to ask, and you're not sure if you should.

Maybe he doesn't ask you to stay because he doesn't want to.

No. What had he said only minutes ago? You'll go home, and I'll have to miss you.

"You're thinking very loudly," he says.

You take the chocolates from his lap and put them on the coffee table to avoid tipping them in your next action. "What am I thinking?" you ask, turning to him completely, your knee digging into his thigh as you take the hem of his t-shirt into your hand.

Like he's on auto-pilot, Sirius pulls your thigh over one of his legs to help you get comfortable. His touch makes you more nervous than you had been. He has this way of disarming you through the smallest of actions.

"What are you thinking? You're thinking, if my handsome boyfriend keeps eating chocolate at this rate, he won't be my handsome boyfriend much longer."

You shake your head. "I would never think that."

"I know."

You twist your finger into his shirt. He pushes his hands, palm-flat and hot over the slopes of your thighs. Slow, sweeping strokes.

You try to picture the girl you'd been when you first met him in your place in his lap. She would've had a heart attack. Your next question would've killed her.

"Siri," you begin.

"Oh, you want something," he says, more to himself than you.

You nod agreeably. "Could I sleep here tonight?"

This throws him for a loop. Not for long, but his surprise is clear. His excitement is clearer. He lights up.

"You want to stay?"

"Just to-"

"Of course," he says quickly. "You wanna sleep here?"

You meet his eyes, relieved. "Yes, please."

His hands jump from they're resting place on your thighs to around your waist. He pulls you toward him and you go without a fight, sinking into the warmth of his embrace with a happy little sigh that he obviously adores; his arms tighten around you.

"Why do you say please like that? You know it messes me up."

"I'm polite."

"You're a lot more than that," he says.

You'd roll your eyes if they weren't already closed. You tuck your face into his neck instead, lips skipping over his skin when you murmur, "You're so cheesy."

"You'd feel the same, in my position."

"I do feel the same."

He starts to rub your back. It's heaven on Earth. If his hugs alone are this sweet his bedtime cuddling might undo you for good.

"When I asked if I could sleep here," you whisper, "I kind of meant in bed."

"Really? You don't want to sleep on the sofa with me?"

You pull back and stroke his cheek with the back of your hand. It might not be so bad-

"Alright, I can see you're considering it." He encourages you out of his lap and you both stand. His regained height over you is maddening. "Let's go find you something to sleep in."

You've followed him all of one step when he adds, "Or you can sleep nude, if you like."

You're rightfully scandalised. Sirius grabs your hand and laughs all the way to the bedroom, dragging you flushed and flustered behind him.

#sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine #sirius black drabble #marauders era #marauders #marauder x reader #fem!reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x y/n #sirius black #sirius black x reader fluff #sirius black x female reader #sirius black dialogue #the marauders #the marauders fanfic

1K notes · View notes

depressedhouseplant · 6 months

Text

🔞 Illusion (Woosan) 🔞

Synopsis: As a joke San’s friends set him up with an escort. Except he falls for the beautiful man he can never have

WC: 3700

Tags: Rich Boy San, Escort Wooyoung, Public Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Top San, Bottom Wooyoung, Brief Homophobic Language, Light Bondage, Polite Suggestion of Sommophilia

A/N: This is the escort fic of which I spoke. It wasn’t one of the better performers. Let’s see what y’all think. Bonus Content can be found here

Wooyoung rested his head on the doorframe as he watched San leave. They were both getting tired of this. Forget tired. Exhausted. Wooyoung knew he would always be San’s dirty little secret. If San expected to keep the life he knew, he had to pretend Wooyoung didn’t exist. His family had only just accepted that he was gay. Now they were on the hunt for a “suitable husband”, as San called it, for him. Wooyoung scoffed as he closed the door. It was the 21st century. San should’ve been able to pick who he wanted to be with. The Chois didn’t see it that way. They were old money- very, very old money and dragged all the traditions that came along with it. Then Wooyoung’s phone dinged in his pocket.

I miss you already, baby. Check your nightstand. 💕

Wooyoung didn’t remember anything being on his nightstand when they left the bedroom. Yet there was a carefully wrapped box sitting there waiting for him. Wooyoung opened it and pulled out a watch. It was a limited edition Rolex. Wooyoung knew they were almost impossible to get. Of course, this was Choi San, not some random person off the street. There was an inscription on the back.

Love you until the end of time - Your Sannie.

Wooyoung quickly texted him back.

WTF? I don’t believe you!

San: I love you too, baby :)

Wooyoung: This is too much & you know it.

San: NOTHING is too much for you. You know that.

Wooyoung furiously wiped the tears out of his eyes. The watch was beautiful and he wouldn’t be lying when he said one of his clients bought it for him. Except that San wasn’t a client anymore. He was the love of Wooyoung’s goddamn life.

When can you come back?

Wooyoung had given up on sounding desperate.

I can sneak away tomorrow night. Take you to dinner?

Wooyoung almost dropped his phone. They weren’t supposed to go out. They could risk being seen and then San’s parents would freak. Even if they didn’t find out that Wooyoung was an escort, he wasn’t someone they’d already vetted.

Dinner?

San: It’s our 6 month anniversary. I want to take you out. Then maybe we’ll make love for hours when we get back, but I expect you to be wearing my gift.

Wooyoung: Make love? Who are you & what have you done with San? LOL

San: I might be a lil stoned.

San had confessed to getting high when he got back from seeing Wooyoung. He claimed it made the transition back to who he was supposed to be easier. Wooyoung had chastised him, but it hadn’t done much. Wooyoung knew would make his drinks a little stronger after San left. It was completely unhealthy, but neither of them had anyone they could confide in.

Wooyoung: Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow night.

San: I love you so much, baby.

Wooyoung: I love you too.

San sent a long string of hearts and kissy face emojis. Wooyoung returned with a heart and a kiss. He carefully put the watch in the box and back on his nightstand. The sheets were still a mess from earlier. Wooyoung had started insisting they put a towel down so he didn’t have to change them every time. He knew he should shower, but he didn’t feel like it. He simply dropped his robe on the floor and crawled into bed naked. Wooyoung had ridden San hard earlier, so the pillows smelled like San’s hair. He buried his face in one and let the aroma seep into his nostrils. It was more than just his shampoo and cologne. It was him. Why did this have to be so fucking complicated? Why was he still playing by their rules? Wooyoung would’ve told his parents to fuck off a long time ago. Of course, San genuinely loved his parents. Wooyoung didn’t. They’d kicked him out of the house when he came out and he’d made his own way in the world since.

Wooyoung’s good looks were how he got picked up by a pimp when he was 17. He lied about his age and no one bothered to check (more likely didn’t care). He slowly saved up enough to buy his way out and try his luck on his own. A few coy smiles and well placed compliments got him in the door with a much higher class clientele. Now he was 25 with an enviable list of clients and a 5 figure price tag for one “date”. Several of San’s friends had hired him for San’s birthday to pretend to be a blind date. The joke ended up on them because not only did the date go extremely well, San became one of Wooyoung’s clients.

Feelings didn’t get involved until they’d been seeing each other twice a week for almost a month. Wooyoung had stopped charging him after only a few times when it became obvious they both enjoyed the sex as more than just escort and client. San was the first one to confess. They were sweaty and half asleep, both on their 3rd or 4th orgasm of the night when San let slip “I love you”. Wooyoung had stretched and rolled on top of San, telling him that he loved him back. Somehow they’d worked up the energy to have sex again and fell asleep with San still inside Wooyoung.

Wooyoung hugged the pillow and sighed.

“Maybe someday,”

The next night Wooyoung was fixing his tie and about to put on his watch when he heard a key in the door. He’d given San a key to save them both the annoyance of having to buzz him up every time.

“And what if I’m not ready?” Wooyoung called from the bedroom.

“Then I guess I’d just have to take you before we left,” San replied. He was wearing the same dark gray suit and sapphire blue tie he’d worn on the night they met.

“If I didn’t already have all my clothes on, then I’d most definitely take you up on that,” Wooyoung kissed him.

“Haven’t put my present on yet?” San noticed the watch in Wooyoung’s hand.

“Maybe I was going to let you put it on me,” he held out his arm and San slid the watch on his wrist.

“Perfect fit,” he grinned.

“Impressive,” Wooyoung smiled back

“I remembered you have delicate wrists,” San took Wooyoung’s hands and wrapped them around his waist. He was bigger than Wooyoung and had initially been hesitant to go hard in bed, but Wooyoung had proved he was more than able to handle him.

“Weren’t you going to take me out?” he asked.

“I am. I might just be skipping ahead to what we’ll be doing in here later,” San kissed Wooyoung’s neck.

“Slut,” Wooyoung giggled.

“Proud of it,” he grinned.

San took Wooyoung to the same restaurant they’d gone to the first time.

“Ah, Mr Choi,” the host said when they arrived.

“I apologize that we’re a little late,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you to the rest of your party,” he replied.

“Party?” San asked.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was supposed to be a surprise. I’m sorry,” he said, leading them through the restaurant. San was almost crushing Wooyoung’s hand. This could only mean one thing…

“Mom, Dad, hi,” San wasn’t hiding his surprise very well.

“San, you didn’t tell us you’d be here tonight,” his mom said.

“Um, yeah, it was kind of a last minute thing,” he replied. Wooyoung was pretty sure he was losing circulation.

“Who’s this?” His dad asked.

“I’m Wooyoung. San’s friends introduced us at his birthday party,” Wooyoung held out his hand. San’s dad shook it and his mom gave a demure nod.

“Maybe we should just go,” San said anxiously.

“We can stay. If your parents don’t mind,” Wooyoung squeezed San’s hand.

“Not at all. Please sit,” his mom said. San pulled out the chair for Wooyoung and he gracefully sat down. He didn’t end up with a client list full of closeted rich guys because he didn’t know how to handle himself in five star restaurants in front of lesser royalty. San sat next to him and couldn’t stop rubbing Wooyoung’s thigh. Wooyoung gave him a calm down look.

“So Wooyoung, what do you do?” Mr Choi asked.

“I’m a social planner,” he replied.

“What's that?” Mrs Choi asked.

“It’s like a personal assistant, but I manage the social calendars of select clients. It’s a bit of a niche market, but I enjoy it,” he replied, taking a sip of wine.

“I don’t suppose we could hire you,” she smiled.

“Unfortunately I’m fully booked, but if you ever need a recommendation, I’m sure I can help,” Wooyoung returned the smile.

“I don’t feel well. Excuse me,” San practically bolted for the bathroom. Wooyoung got up and followed him.

“I can’t believe they’re here. They’re fucking here. All I wanted was a nice dinner with you and then to be able to go back…” San started babbling.

“Baby, breathe,” Wooyoung caught him by the shoulders. “Let me handle this.”

“A social planner? That’s a hell of a way to spin it,” San said.

“If you keep letting me spin it, I’ll have them begging me to be their son in law by dessert. I don’t charge $10,000 a night because I can’t charm men away from their money. However, I can’t do it if you look like you’re 10 seconds away from heart failure for the rest of dinner. Okay?” Wooyoung told him.

“Okay,” San nodded.

“Then we’ll go back to my place and I’ll take you nice and slow. I’ll savor every inch of that perfect cock of yours. I’ll have you whining for me,” Wooyoung slid his fingers down the front of San’s pants. “I’ll have you whimpering ‘Wooyoungie, please. Please let me touch you’.” He flicked at San’s belt buckle with his thumb and weaved his belt loose. He wrapped his other arm around San’s shoulders. Wooyoung could feel San’s erection slowly growing near his fingers.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, Sannie? You want me on top of you, slowly riding you, with you completely helpless. You remember the first time I tied you up and how hard you came. Then I sucked you off and made you come for me again. Then I got you hard again and finally let you touch me. You remember that,” Wooyoung could feel the tip of San’s dick in between his index and middle fingers. San was panting, but this time it was from trying not to come simply by listening to Wooyoung. “Do you want me to get you off, Sannie?”

“Please,” he begged, digging his fingers into Wooyoung’s back. Wooyoung steered them into a stall and deftly unzipped San’s pants with his thumb.

“You have to be quiet. We can’t attract attention,” Wooyoung’s lips barely grazed San’s ear. San whined. “Good boy.”

Wooyoung gripped the tip of San’s cock between his fingers and rested his thumb under the head. San jumped.

“You have to hold still, too,” Wooyoung whispered. San tightened his grip on Wooyoung’s back and nodded into his shoulder. Wooyoung deliberately massaged San’s dick with his thumb. He whimpered and whined into Wooyoung’s neck. “I wish I could see your pink cock right now. How pretty it is. How slick it is. How it’s shaking and just waiting for me to impale myself on it. I might be getting a little hard thinking about having it filling me up - feeling just how good you stretch me and how it’s almost too much, but not quite.” Wooyoung carefully pressed his hips against San’s thigh so he could feel Wooyoung’s own erection starting to bloom.

“Wooyoungie, please…” San’s eyes were starting to water.

“No crying, darling. Your parents will already have enough questions. I don’t want to have to explain why I made you cry,” Wooyoung pressed harder with his thumb. San jerked and grunted. “I think we’ve been in here long enough.” Wooyoung ran his thumb over the tip, dipping into the slit like he knew San loved. San came bucking against Wooyoung’s fingers and squeezing tears out of his eyes.

“That’s my good Sannie,” Wooyoung cooed as San spilled come on his fingers. San muffled his moans in Wooyoung’s neck. San finished and Wooyoung let go, wiping them down with toilet paper. Wooyoung gave him a quick check for any rogue come stains. He zipped San back in when he determined everything was satisfactory. San’s hands were shaking while he washed them.

“You still look terrible,” Wooyoung said.

“I’m trying not to,” he breathed.

“Let me handle it. Smile, nod, and let your parents pay for dinner,” Wooyoung told him. “This was my job, baby. At least before I became a kept man.”

“Okay,” San breathed.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung kissed him. “Come on.” He led his half fucked out half painfully anxious lover back to the table.

“Everything okay? We were beginning to worry,” Mrs Choi said.

“I’m fine,” San coughed. “Just fine.”

“Honestly, this is a little embarrassing, but this is only our second date. I know San’s birthday was a while ago, but we could never find a good time to meet up. We weren’t expecting to run into you tonight,” Wooyoung smiled the dazzling smile that got men into bed with him and paying for his penthouse.

“San, you never mentioned that you met someone,” Mr Choi said.

“Like he said, it’s only our second date,” San replied.

“How do you know San’s friends?” Mrs Choi asked.

“I met Yeosang a while ago. I suppose he thought San and I would be a good fit,” Wooyoung told her. It wasn’t a total lie. Yeosang had initially contacted him and paid the deposit for their joke. His other friends Yunho and Mingi had made up the difference.

“Mom, is this really…?” San started. Wooyoung squeezed his knee under the table.

“It’s fine,” he replied. Parental interrogation was old hat in his world. At least they weren’t going to call him a worthless faggot. He assumed.

“What about your family?” Mr Choi asked.

“Unfortunately my parents and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. I haven’t spoken to them in years and that’s for the best. It’s a shame, really. They pushed away their only child,” Wooyoung stroked San’s knee with his index finger. He knew how to spin anything. Now he was an abandoned only child who somehow had the manners of someone raised at San’s level.

“That’s such a shame. I can’t imagine not having any contact with your child,” Mrs Choi said. Got her. Wooyoung always knew the moment he got his hooks in someone. San was also an only child.

“I’ve gotten used to it. There’s something to be said for learning how to survive on your own in the world,” he replied.

They continued through the rest of dinner, Wooyoung easily fielding all of San’s parents’ questions. He even made a show of trying to pay. By the time San and his dad left to pick up the respective cars from the valet, Wooyoung and Mrs Choi were quite comfortable with each other.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting to meet San’s date tonight, but it was very nice to meet you,” she said.

“I admit, it was a bit awkward to have a ‘meet the parents’ on the second date,” Wooyoung replied with an easy smile.

“San has always been a bit high strung,” she said.

“I noticed, but I promise to take good care of him,” Wooyoung told her.

“Thank you. He needs someone like you in his life. His friends can still get a little...wild,” Mrs Choi sighed.

“Don’t I know it,” Wooyoung’s tone didn’t give away anything. Wooyoung never gave up anything he didn’t want to give. The cars pulled up and their respective partners came to get them.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Wooyoung said as they left.

“I’ll be back later,” San mumbled in their direction.

“Do you need me to drive?” Wooyoung asked when they got in the car.

“No,” San replied.

“I had your mother eating out of my hand so stop panicking,” Wooyoung told him. “And unofficial permission to date you. You should be tap dancing right now.”

“It’s just...they just...I’m scared…” San said as he put the car in gear.

“What are you afraid of? Tell your Wooyoungie,” he looked over at San.

“They’ll find out that you’re...an escort,” San finished.

“Was an escort,” Wooyoung replied. “Currently you’re paying all my bills.”

“I love you so much. I’m terrified they’ll find out the truth,” San put his hand on Wooyoung’s thigh. Wooyoung tucked a piece of hair behind San’s ear.

“Let’s go home and I’ll make you feel better. You still want that, right?” Wooyoung asked. San nodded.

“Then your Wooyoungie will strip you out of that suit, tie you to the bed, and take you until you can’t stand it anymore. You’re free to cry as much as you want this time, Sannie. We don’t have to make any excuses why tears are coming out of those beautiful brown eyes.”

“I’m trying to drive, Wooyoung,” San huffed.

“Do you want me to stop?” Wooyoung cocked his head.

A beat of silence.

“No,” the other man replied.

“Good,” Wooyoung slid his hand up almost onto San’s cock as he leaned over and undid his pants.

“What are you doing?” San asked.

“Just releasing the pressure a bit,” Wooyoung’s smile curved all the way up to his impeccably sculpted brows. He pulled his hand back away from San’s crotch. “And the best part is you don’t have to leave tonight. You can stay and I can wake you up in the middle of the night sucking your dick. In the morning I might let you fuck me into the mattress. The options are endless, Sannie. Maybe you’ll wake up and decide to slide into me while I’m asleep. Then I’ll wake up filled with your cock.”

“You...you’d let me do that?” San had started to sweat a little and his boner was threatening to expand completely out of his pants.

“You know my limits. That’s not one of them,” Wooyoung replied.

“What if I start to...you know...fuck you in your sleep?” San ventured.

“I’m a light sleeper. It wouldn’t take much to wake me up. It would be a great way to wake up, though,” Wooyoung winked at him.

“I…” San’s brain had all but stopped working. Wooyoung kept smiling.

San practically carried Wooyoung up to his apartment. The concierges had learned to look the other way a long time ago when they saw Wooyoung.

“Tie me up, baby. Please,” San breathed when they got upstairs.

“It would be my pleasure,” Wooyoung purred. He carefully pulled the silk ties out from under the mattress and San obediently lied on his back. Wooyoung swiftly tied him down and sat on his thighs. He lazily ran a finger up San’s quivering dick. Precome was dripping down the tip.

“You want your Wooyoungie that much, Sannie?” Wooyoung swirled the sticky liquid in circles around the tip.

“Yes,” San replied. Wooyoung could see his chest starting to heave. He slithered up San’s body to his mouth.

“I’m gonna make you cry, sweetheart,” he kissed his lover hard. He nipped at San’s earlobe before he sat back up and generously lubed San’s cock. He slowly lowered himself down going only a fraction of an inch at a time. San was already whining. “Did I not satisfy you earlier?”

“You did,” he replied.

“Then why do you sound so needy?” Wooyoung asked as he bottomed out.

“Need...you…” San panted.

“I knew that,” Wooyoung slid his hands up San’s bound arms. “You always need me.”

“Mmhmm,” San nodded as Wooyoung kissed him. He pressed his chest against San’s and slightly bucked his hips. San grunted. Wooyoung took San’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled slightly before he sat back up. He began slowly grinding his ass down on San’s cock.

“You want to touch me, don’t you darling?” Wooyoung braced his hands on San’s thighs, arching his back and exposing his entire chest and hardened cock.

“Yes,” San squeaked.

“How badly do you want to touch me? Enough that I should untie you?” Wooyoung looked down at him.

“N-no, wanna come l-like this,” he stuttered.

“If you’re sure,” Wooyoung ran one hand down his own torso and traced the tip of his dick with his finger. It came back wet with precome. “You want a taste?”

“Please?” San’s pupils were blown wide with desire.

“Open your mouth and stick out that talented tongue of yours,” Wooyoung instructed. San did as he was told and Wooyoung dragged his finger down the center of San’s tongue.

“Taste good?” he smirked.

“More?” San whined.

“No, my love. That’s all you get,” Wooyoung brushed his wet finger down San’s cheek. Then San’s eyes started to water. Wooyoung pulled his hand back and kept slowly working San’s dick. “Now is my baby getting desperate?”

“Uh huh,” San noised.

“How desperate?” Wooyoung prompted.

“Wanna c-come h-hard. Inside you,” the the other man breathed.

“Of course you’re going to come inside me, silly boy,” Wooyoung watched San’s hands flex against the restraints. If he really wanted to, he could get loose. They both enjoyed the illusion more, though.

“P-pound you,” he gasped.

“You want to pound me? You want to wreck me on your cock? What if I let you?” Wooyoung asked. San looked up at him. Wooyoung untied San’s wrists and then his ankles. San flipped them over and began slamming into Wooyoung. He was practically snarling while he fucked him. Wooyoung dug his nails into San’s back every time he hit his prostate. He heard a cracking sound, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was too focused on the cock ramming his ass.

“Fu-uck,” he grunted as he started to come all over both of them. San was still growling and bucking into him then fell on top of Wooyoung when he started coming. They were practically glued to each other when they finished.

“Uh, Woo,” San said.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“I think I broke the headboard,” San replied sheepishly. Wooyoung looked up and sure enough there was a sizable crack roughly where San’s hand had been.

“Well, so much for making love when we got back,” he laughed.

“At least you were wearing my gift,” San held up Wooyoung’s arm.

“We got it half right,” Wooyoung smiled.

“I love you, Wooyoungie,”

“I love you too, Sannie,”

#ateez hard thoughts #ateez fanfic #ateez hard hours #minors dni #ateez smut #wooyoung x San #Jung Wooyoung x Choi San #woosan #just fucking write 2k24 #bonus content

104 notes · View notes

mochiimac · 1 year

Text

About Love 3

My head gets messy when I try to hide

The things I love about you in my mind

Pairing: Hybrid!BTS x Fem!Reader

Summary: Becoming a best selling thriller author? Part of the plan. Living in the city and isolating yourself from everyone? Part of the plan. Inheriting your late uncles home in the woods, his sassy assistant and fortune after he died mysteriously? Not part of the plan. Oh, and he failed to mention the 7 'surprises' he left you as well. And come to think of it... was his death an accident? Or is your imagination going wild again?

Genre: Hybrid!AU

Warnings (if bolded then this chapter contains these elements) : Fluff, Hurt, Comfort, Angst, Death, Abuse, Smut, Violence, Dom/Sub, Dom/Sub Elements, Non-Con Elements, Slow Burn, Trauma,

Rating: M 18+

WC: ~6k

Tag List: CLOSED- Tumblr doesn't like my list, I'll most likely have to do the list on a separate post... I'll figure it out lol

Notes: I'm so happy to be writing again! Thank you to everyone who waited and to those who have just started to read <3

<< Prev | Next>>

｡❅*⋆⍋*｡*⍋⋆*❅｡

After being thrown into a brick wall, drowned in scolding black liquid, ran over twice, and bent to the point of snapping in half did sweet mercy come to relieve the pains of the world. It just so happened to be in the shape of a large metal box. And smell like every health violation known to man and hybrid kind.

Clunk!

Y/n’s damaged phone hit the bottom of the dumpster, the loud noise nearly being lost in the dark alleyway thanks to the busy traffic of the city. The device was now gone and irreparable (which may or may not have been extremely fun to do- perhaps he has some pent up rage he should work on...) meaning it could no longer be tracked. He was oh so careful about it.

He was careful when arriving in the city, taking detours and making random stops before settling on a random alleyway with a dumpster. Despite knowing he was alone Jackson remained careful though, double checking his surroundings before exiting the dumpster and heading back into his car. It might have seemed too extreme to someone looking in, but if the knew the Spades family. Knew what they were capable of...

Closing the door with a little too much force, he leaned back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Jackson closed his eyes, feeling the freshly fallen snow slowly melt and dampen his jet black hair. His lips were pulled into a thin line, nearly sucking his teeth, as the events from the day played back in his mind.

The day was supposed to be an easy one. Get the new heiress into the new home, help unpack, question her mini library and the knickknacks he had noticed from prior visits, then head home. Simple. Done. Takoda made this all sound extremely easy in the will. But that man could make lassoing the moon look as easy as riding a bike. He was the kind of man who accomplished what he put his mind to and didn’t hesitate. Jackson admired him for it, looking up at him as a mentor ever since he was first hired. Even now the young man wanted to strive to be like his late boss.

He really wished the old man was right there with him, to help shed light on what Takoda was up to. And what Jackson should do with the chaotic mess he was in.

Not only does Jackson now have to worry about the Spades family but now hybrids. He never held any ill thoughts towards the beings and honestly viewed them just as he viewed humans: there were good and bad hybrids just like there were good and bad humans. Of course he found it odd that even now, so long later, they weren't given basic human rights. Hell, many places still want to keep them on leashes. He just couldn't see how they could be treated that way.

Well... maybe for one hybrid he could. Jackson scowled at the fresh memory of the shaggy brown haired hybrid that held him in that death grip. He would enjoy that one being in a doghouse, more for the sake of his injured ego than for the hybrids actions. A large part of him wanted to stay and ensure Y/n was in good hands. But judging at how they reacted to him was enough to let Jackson know she was going to be safe. His ass still hurt from the youngest canine tackling him to the ground.

‘Little shit.’

Bzz! Bzz!

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the warm and calm atmosphere of the car. At first he was prepared to see a new number, knowing Y/n would be calling to give him her new cell phone information. However he was surprised at the name that appeared, his eyes narrowing for a moment. He really didn’t want to take this call…

But he had no other choice.

“Hello?... Hold on, what? … No, that’s not possible. I just… He what?...” He paused as he heard the new information being told to him. “... Of course he did… Alright.” The line went dead and he tossed the phone into the passenger seat. For a brief moment he stared straight ahead, allowing the new information to sink in.

He blinked.

Sighed.

BEEEEEP!

And banged his head into the car horn.

People walking about on the sidewalk jumped and stared at the parked vehicle who’s car horn was going off for a long period of time. But Jackson didn’t care. No, at that moment only one thing was on his mind: what the hell was Takoda up to.

｡❅*⋆⍋*｡*⍋⋆*❅｡

The entire drive was rather relaxing. Namjoon kept a keen eye on the road while also engaging in conversation here and there. Jungkook and Jin decided to ask you a million questions, the duo's eyes were shining the entire time. It were as though you were telling them the greatest story to ever be written, even if it was just tidbits of your life. You did try to ask them questions about their own lives as well but they would get shy and nearly clam up.

It was shocking compared to how flirty and outgoing they were most of the time. You wondered if it had to do with their files... Those manilla envelopes might be holding their history and maybe some secrets they are afraid of speaking. It was hard to ignore when Namjoon would tense up beside you; Jungkook would let his hair fall in his face and glance down; Jin's smile would freeze before he stuttered a question of his own.

Did they really think you would kick them out from what those files stated? You heart clenched at the mere idea of it. Judging with how they acted you knew they were kind, too kind for the world they were created for.

And it made you nervous thinking of all that could have happened to them while being alive.

"You have arrived!" The GPS announced as the car slowed down. You were too busy with the pack that you failed to realize how fast time had gone by. "Welcome to Unova Mall!"

There was a time where shopping centers were dying out. Online shopping had grown and become popular with how easy it was to merely pick up your device, press a few buttons, and you’d see the item within the week. It wasn’t until hybrids came to be that mall’s began a resurgence. As more and more people began to adopt they soon realized that they had no where to showcase their new adoptions; restaurants were hardly allowing hybrids in due to them being seen as animals and highly dangerous (especially the first generation of hybrids), and parks were working on regulations on whether they needed leashes or not.

As the world shifted with the new profound creations certain businesses picked up on this opportunity; mall’s were revamped to accommodate hybrids, allowing specialty stores of all types to gather together. For some it was convenient to shop for themselves and hybrids in one go. For others it marked a great place to allow their hybrids to be seen by the world; from owning the latest generation to the rarest of breeds it was the place to go.

Personally you never shopped in malls before, never had a reason to. You preferred to get what you needed online or by running to whatever market you stumbled upon. However you knew there was no better place to complete your shopping list than the mall. Even if it made you cringe on the inside. The mere idea of being mistaken for someone who uses hybrids for clout... It left a rotten taste in your mouth.

Pulling up you could see the appeal of walking around in the large shopping center. The stores appeared to be outside but upon closer inspection you could see a glass ceiling covering all the stores, protecting shoppers from the elements. There were large and tall metal pillars placed throughout the area; units designed to heat or use AC depending on the weather. While there was a parking lot for people to park, the stores had large paved areas for everyone to walk around freely without worrying about traffic.

“I’ve never been to a place this large before.” Jungkook whispered, gold eyes large as he watched everything from his window. The car parked itself close to the front of the main entrance.

You were taken back once more to those files, wondering what their histories were like. Even now, stepping out of the car, that logical part of your brain was alerting you that you didn’t truly know these males. And, of course, that small voice in the back of your mind was reluctant to think of them as anything less than perfect. Nearly purring at the idea of them being the best men out there.

You really hated your brain sometimes.

“Alright beautiful, where do you want to go first?” Seokjin stood next to you. He kept close, his body acting as a shield to the wind and most of the snow.

“Furniture first, it’ll be easier to get that out of the way.” You responded. You stuffed your hands in your pockets, trying to keep the cold away.

Despite being mainly outdoors, the main entrance to the shopping center could easily be noticed by the large LED 'Welcome!' screen, models posing with hybrids wearing big smiles. The screen would shift and list attractions and new sales that the stores located all around would have. The stone pathway began right where the large welcome screen was, a directory stationed right beside it to assist in finding certain stores faster.

Namjoon walked beside you with Jin and Jungkook following close behind. “Do you know what you need exactly?”

“A bit, yes. I have a mental list of everything.” You beamed at him, your eyes meeting his amber ones. “It really shouldn’t take too long. Hardly any time at all.”

“Are we going to buy things for the arcade room?” Jungkook asked with a hint of hope in his voice. It did have you grinning but you shook your head at him.

“No, at least not today. We’re going to focus on the basics today.”

"There's still hope." He whispered, Namjoon rolling his eyes as the youngest grinned at the mere idea of having an entire game room to themselves.

The minute you stepped foot on the stone pathway entrance you felt warmth engulf you. The entire area felt warm and cozy, and even smelled good: you could smell hints of something sweet in the air almost like a bakery. A nice place such as this would provide air scents to boost appeal from the customers and create a relaxing atmosphere. Even Namjoon looked calmer though he was looking around and familiarizing himself with the place. His eyes were alert on the few people walking around, body shuffling closer to you.

‘What a good alpha.’ The pesky little voice in your head swooned. You mentally stomped on it with a boot and shook your head. With a quick glance you spotted the store with ease. “The store is right over there! Hopefully they have expedited shipping.”

“Are you in a rush for a coffee table or something?” Jin quirked an eyebrow, bright blue eyes looking confused for a moment.

“Not that, but I need a place to sleep.” You laughed as you all walked into the store. It was brightly lit and held displays for various rooms a household could have. It went far beyond what you could see from where you were standing. Glancing around you saw the bedroom area and quickly went towards it. “You guys got the bedroom since there are three of you in your pack. I’ll take another room and make it my own.”

You could feel a small amount of tension and turned to see the three hybrids staring at you, stone still at the entrance of the store, with mixed emotions; Jungkook looked hurt, Jin looked confused, and Namjoon appeared to be troubled. There was no telling what was going on inside their minds as you stopped mid-walk and blinked at them.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s what we want to know? Was it the nest?” Jungkook quickly walked up to you, eyes searching yours for something that you didn’t know. “I can do better. Make it better.” Your face heated up as he knelt to your level, hands on your shoulders creating warmth and security that you hated to admit that you loved. “What did we do?”

“I- you guys did nothing,” You stammered over your words, noticing the rest of the pack gathering around you as well. A million questions rocketed in your mind, not knowing where this behavior came from. You really needed to do your own research or communicating would be nearly impossible. You could ask but you couldn't find the nerve to; you were already viewing yourself as a terrible owner for leaving them alone for months. Asking questions on basic information made you even worst in your own eyes. Stressing them out, not knowing enough about their species... you needed to do better and give them some hope in you and your abilities.

“You guys are a pack and would want to stay together, so you guys can take the master room. Since I’m not a pack member I really shouldn’t intrude.”

You could tell Jungkook was ready to argue, however a deeper voice was faster. “We understand Y/n. Thank you for thinking of us.” Namjoon gave you a soft smile, though it was a small one. His eyes seemed to be swimming through emotions that you couldn’t decode no matter how hard you tried. There was a pang in your heart at the thought of hurting them though you had no idea what you even did. If anything you were trying todo what was best for them.

As if sensing your doubts he gently took your arm and began to lead the way to the other showcases. Jin followed and offered you a soft smile as well, but just like the pack alpha’s it was small and didn’t reach his eyes. You pushed your questions to the back of your mind as the bedroom displays came into view. Instead you focused on what you needed and went straight to the mattresses first, needing to test them out and see which one would be comfy for you.

Namjoon and Jin did help you, making good points. Jungkook, however, not so much. He decided to full on pout and whine, hands tugging on your jacket as he tried to sway you with pitiful words. Small attempts at pointing out minor flaws (“It’s an ugly color!”) didn’t help him either. Sitting on the seventh bed, you felt like it was made from a cloud. And no pouts from the youngest hybrid could sway you.

“It feels like I’m on a cloud, I really like this one.” You sighed and leaned back, closing your eyes. “I think I’m taking this one. Scratch that, I know I’m taking this one.” Since entering the store you could feel yourself feel less tense and stressed, boy molding into the soft material. You were ready to take a nap right there and then. The mattress shifted and you cracked your eyes open to be met with a pair of gold eyes boring into your very soul. You heart nearly stopped in shock at the canines presence. You didn't even notice him near you.

“But why not just stay with us?”

Jungkook saved the puppy dog eyes for last. Large doe eyes were staring right into your soul, lower lip jutted out in a pout that could shake even the iciest of hearts. There was determination behind the adorable stunt that you could see; the sharpness in his eyes as he waited for the perfect moment to try and persuade you once again. And what better way than when you had your guard down? He was hovering over you, hands on either side of your head, knees placed on either side of your waist though not a single ounce of his weight touched you. He was holding his own weight easily, without so much as a second thought. Your cheeks heated up as you realized the position you were in and blinked rapidly up at him, trying to collect your scrambled thoughts.

Your heart hammered in your chest, nearly jumping up your throat. You willed it to be steady for your own sake. “Jungkook, we talked about this. You guys need space as a pack.” Your words were met with a frown tugging on his pout, eyes searching yours once more. But you had no idea what he was looking for. So you changed tactics instead. “Besides, I’m the worst to sleep near. I’m certain I snore a lot.”

“I doubt that. Prove me wrong, spend the night with us. If we don’t mind then you stay.” His tone was firm, almost a command. Having him be this persistent should have made you roll your eyes and be snippy with the hybrid. But instead of feeling annoyed or even angry you felt yourself sag a little. Almost as if you were going to follow his orders, your eyes dilating ever so slightly as you stared up at him. Some type of trance seemed to take place over you, as if you were in your own little bubble with Jungkook where he was in control over everything. And somehow you were perfectly fine with that, hell you found yourself relaxing even more.

You couldn’t explain what your body was doing, you just felt the need to let go and let him take control. Maybe he was right… “Trust me, it’s best if you don’t. I-I also toss and turn all night.” You sounded weak, words spoken in a hush that not even you would have believed.

The pout had disappeared moments ago, the moment you relaxed under him. Jungkook was now gazing at you with a small smirk and hooded eyes, the gold shining brilliantly against his dark lashes. He seemed to be in a trance himself as he slowly lowered himself closer to you. His body was a hair's width away from you now, if you so much as took a deep breath you would be pressed against him. You could feel his warmth radiate off of him, his voice dropping several octaves, almost a growl, as he spoke. “We can keep you in place. Namjoon-ah especially.”

The next second happened too fast for you to grasp. The smallest of whimpers slid past your lips just as Jungkook yelped and disappeared from your view. It was as though the trance you were in shattered entirely and you sat up quickly, face ablaze as you looked around. Namjoon was gripping Jungkook by the back of his neck, the youngest looking almost ashamed with his head bent. Jin was reaching to slowly pull you up with sigh. There was no one else around (thankfully for you) and you nearly forgot where you were.

“Sorry about the brat, beautiful. He can be very persistent. We looked away for one moment and this happened.” His tone sounded remorseful, hands carefully pulling you up from the mattress. Those blue eyes carefully watched your face for a moment, as if waiting for something to happen. For you to do something or act out.

What even was that? You didn’t know what came over you or how it happened. Truth is you honestly didn’t want to know. Not yet at least. For now you were blaming it on your lack of intimacy. It has been quite some time since you were with someone…

Shaking your head you sighed. “It’s alright, he tried though. But I want this mattress.”

Taking note of which one you wanted, you continued down your list and got the rest of the things you needed. Namjoon kept Jungkook a bit away from you, the leader sending cool glares when he got too close. Jin was the one who did most of the talking with you, assisting you in certain items and his thoughts. An hour later and you were heading outside the store with your new belongings expected to be delivered that evening. While Jin was walking with you, Namjoon and Jungkook were following behind. The youngest was sulking while the leader was giving him a side eye. Whatever happened definitely wasn't approved by Namjoon.

'It's probably best if to keep my distance.' You thought, trying to keep some space between you and Jin. The husky sent you a questionable look that you ignored completely. You needed to get everything done before something else happens.

Next on the list was the hybrids themselves and getting them whatever they wanted or needed. You didn’t want them to feel rushed to shop, hence why you grabbed the furniture first. This ensured that they had plenty of time to browse and take a look around at whatever they needed. The store you had seen was not too far away; a mere few stores down was the famous store known for hybrids: Brand New Day.

BND was a large store that was filled to the brim with supplies for any type of Hybrid. It was a staple store in the community, being known for their amazing customer service and embracing acceptance towards all Hybrids. The four of you walked through the glass doors and towards the softer glow of lights that gave the store a warm appearance. The entire place felt like a giant hug; from the soft color scheme to the classic wooden floors. Displays scattered all around the store showcased all sorts of items, you felt lost looking around for a moment- where to even begin?

“Hi, I’m Lisa! Is there anything I can assist you with today?” A young woman approached your group, her hair glossy and as black as night. Her smile was kind, eyes meeting each person in your group. She wore an all black outfit with a beige apron, the BND logo embroidered on the front. Lisa looked relaxed and eager to help, eyes mainly trained on you since you were the owner of the trio.

You smiled back at her. “Hi, yes we need help. You see, I recently adopted my hybrids and…” You trailed off, obviously not knowing where to start. You feared you were going to look like an idiot and maybe even laughed at but the smile never once faltered. Lisa seemed to understand your predicament and give you a reassuring smile.

“I totally understand, it can be overwhelming. Especially if this is your first time.” Sliding her hand into her apron pocket she pulled out a small stack of pamphlets of various colors. “Now, what breed are each of your hybrids?”

You told her their names and their breed and she handed each one a pamphlet of different color. Jungkook had her faltering for a second, eyebrows knitting as she looked at the pamphlets. The wolfdog shifted his feet, gold eyes cast down as the seconds ticked by. Jungkook seemed uncomfortable as Lisa flipped through more pamphlets. You frowned, opening your mouth to ask what was wrong but Lisa was quick to perk up and smile at the two of you.

“Ah, here’s one for general canines and one for wolves! A crossbreed such as his is rare and while these are a good guide to buy the products you need, but Jungkook can absolutely browse and make his own selections. They all can really. These just help answer any questions you may have.” She explained, smiling gently at your group.

It wasn’t hard to tell that Jungkook looked almost embarrassed about the whole thing. And to make matters worse he seemed to be watching your reactions, gauging how you reacted to it. Sending him a soft smile you nodded.

"Thank you for your help!" You truly meant it too; Lisa provided a warm presence and reassurance. The fear of being laughed at or frowned upon for your lack of knowledge was slowly melting away. There was something about her presence that made you feel better.

"It is not a problem, if any of you have any questions don't hesitate to ask! I'll be on the floor if you need to find me." One last cheerful smile and a small bow she made her way back to her associate duties.

The pack was looking around with wide eyes, glancing in every direction. BND certainly had a wide variety of items, which was incredible for those who had owners of different breeds, and easier to find what you were looking for. You were about to ask where they wanted to go to first but held back as you remembered how Namjoon behaved earlier; his iciness when Jungkook behaved in the furniture store was hard to ignore.

'It'll be best if I let them get their own items. Give them space.' You didn't want to cause another incident and have an angry wolf on your hands. Instead you gave each of them a small smile, ignoring the uneasiness you felt of your choice.

"Why don't you guys go and gather what you need? I'll have Lisa open a register for you to place your items as you go." Your voice was light and positive, watching their facial expressions, especially Namjoon's.

Those amber eyes met yours, the corners of his mouth turned ever so slightly down. "Actually-"

"Sounds like a lovely idea, beautiful." Jin smiled at you, grabbing his pack mates arms. "We'll gather what we need. Is there a limit on what you wish to spend?"

"No, gather what you need or want. If it can fit in the car it can be purchased. Have fun!" You quickly turned on your heel, looking for Lisa. You didn't want Jungkook or Namjoon to try to persuade you to linger. Besides you assured yourself that they would love the space to shop freely without you hovering.

Spotting the raven haired woman, you explained your plan to her: leaving the trio inside the store to shop while you ran out to get a new phone. You were vague, explaining that your previous one was damaged from being left on top of the car. Whether she believed your or not did not matter and she only smiled and promised to keep an eye on the trio while you were out.

Exiting the store you nearly jogged to the phone store located several stores down. Not too far to cause worry and only a few minutes to walk to. Once inside you got down to business, determined to finish everything up as soon as possible.

Which happened to take over an hour.

You had to close your old account and open a new one with a whole new number (you claimed you had a stalker named Jackson) and decided to add three more lines to your account. What took you the longest was picking out which color phone to give to which hybrid. It was so slow in the store that several phone service representatives began to vote for colors for each hybrid (you did have fun with that though) and settled on three new colors along with one for you.

Once they were set up, you were handed a bag and free to dash back to Brand New Day, mentally praying that nothing bad had happened. However opening the glass door you stumbled upon a heartbreaking scene.

Jungkook was alone and curling in on himself, tail tucked between his legs, merle ears so low you could hardly see them from his fluffy hair. Soft whines poured from his hunched figure, back starting to shake. Lisa was next to him, her words soft as she tired to calm the canine down. She didn't touch him however; she was attempting at keeping his personal space for his own sake. But her words were falling on deaf ears.

Your heart splintered at the site of the hybrid shaking and turning his head to the side and away from Lisa and the door. A single tear rolled down his cheek, lips trembled as another whine came through. He sounded almost as if he was going to start howling. A wave of worry finally got you rushing forward, sliding towards your hybrid.

“Jungook?” Your voice was high pitched, the worry leaking out into the open. Your own eyes were wide with worry as you tried to make your way towards the hybrid.

Hearing your voice he snapped his head to you, his ears perked up and twitched at the sound of your voice. Gold eyes brimming with tears. It only took a millisecond before you were nearly tackled. Strong arms encased you close and tightly as though you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His nose was pressed into the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply before he sighed. “Couldn’t find you. I kept looking. Thought you left.” Although his words were muffled in your skin, you could hear them perfectly clear.

‘Was he left behind before?’ You had to wonder if this was something he had experienced, given that it was the first thing he thought of when he couldn’t see you. The mere thought had you holding him just as tight, a hand running through his locks. “I’m sorry, I had to grab something. Besides I can’t leave, not without my hybrids.”

Your eyes met Lisa and you mouthed a thank you to her, and she smiled back and nodded to the register where you spotted a confused looking Jin setting some clothes down and heading over to the two of you. "Jungkook? Y/n? What happened?" The concern in his voice had you feeling a little safer; knowing he was worried about you was almost reassuring in a way you couldn't explain.

"I had to run an errand, Jungkook couldn't find me and thought I left you guys..." You trialed off, feeling guilt eat at you now. You honestly didn't think it was going to take that long to get everything done, thankfully he only just realized that you were gone.

Jungkook peeked up from your neck and looked at Jin, the two staring at one another for a few moments before Jin sighed. "I'm glad to see your okay, Y/n." His lips curled down however, eyebrows knitting as his bright blue eyes pierced into yours. "However, you need to tell us next time. What if something were to happen? We wouldn't know where you were or went to."

His tone wasn't condescending, but there was authority behind it. An order of sorts. It had you looking down, feeling small and weak for a moment. "I told Lisa, I wanted you guys to have some shopping and fun without me breathing down your necks."

Hearing this had the pair of hybrids looking at you with confusion, Jungkook pulling away from you. His lips parted and whether he had a questions or statement you wouldn't find out; Namjoon's voice broke the three of you out of the quiet stare down you guys had going on.

"I think we got everything we need." The ashy haired wolf approached the group, eyes lingering on everyone with an eyebrow raised. Seeing the questionable look you jumped away from Jungkook, creating some distance from yourself and the others.

"If you guys got what you needed we can pay and head out." Ducking your head, you headed towards the register where Lisa stood with a smile. Everything was rung up and ready to go, two shopping carts filled with items the hybrids had picked out. With a quick good day your group left; Jungkook and Jin pushing the carts towards the car while you gripped the single shopping bag from earlier.

"Y/n?" Namjoon was standing right behind you, his deep voice making you freeze on the spot. Slowly you turned and looked at him with eyes slightly large.

You managed to squeak out a 'yes?' and stare at the wolf, wondering what he was going to do. Was he going to go off on your for what happened in the furniture store? Or for leaving and making Jungkook upset? You were on the verge of fidgeting the longer he looked at you. Those eyes scanning over your every feature making your heart beat faster. It was soft, barely heart but you know you did: Namjoon let out a soft whine in the back of his throat, his hand quickly reaching out for one of yours.

"What's wrong?" He sounded concerned, his voice coming out in a hush. His thumb was brushing slow circles on the back of your hand, the gentle action helping quiet your hammering heart. "Did something happen?"

"I... I just thought you guys would want space as a pack." You wanted to kick yourself for sounding so weak and quiet. It seemed to be happening a lot as of late and it bothered you a bit. Closing your eyes you decided to be honest and not dance around the bush. "After all that happened today, I thought it was what you wanted. You seemed upset at the furniture store-"

"Oh angel." Namjoon cut you off with a sigh, his hand pulling you closer. Your eyes snapped open, meeting his gaze head on. The new nickname had your cheeks turning rosy. "I'm not upset. At least, not with you. Jungkook... he did something that I disapproved of." Reading your confused expression he only brought your hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of it, breathing your scent in deeply. "I'll explain once you read our files, angel."

When you only nodded he raised an eyebrow at you, not pleased with no verbal response. He raised his eyebrow for a second before his teeth nipped at your knuckles playfully, making you leap back and scowl. "Fine, yes!" He laughed at your response, gently pulling you towards the car.

"Let's get the groceries and head home." He laughed again, and looking up you spotted dimples with his wide smile. Grinning back at him you nodded in agreement with only one thought on your mind: You really liked how he said 'home'.

｡❅*⋆⍋*｡*⍋⋆*❅｡

It was eerily quiet in the large vehicle. The soft sound of the heater flowing through the vents from the front seat would have created a beautiful little bubble in the car. If it weren’t for the two passengers sitting in the back seats, shivering in their thin jackets. They learned quickly that the vents were either broken or the driver simply refused to turn the back vents on. The teasing of the heat that barely reached them would have created a sour mood. But not today.

No, today was indeed a perfect day in their eyes. And no amount of cold could dampen the light that their eyes held as they watched the large city come into view. Towering skyscrapers twinkling in the late afternoon, their lights illuminating the grays and whites from all around. The lights seemed to glow brighter as if sensing their hopeful hearts. He pressed his head against the glass, ignoring the biting chill of the surface and watched with wide eyes as the world around them zoomed by. What would they look like? For months he had envisioned what their savior would look like. He wondered what their hobbies were, their favorites, he wanted to know it all.

The daydream came to an abrupt halt much like the car that screeched to a stop on the side of the road, right outside of an apartment complex. It towered and loomed over the pair as they stared with mouths slightly agape. Was this the place? Was this where they were meant to go? The company gave them zero information on the matter with the exception of one name.

“Get out.”

The driver’s voice was as cold as the winter winds. Beady, dark eyes glaring at the two from the rearview mirror. One hand was gripping the wheel and the other was on the gear shift. He wanted them out as soon as possible. Obviously he wasn’t a fan of hybrids. It was a common occurrence but still the hate in his eyes had the pair tensing up.

“B-but which one do we-” The eldest tried to speak up, the cool glare already rattling his nerves. Even his sensitive ears he could hear the insecurity and softness in his words. He wanted to sound brave for his pack but it was hard when his own heartbeat betrayed him. He could have spoken up, perhaps sound stronger but those words died on his lips as the man in front of them laughed. It was scratchy and deep, full of mockery.

“Like I care. I was told to deliver you two here, nothing more, nothing less. So get out. Now.” He tapped the gas pedal once, cackling as the vehicle bucked forward sending the pair forward into the front seats.

Anger brewed inside but he knew arguing with the older man would only cause problems. Gripping his younger brother's hand he gently pulled him out the doors and into the cold winter air. The lightweight jackets they wore were no match for the icy winds and snowflakes that whipped around them. The moment the door was closed the car screeched off and out of sight.

“H-hyung, what now?” Arms crossed over his chest, the youngest leaned into the eldest to try and get warm. Pointed ears flattened against his head and bushy tail wrapping around himself as protection. “Sh-sh-should we kn-knock?”

They both knew that wouldn't work. At least not for them; two hybrids knocking on every door would only have Hybrid Protective Services called. And going back was not an option, at least not for them. Being homeless and living on the street would have been better than returning. Anything would have been better than returning to their company.

Today was supposed to be the start of a new life for them. A new chapter with possibilities and hope for a better future. A fresh start. Was this all a joke? Fear began to creep in as the thought of this all being one large prank grew; giving the two of them one last bit of hope only to have it ripped from them. It was very possible, knowing their company, and the thought had the eldest almost spiraling when a soft voice broke the chain of thoughts.

“Are you two from Faux Inc?”

A young woman stood behind them, shocking the pair for a moment. Dark hair was glittered in snow flakes, with equally dark eyes watching the two with curiosity and, from what they could tell, hope. She wore a professional pantsuit with a thick outer coat to help protect against the harsh weather. The air she had was calm and collected, though not cool- she was someone who felt dependable, a safe place to land.

The youngest perked up, tail wagging at the young woman. “Are you Mr. Takoda?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, fingers gripping his hyung’s jacket.

She smiled and swallowed the giggle that tried to escape and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. My name is Soojin Seo, I was one of his three assistants. I was informed by your late owner to provide you with a home for a while, letting his niece get settled in before escorting you both to the home.”

“Late owner? Mr. Takoda has passed?” The eldest blinked in surprise, turning to the other. This was not something that they were told.

“That is correct. However do not worry; his niece will be your new owner. She is slowly adjusting with the changes.” Soojin smiled at the two softly, knowing this was a confusing situation. She could only do her best to help the pair while under her temporary care. Takoda was a well planned out man; she had her instructions and would follow them perfectly. “While she is getting settled, you two will be with me for a bit.” As she spoke she walked towards a large white SUV, gracing them with a reassuring smile. “I can answer all your questions to the best of my ability on the way back to my home. I’ll do my best to ensure your safety and happiness.”

The two shared a look with the same thought bouncing between the two of them: they had nothing left to lose anyway. Perhaps it was blind trust and the cold, or maybe it was the desperation of wanting a home. Regardless the pair climbed into the warm car, their hands clasped together as questions crept to the tip of their tongues.

｡❅*⋆⍋*｡*⍋⋆*❅｡

<< Prev | Next>>

Tag List: @imnotlauriane @zae007live @kiki199497 @empower-bi-women @strxwbloody @anjoellamorte @juju-227592 @emu007 @ghostkat23 @serendididy @dif-imagines @sushicat413 @hvroldtime @scentisterror @jcrml @deejay08 @that-author @symptoms-of-moonlight @thedarkwinterrose @dearly-somber @newmbbgirl @purplelo @singukieee @mia-vicious @fluffy-canada-pancakes @lachimolala22019 @94z-93 @kissme-ornot @ayoo-bangtan @psiphidragon @kmpac @zadkielr @violetpenguinkris @unsureofwhathappens @muffinminnie @sachaa-ff @yoonaworldbts @illnevertrustmyselfagain @gooooomz @osakis-gf @chaichaiiskai @canarystwin @bookoffracturedescapes @v-love @kameko-ko @exfolitae @rlynotme @the141bandicoot @meigalaxy

#bts x reader #bts hybrid au #bts hybrid x reader #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #jimin x reader #hoseok x reader #taehyung x reader #tae x reader #jin x reader #bts x y/n #bts fic #about love

303 notes · View notes