#but everything he’s baring his blunt teeth at and backing away from aren’t always predators

[canisbeasts-ooc]

Respit is the chillest guy ever, so very calm and fine at all moments. (Lies and deception :3)

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: A Hoarding Problem.

Pairing: Pro-Hero!Yandere!Touya/Reader (Boku No Hero Academia).

Word Count: 2.5k

Synopsis: Todoroki Touya has a problem, and he’s not sure he wants to fix it.

TW: Hero AU, Minor Spoilers, Kidnapping, Mutual Extortion, Emotional Manipulation, Slight Gaslighting, Bondage, Implied Infantilization, Mention of Sedatives (No Actual Use), and Themes of Poverty. 

Todoroki Touya had a problem.

He had a lot of problems, technically. His secretary always managed to schedule the most important meetings at the least convenient times, his coffee never seemed hot enough but always burnt his tongue, and despite his fame and wealth and strange, cult-like popularity, the only thing journalists ever seemed to want to talk about was his father, why Touya didn’t inherit the ‘Endeavour’ title, how long it’d take him to live up to all those stacking, swelling expectations. He had a lot of problems, dozens, hundreds. He had a lot. Everyone did, but Touya didn’t have to deal with everyone else’s.

He just had to deal with you.

You were one of those concentrated types, your smile always a little too personal and your stare always a little too intense, like you were trying to see how much his organs would go for on the black-market before you bothered to cut him open. You were put together, too, and if he hadn’t taken the liberty of following you home so many times, he never would’ve guessed you were staying at some cheap, back-alley motel, the kind meant for people who just wanted to be anywhere but the place they used to be. A run-away, he’d guessed, at first, but you were too old for that, and you were too good at pretending you weren’t living out of the suitcase Touya was starting to get tired of rummaging through. Maybe you were a petty criminal, a villain too minor to be on his radar - he didn’t know, and he really wasn’t interested in finding out. All that mattered to him was that he’d met you, decided he liked you, and hadn’t been able to think about much else since. It was an issue, really, and it was starting to get in the way of his work. It was starting to get in the way of everything.

But, he’d had this kind of problem before. He knew what to do. He knew how to handle it.

You seemed to want to be handled, too.

You were laughing, again, but he wasn’t really sure why. It might’ve been something he said, your own little joke, but he didn’t mind the sound, all bells and wind chimes and a practiced ease that threatened to divert his focus, as he tried to keep his eyes on the road. You were slumped in the passenger seat, and if he checked, he was sure you’d be looking out the window, counting turns, memorizing street names, doing what little you could to track the convoluted, darkened route he’d been sure to plan out days ago. You’d come willingly, but you wanted to make sure you’d be able to find your way back without his help. For his own sake, Touya pretended you were just being cautious. 

“I didn’t expect a Hero to live so far from the city.” Your voice was just as light, just a notch more confident than it had been at the convenience store you both frequented, the one you’d been working at when he stumbled in, closer to sunrise than sunset and ready to fall in love with the first person who smiled at him. The job hadn’t lasted, but Touya couldn’t think of a reason to mourn the loss. You wouldn’t have been desperate enough to take him up on his offer, if you still had a steady income. “Didn’t mark you down as one of those ‘cabin in the woods’ types, either. I’m not going to find, like, a box of dismembered body parts or anything, right?” 

“Obviously,” He scoffed, his tone just playful enough to be disarming. “I try to keep my victims in one piece. Hackjobs aren’t as satisfying as you’d think.”

That earned a jab to his side, an offended ‘my hackjob would be’, but you lost interest in the exchange as soon as he reached the driveway, coming to a stop in front of that sprawling, climbing villa, three stories of concrete and glass, a stark contrast from the forest that surrounded it. You took a moment to take it in, scanning over the building, a predator evaluating its docile prey. When you turned towards Touya, your smile was just a little wider, your expression just a little brighter. “I really can’t thank you enough,” You went on, your tone so sentimental, Touya could almost ignore the hollowness behind it. “You sure you’re alright with this? My last place fell through, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find somewhere else to--”

“Don’t worry about that. All this is curtesy of the Hero Commission, and they don’t keep track of who comes ang goes.” Touya didn’t wait for you to finish, he didn’t have to, even if he did let himself enjoy your faux-gratitude as he undid his seatbelt. “Besides, it’s my job, right? I wouldn't want to find out you went and got yourself hurt because I couldn’t be bothered to clean out my guest room.” There was a slight pause, a short hesitation. You flinched when he raised his hand, but you didn’t pull away as he cupped your cheek, only learning into his warm palm. “Besides, I can’t say I’d mind a little company, all alone out here.”

In his defense, he wasn’t going to kiss you. Really, he wasn’t that mean, but he didn’t have a chance to refuse, not before your lips were on his, your hands in his hair, all sudden passion and over-eager excitement. He was stunned, at first, but Touya recovered quickly. Biting back a smirk, he leaned into the gesture, slinging an arm around your hip, tilting your head back and doing whatever he could to bring you close, to keep you close, just like he’d been dying to for months, now. He could feel you stifle a laugh, moving to pull away, but Touya only drifted to your neck, nipping at the edge of your jaw before he found your jugular, aiming for the sensitive area just above it. You only chuckled, blunt nails running over his scalp. “And I thought I was the needy one,” You chided, half-hearted pushing at his chest. “It’s cold out here, Todoroki. At least take me inside first.” 

Right. Of course. He got carried away.

He almost forgot why you were actually here.

He didn’t let you go. He didn’t want to, so he didn’t bother trying, pulling you over the center console in one swift motion, leaving you in his lap, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder and an arm under your thighs, supporting your weight as he jerkily kicked open the door, letting you duck your head and giggle, always giggling, always trying to pretend to be meek and harmless and innocent. He wondered if you’d stop, eventually, if you’d drop the act once he decided both of you should show your true colors. He’d be lying if he said he hated the idea of choking it out of you. 

The front door wasn’t locked. He didn’t bother, not with his profession, not when he knew he’d be coming home with you, tonight. If you noticed, you didn’t seem to mind, focusing on locking your ankles behind his back, on swallowing down that small, pained groan as he slammed your back into the nearest wall of his darkened villa just a little too hard, pretending not to notice as your smile wavered in the minimal light. “I don’t think this counts as protecting the--” 

You were cut off by a loud thud, metallic and hollow, like someone hitting drywall with a baseball bat. You paused, for a second, your gaze flickering to the space behind him, but he was quick to kiss your cheek, to bring your attention back to where it should be, on him. “‘s just my roommate,” He mumbled, hoping you’d be too used to the excuse to linger on it. “Don’t pay it too much mind. He’s probably just fucking around.” 

This time, your smile dropped completely. “The Hero Commission... lets you have a roommate?” 

He caught his mistake a second too late. He opened his mouth, ready to explain, but another noise interrupted him, a rattling this time, followed by another deafening, irritating thud. He grit his teeth, but you only stiffened, your next shove to his chest a little more insistent than the last. “He might be hurt,” You started, the concern in your voice more genuine than it’d been all night. “We should check on him, that sounds--” 

“It’ll be fine.” He spoke a little too quickly, a little too aggressively. Instantly, your eyes widened, your entire body going tense against his, and Touya had to fight not to lose his composure completely. It was too soon. It was too early. He wanted to be sweet. He didn’t want to be mean, not with you. “Just ignore it, sweetheart, it’s not important. You’re here for me, right? The brat shouldn’t--” 

It was a slip-up. A petname so common, he hardly noticed he’d said it until you were scrambling, writhing, digging your nails into his biceps deep enough to break the skin, forcing him to let you go out reflex alone. You barely managed to catch yourself, but you stayed on your feet, shoving past Touya while he was still hissing out curses, clutching at bleeding wounds and broken scars. There was another thud, and you moved to sprint in the direction it’d come from, but he was a Hero, he was trained for this. You were on the ground before you could take a step, Touya straddling your stomach, his hands around your neck. He didn’t squeeze, though, he didn’t want to strangle you. He was going to be patient. This was going to be different. “Just behave,” He growled, fighting to hold onto the last threads of his restraint. “It’s not important. I’m important, and that’s all you have to care about. That’s all you’re ever going to care about, from now on.”

You didn’t hesitate. As soon as he finished, you were jerking forward, your forehead colliding with his and forcing a ragged scream from both of you. He’d give you credit for that. Villains and Heroes fought with quirks, specialized weapons, tactics and strategies and purpose. This was blunt. This was thoughtless. It was impulsive, and it was stupid, and it worked, letting you push him away as he recoiled, suddenly too focused on his pounding skull to care about what you might find. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. None of your little tantrums would.

He’d find you, eventually. After that, the results would be the same.

That might’ve been why Touya took his time, pushing himself to his feet slowly, following the sound of your footsteps before they abruptly stopped. He tried not to be bothered by it, even if there was a familiar pang of anxiety when he saw you, your mouth agape and your body slack, leaning against a door that should not be open. He might’ve walked a little faster, out of habit, but if you noticed him, you were too distracted to care. He couldn’t blame you. Not when he knew what you were looking at. 

He got a little carried away, with the girls’ room. Pale pink paint coated on every surface, fairy-lights strung along the ceiling, and a white, circular rug, fluffy and stainless and just small enough to stop before it reached the three cots, settled along each of the walls, each with its own frilly sheets and plush mattress and bare, metallic frame, something Touya might’ve considered swapping out if their opponents were a little more grateful. Two were empty, the first a spare if he needed room for a future ‘guest’ and the second a reminder to check on the bitch in his basement, and the third was on its side. That was what you were focusing on, what he couldn’t seem to pull you away from as he slotted himself against your back, wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. 

That, and the girl sitting in front of it, a ball-gag stuffed in her mouth and a collar around her neck, thick and leathery and attached to a chain, keeping her tethered to the nearest wall. There were a few noticeable dents in the plaster around her bracket, but Touya had better things to worry about. 

There was a garbled scream, something that might’ve been a warning, but Touya silenced her off with a glare sharp enough cut glass. “Shut it,” He barked, all pretense of patience gone. “Shut up, or you’re going to spend the next week in a muzzle. I’ll deal with you later.”

“You kidnapped her.” At least you waited your turn, even if the delay did little too soften the disgust in your voice. “You’re a monster. You’re supposed to be--” 

“A hero?” You tried to shove him away, to pry him off of you, but he only tightened his grip. “And you’re supposed to be an innocent civilian, aren’t you? Something soft and appreciative I can feel good about helping, fuck, and forget about the next day, right?” 

“Don’t try to--” 

“Where do you keep the bottle, sweetheart?” Now, it was your turn to go tense, to know he saw something he shouldn’t have seen. “Don’t lie to me. It won’t be pretty, if we start off this relationship on a bad foot.” 

You hesitated, for a moment. He saw your swallow, watched your eyes dart towards anything that could’ve been considered a weapon, but his fingers slipped under your shirt and you bowed your head, giving in at the slightest threat of something worse. He liked that about you. Such a simple thing, too afraid of pain to take the risk. “My jacket. There are pockets on the inside - it’s on the right.” 

He’d give you credit. It looked realistic, if nothing else, a translucent orange bottle with a white lid, the label scratched off in a way that could’ve been mistaken for nervous fidgeting, if Touya didn’t know better. With one hand, he popped off the lid, barely glancing at the unmarked pills inside before letting out a pleased hum. 

Sedatives. Not lethal, but effective. The type you could get from any low-ranking Villain with a surplus supply and a greater need for clients than most. 

The type that could be slipped into wine glasses, mixed into water. The type that’d keep your trusting, unsuspecting host nice and unconscious while you helped yourself to anything that wasn’t nailed down. While you robbed him blind, stowed yourself away in another cheap motel room two towns over, and scouted for the next poor guy who’d be too embarrassed to say anything.

Touya couldn’t help himself. He laughed, loudly and shamelessly, watching as you withered, glaring at the tiled floor. He couldn’t tell if it was fear of loathing, half-suspended terror or that deep, ingrained hatred any good predator should feel when it’s caught in a trap, but your voice couldn’t have made it more clear. “What’s your plan?” You spat, all humiliation, all spirited, adorable anger. His grin widened, the lasting tension in his shoulders dissolving, but if you noticed how much he enjoyed your little show, you didn’t bother trying to keep your mouth shut. “Arrest me? Hand me over to the police and let me tell them all about your creepy, fucked-up dollhouse?” You never looked up. You never so much as tried to meet his eyes, let alone glance at the ‘victim’ you’d been so intent on saving a few minutes ago. “Let me go. You don’t have another choice, unless you’re willing to get your hands dirty.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’m not gonna kill you.” It wasn’t a lie, but you didn’t seem to believe him, going rigid as his lips brushed against the nape of your neck. It was a fleeting gesture, but he didn’t let himself linger. He’d have plenty of time for that once he got you used to your new role, under his care. Once you got used to him. “I’m not gonna hand you over, either. That’d just be a waste.”

He might’ve been a little mean, after all. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have given you so much time to answer, so much time to tremble. At least you didn’t try to get away, this time. You were already learning. “I… I don’t--” 

“I’m going to take care of you, angel. Just like I’m taking care of her.”

There was a moment of stillness, a small, ragged sob, but Touya couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but satisfied. 

Because Todoroki Touya had a problem. Because he was awful and hungry and greedy, and he had a problem.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to fix it.

[slasherholic]

synopsis: one stolen kiss leads to another.

Once in a Blue Moon | Michael Myers x Reader

It is after midnight but not quite dawn, when the world exists in shades of muted grey and all is still and silent. You lie on your side with the covers pulled up to your chest and listen to an early-morning breeze whistling through the trees outside, watching it blow in through the window above your headboard to ripple like water through the curtains. 

Michael lies on his back and he doesn’t make a movement. Not a sound. But he’s not asleep; you can tell. He holds a subtle tension in his jaw and his breaths are far too controlled. You absently caress a lock of his dark hair, just behind his ear, rubbing it slowly between your thumb and fingers. 

Michael is aware of your touch. And yet he allows it.

You aren’t surprised. Michael is living proof that even the most vicious of predators will tolerate a gentle petting; so long as it’s in the right spot. 

You bite back a yawn as you wind the fleecy curl around your index finger. Sleep hangs heavy over your head and every blink is a battle and still you fight it off with tooth and claw. This moment is far too precious to let slip away. Sleep can wait. Mornings bring with them uncertainty, the possibility of pain, of worse; but in the here and now you are safe. In the here and now, he will not hurt you. 

And in the here and now, you want nothing more in the world than to touch Michael for just a little while longer.

The moon and stars outside your window shift in the sky. Dawn draws nearer. You think you can tell the point when Michael falls asleep; when the subtle tension in his jaw slackens and his head dips slightly toward his chest and his breaths come and go as steadily as a tide, sweeping in, filling out his powerful frame, retreating again. You look at his hands where they lay at his sides and for a moment the are not murderer’s hands but just human hands instead, hands with long fingers and broad knuckles and strong, distinct tendons. Capable hands. Beautiful hands.

And then you look again. And you see the dark viscera caked beneath the blunt fingernails. The faint rusty discoloration staining the long fingers. 

And even in sleep, Michael’s body radiates all of his murderous potential. A resting tiger still has its claws.

But for now the threat is placated, dormant; and so long as you are careful, very careful, it is safe to admire Michael’s body in ways that he would never consciously allow.

 You lean in and press your mouth to his burning neck. It is an utterly forbidden place and it only makes the stolen kiss sweeter. You can feel the thump of his pulse against your mouth, slow and unhurried; you imagine the hot blood pumping through his thick arteries, feeding his body and his brain, and you imagine the strong heart in his chest, and imagine it beating harder as he hunts some faceless victim and strikes and spills their blood, and the thought is both terrible and beautiful somehow, and by having thought it you make yourself shudder.

You don’t linger at Michael’s neck for long. You know not to push your luck with him. In a matter of seconds you are pulling back again, looking up to study his restful, moonlit face.

You quickly draw in breath.

 Michael’s eyes are open. He’s not asleep.

 He stares at the ceiling and not at you, but still you know that he is watching you, considering you, unreadable.

 “Sorry...” you breathe, your voice the faintest whisper. You doubt he even heard it. And it doesn’t matter. It was a hopeless gesture to begin with.

Michael turns his head and looks at you. His eyes are pale and steely in the muddled darkness and their gaze freezes you like a deer caught in the headlights and so you lay there dumbly, struggling to blink, to draw breath, to do anything but wait for the moment those violent thoughts and familiar urges flood his brain, urges he will act on without hesitation.

He turns on his side and props up on his elbow. You flinch like you’ve been shot. He reaches with that dangerous hand out toward your head and you shut your eyes, petrified, and when his strong fingers lock in your hair you quiver like a leaf in a storm, bracing habitually for hurt; 

hurt that never arrives. 

The hand in your hair does not yank harshly upwards, does not wrench your head back, does not harm you in any way; and maybe if your heart were not a runaway train in your chest, if your breathing weren’t so shallow and your lips not so trembling, you could understand that the hand is not there to hurt you, but to secure you, to hold you in your place against the pillow, to make sure you can’t wiggle away from what happens next.

You feel the space between you vanish as Michael leans in close. His hair tickles when it brushes over your cheek and oh, he’s going to kiss you, and it’s probably going to hurt.

Michael’s lips are remarkably soft. Soft and warm, and as they press against your own their warmth and softness almost brings down your walls in one fell swoop, almost has you melting eagerly into the kiss, almost has you kissing him back. Almost. 

And that’s just what he wants, screams a frantic thought through your frantic mind, and so instead of walking headlong into a trap you go as stiff and still as a corpse and let Michael have his way.

This kiss is different from all the other times Michael has kissed you, which isn’t many at all. He takes your bottom lip between his front teeth, nibbling, pulling at the tender flesh, and in return you whimper, grabbing the sheets beneath you, dreading that inevitable moment when he bites down hard and makes you hurt again, squirm again, bleed again. 

But the moment you are dreading never arrives; Michael’s teeth retreat. And now his hot tongue is prodding at your lips, insistent, and when you open up for him he slips it lazily inside, exploring your taste, your heat.

The gentleness of it all is shocking, baffling. Although Michael’s gentleness is not entirely foreign you know that there is always a catch to it. Always.

And here it comes, you think, as Michael switches the hand in your hair from his left to his right, his freed one slipping down now to snake around your waist and squash what little space lies between your bodies, anchoring you against his powerful chest so tightly that you have no hope of wiggling free from his arms, not if your life depended on it—and it very well might.

Michael’s breath beats steadily down on your nape. He tugs at your hair—adamant, yet with a gentleness that leaves you whimpering in a different way—and you obey him mindlessly as he tugs and tugs and tilts your head back until you’re looking straight up, neck cleanly exposed to him.

The tender brush of his lips makes your breath hitch in your throat. He drags them up your skin, his mouth burning where it makes contact, stopping just below your ear; your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you realize that oh, it’s the very spot where you had kissed him.

You wait for him to bare his teeth. To take his revenge.

And Michael does nothing. He rests his lips on that spot and his breath curls against your skin and he doesn’t move a muscle.

Your heart beats faster. Every second Michael does nothing it beats faster. Faster, faster, until the anticipation of it all is suffocating, choking, and you are sure that Michael’s hesitance is a deliberate act, sure he knows you are so frightened of him that he can do nothing at all, nothing but touch you, softly, as gentle as a lover, and still you quake and quiver beneath his hands and lips and do all except beg him not to hurt you. 

You think he likes the way it feels; you think his complete and total ownership of your mind and your body is an endless source of twisted entertainment for him; as easy and accessible as turning on a favored television channel.

You think he likes the way it makes you feel, too; utterly powerless. Powerless and frightened and small, small, small.

Finally, finally, Michael’s lips part over your skin. He captures you in his mouth and starts sucking leisurely, as though he has all the time in the world and then some, and you can feel his everything on you, his teeth, his tongue, the hand in your hair, the arm around your waist, and he sucks and sucks and sucks away at the spot until you are sore, aching even, but not in a bad way, not even remotely.

There comes a brief moment where he pulls away. And you think it is over.

Instead, his mouth shifts an inch down your neck. And he starts all over again. And a twisting feeling in your gut tells you that every square inch of your throat is getting covered in his ugly red hickies.

You try to remain indifferent at first before deciding that indifference is a terrible idea; if it is a reaction Michael is looking for then you would be wise to give him one. Before he resorts to other measures.

So when the moans begin to dribble like thick syrup past your lips you do absolutely nothing to stifle them.

Sometime later, when your neck glistens wetly beneath the pale light seeping between your fluttering curtains, Michael’s mouth retreats, along with the hand in your hair; and they do not come back. You feel him settle in against your pillow and you wonder if that is the end of it.

You stop wondering as soon as his fingers wrap around your throat.

Oh, you think, amidst the rising wave of panic flooding your brain. The whole thing really was a trap, then. Of course it was. And now you’ve stumbled headlong into it like all the rest. It’s no small wonder that Michael has so much fun with you; you practically serve yourself up to him on a silver platter.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight and pray that if he renders you unconscious now you’ll still wake up again in the morning.

Quickly, you discover that the hot hand around your neck is not there to strangle you. The fingers fan out—the thumb settling beneath your jaw—and they contract around your neck with just enough pressure to make your heartbeat thump against them, and no more.

Michael isn’t hurting you. He’s just observing you. Just listening to the motions of your body. 

You breathe deeply beneath Michael’s fingers and try to soothe your rapid pulse; a frantic heart might excite his urges, might make him decide that no, you know what, he actually is going to terrorize you tonight.

But before long, the hand around your neck loosens. The fingers go slack. The warm chest pressing up against your back contracts steadily in time with the breaths on your nape, which even out, growing loose and rhythmic. And sleep has finally claimed Michael.

You fight the pull of your own sleep for awhile longer because even now, this could still be a trap. You could wake up to him choking you or molesting you or doing any number of cruel things to your vulnerable body.

So you wait. And you wait. And wait.

Maybe he was too tired to finish the job. Maybe scaring you half to death was enough. Maybe he’s going to make you hurt twice as bad in the morning.

You ponder these things as you reach carefully up to your neck, mindful not to graze the fingers still resting there, and inspect the tender markings Michael left behind. 

All because of a stolen kiss. How reckless of you. How stupid.

It is much closer now to dawn than midnight. You wait for just a minute longer. Just to be safe. Just to be certain.

But all is quiet. Nothing stirs. Nothing more happens.

And for once,

for once,

despite if he meant it and despite if he didn’t,

a kiss is just a kiss.

[queenofangrymoths]

Sunset After Ashes - I

So this is a story that I was held at gunpoint by one of my characters. Her name is Ash and she’s a bi, Italian vampire. I hope you enjoy the first part of her story. Message me if you want to get tagged for this?? Don’t know how long this will go on but just, IDK, message if you’re interested.

For the record:

Topolino means ‘little mouse’ in Italian.

Conejito means ‘little bunny’ in Spanish.

-

1980

It’s funny how ex-boyfriends can come back to bite you in the ass. Or the neck, in Ashley Carissima Lucy Vecellio case. She shivered, twitching on the tiled floor of her parent’s bathroom, burning with a high fever. Everything hurt. Her neck, her mouth - everything. She’d shivered in bed for most of the day, then the pain worsened. It was enough to make her scream and cry, muttering a prayer under her breath. All of the prayers were that death might come and take her but they fell on deaf ears.

It was Sunday, she got out of church by claiming she was sick. It wasn’t much of a lie. This was the worst of it, she shivered. Rick said he’d come when she was ‘out of the worst of it’. As much as she was scared of what she was going through now - she was downright terrified of when Rick was comingto get her. Seems like we might need some context on this Rick, shall we? Well, Rick is an asshole. A complete douche. Not always, she knew but now, he was a dick.

Ashley met Rick at church when she was nineteen. He winked at her subtly and she blinked like a damsel as the song and dance began. Dates at diners, dancing clubs, dinner with her family. It was everything Ashley hoped for. She was so sure that she might marry him in their local church all dressed up in white. That’s when it took a turn for the worst.

“Where are you going?” He asked her as she walked out of their apartment, really it was her apartment but they lived together.

She grabbed her keys, putting on black sunglasses. “Just out to the mall,”

“You can’t.”

“Excuse me?” She looked up at him, her hand already on the doorknob.

“You can’t go to the mall,” he said again, she stared at him harder.

She blinked her long lashes, her brow starting to furrow. “Listen, Rick, I need to go pick up some highlighters - for my test on Friday-”

Then he said something that blew her mind. Made her furious and started a long hell. “I think you should drop out.”

She stopped, her heart beating fast. “Excuse….Excuse me?”

“I think you should drop out.”

Ashley stared at him, she grew cold as she took off her sunglasses, her eyes on fire. She’d worked her ass off to get in her program, to get a spot in a male-dominated field and...he wanted her to drop out. “You’ve got to out of your goddamn mind, Rick, if you think I’m dropping out.”

He got up, walking towards her. Why her blood chilled as he stalked up to her, she was unsure. She didn’t know why but her heart started racing faster and faster like a rabbit upon seeing a predator. “You’ll never get a job, Ashley, no one wants to hire a girl for engineering.”

Despite her fear, she held her ground. “Then I’ll be the first. Now, I’m going to the mall, to get some highlighters, get out of my way.” She hissed, turning the doorknob and walked out, slamming the door behind her. It only got worse from there. He didn’t stop her from going to her classes but he demanded to know where she was at all time, even if she was out with friends or family. They argued more, Ashley pushing against every boundary and rule he tried to set. She knew it was going to happen eventually but it still hurt when he hit her. And that, that was Ash’s line in the sand.

“Get out!!!!” She screamed, clutching her cheek and glaring at him fiercely.

“Ashley, it was an accident -” He stuttered but she cut him off, blunt teeth bared.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the police!” She growled, inching closer to the landline. He stared at her, his face paled. “Well?! GET OUT!” She screamed. It took a second but he ran like a rat with his tail between his legs. Ash took a breathe as the door closed and called her Mama, crying. It was a rough night but it was the start of something new. 

 Three years went by without issue. Rick left Ashley the fuck alone. She graduated college with a bachelor's degree in engineering and started working as an architectural engineer, turns out someone did hire her! A girl! Who would have known? Every day she succeeded made her feel smug, every achievement a little fuck you, Rick, because Ashley was petty like that.

Then the attack happened. Memories of it were blurred and in actuality, she was glad she couldn’t remember it. Still, she never forgot what Rick had said. “We can be together forever, Ashley! Don’t you see this is the best option?” Clearly, there was a difference of opinions because Ash punched Rick right in the jaw as soon as he released her, stumbling and weak but still pissed as hell. “Don’t worry, Ashley, I’ll come to get you after the worst of it,” He left her at her parents' house, claiming that he found her drunk. Ash hated him for that. That and the bite.

Days later, she was alone when the fangs grew, alone when the cravings took her. Alone and content to scream her heart out. The next two days were messy, no other words fit the proper description. At long last, she woke up changed, tired and hungry. Her family surrounding her, Mama sobbing with relief. Her aunts set to work, feeding her water and broth.

“Don’t let him in,” she whispered to Mama and the aunties. 

“Who, honey?” Mama asked. 

“Rick - don’t - don’t let him in.” she cried.

When Rick arrived the next day, claiming he was going to bring Ash back to their apartment, Mama looked him dead in the eyes and said he wasn’t welcomed in their house anymore. The strangest thing happened, his dark eyes widened and his olive skin paled as he scrambled out of the house, quicker than a jackrabbit. “Like a rat,” She muttered to her daughter. They shared a giggle.

For weeks, she couldn’t think clearly. All she remembered was just...feelings. The hunger m never went away and the new fangs pricked her tongue all the time. She knew they could fold back...somehow. Ash didn’t know how to or what might satisfy her. When the aunties finally declared that Ash was well enough to rejoin the living world, they spent the day cooking, the kitchen smelled heavenly of rosemary and garlic.

Only for Ash to end up in the hospital with a swollen throat caused by an allergic reaction. “Garlic??? Are you kidding???” She heard Mama titter before giving her hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry, topolino, we’ll get through this,”

Ash didn’t remember much of her time in the hospital. Her memory was pretty shitty right after turning, that happened with the change and her body trying to figure what the fuck was going on. Her dreams were weird - filled with blood and darkness, raw meat, and lots and lots of blood. It made her mouth water. The cravings worsened to the point that now, Ash knew she was *this* close going mad. Fledgelings needed to feed regularly, even more than a usual vampire. If they weren’t, then….it was an absolute disaster. And that’s what Ash’s turning was, a disaster.

Somehow, she broke out of the hospital and wandered wandering the streets of LA, half out of her mind. She was lucky that she didn’t maim anyone or a hunter hadn’t found her since she’d be easy prey for even a beginning hunter. Thankfully, Alejandra found her first.

“Goodness, fledgling, aren’t you a mess,” A voice was as clear as the water Ash sat in. The newly turned vampire was sitting one of the many pools of fountain Monterey Park, completely soaked to the bone. Standing in front of her was a woman with polished bronze skin, the color reminded Ash of warriors of old and their shields with dark brown hair tied back to keep out of her face. A bag was hanging in the crook of her elbow and her eyes covered by big sunglasses.

“I’m…” It was hard to form sentences, difficult to even think properly. It frustrated the newly turned vampire to no end. She was a goddamn engineer, not an idiot. “Hungry.” She bit through her lip and it drew blood. It tasted so sweet and Ash was this close to crying with relief. 

The woman took off her sunglasses, showing black eyes so beautiful, filled with pity. With a hand reaching in her bag, she stepped towards Ash. With slender fingers, out of her bag came a blood bag and she offered it to the sorry girl. “Drink, fledgling,” 

Ash didn’t hesitate, she snatched the bag and drank the contents like a starved, feral animal. Her mouth was covered in blood, steady drops dripped down her chin and found their way in the water. The woman offered her another and then another. When the third blood bag, Ash felt more like...her, normal for the first time in so many days. “Feel better, conejito?”

Ash blinked at her, her lips parting to show longer canines.“Why do I feel like that?” Her cheeks felt fuller with the fangs unlocked, she had a lisp. She just drank blood, holy shit. The metallic taste was wonderful on her tongue and the craving, the endless hunger was gone! She didn’t feel fucking fantastic but she felt fine.

The woman helped her up, covering Ash in her jacket. “Because you’re a fledgling, conejito. Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” She attempted to reassure her.

“I’m a what?”

“A fledgling,” Like a guardian angel the woman - who was called Alejandra, guided her down the streets, in the direction of the hospital. “Oh, you don’t know?” Her voice was filled to their brink with sympathy. “What’s your name, conejito?”

“Ash.” 

“Listen, Ash, this may sound impossible but you’re a vampire.” The words were serious and stern, not a single ounce of joking. Ash swallowed hard and stared, unblinking.

“I’m a what?” 

“A vampire, you need a mentor, fledgling. Who bite you?” 

“My ex-boyfriend.” Ash muttered a curse under her breath, cursing his name to God and whatever Hell she could manage. 

In two seconds, Alejandra decided that this fledgling was hers now. “Well, fuck him, I’ll be your mentor now.” the woman said as they arrived at the hospital. Alejandra gently pushed Ash in the hospital lobby  “Meet me in Monterey Park, you’ll know when.”

“Wait, you just can’t leave me here without explaining everything-” Ash turned and Alejandra, her guardian angel, gone. As if she’d never been there in the first place. Stunned, Ash watched the sunrise, not even noticing as a  nurse rushing up to her. Not until she pulled her deeper into the lobby and screaming that she’d been found.

Three days out of the hospital, three days of somewhat normality in avoiding the sun, garlic, and crosses which was harder than most because Ash was fucking, hardcore Italian. Sunshine, garlic, and crosses were practically their culture. After three days, the hunger came back but this time Ash knew what to do. After the sunset, she slipped out of her room and made her way to Monterey Park. As she arrived at the fountain, there was Alejandra with her bag, waiting for her. “I want a fucking refund,” Ash called as she walked closer. 

Alejandra’s lips quirked into a smile. “And why is that, Conejito?”

“No sunlight, no garlic, no crosses - I am fucking Italian!! How the fuck am I supposed to avoid those things?!” Ash huffed, her fangs popping out with her anger.

Alejandra threw her head back and laughed, her dark eyes glittering with glee. “You got spirit, conejito, I’ll give you that, but joking time is over. Class is in session now.”

“Will there be a test?”

“Perhaps,” and then, they got to work.

[crucialandinert]

wip: Wiederkehr

I think I figured it out.

What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence.... The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? 

Jared could barely bring himself to believe it had happened. As he sat on his cot, in the dark, just faintly touched by the dim tail-ends of the day's radiance that fanned out through the crack where the garage door failed to fully meet the drive; only the stinging of his cheek, probed by wondering fingers, informed him he hadn't dreamt it.

Dinesh -- had struck him. Dinesh... had assaulted him, really; become an assailant, became the latest in a long line of assailants. Of course, it hadn't been his fault, Gilfoyle had laid hands on Dinesh first, and Dinesh merely passed it along down the ageless chain of scapegoating, a perfectly normal psychological defense. Jared had no doubt that this particular chain had begun somewhere in Gilfoyle's childhood, he'd picked up on that at once; no matter how divergently they'd responded as adults -- like knows like, on the inside. In fact, Jared's heart hurt for Gilf, who wore his darkness on his sleeve, and for Dinesh too, whose soul's compass, lacking true north, was condemned to spin wildly. He was sure they were not proud right now, sure that they were suffering torments; had he been translating Gilfoyle's parting "Shut up, Jared" for the subtext U.N., he would have rendered it as: "I am terribly ashamed." 

But, as well as he understood and forgave what had happened, Jared found his body beginning to fold in on itself as he drew his distant knees to his chest. It was just -- he hadn't wanted it to be this way, not this time. He'd really, truly thought that it wasn't going to be. Once out of the clutches of rapacious Gavin, following bright Richard to freedom, becoming one of the band of brothers, awash in the delight of their gentle ribbing and camaraderie, amid the warmest sense of family he'd known... he'd thought he was safe. Oh, the tune those words took in his head. A song gone wrong, a declining minor third. A mocking taunt.

Stupidly, because he'd tried so hard, because he'd thought this time he had it right, it did come as a shock, despite the truths he had come to accept about human nature. People are people; cruelty and exploitation lie dormant somewhere inside every son of Adam, every daughter of Eve, waiting for the right conditions in order to emerge. Jared, apparently, was one such condition, his particular configuration of weakness and vulnerability a perfect enticement to tempt forth maltreatment from even one so mild as Dinesh. It was he, Jared himself, who caused it every time; he was the constant: the element that decayed every situation, no matter how promising, to the same dark matter. 

Yes, he always caused it. Gavin, monumental Gavin -- Gavin of giant stature, who held the key and had the power to reach inside him and pull out every last handful of shame that rooted there, to rub his face in it -- Gavin had taught him that. Gavin had made him tiny, to the point of nonexistence; he blinked "Donald” into nothingness at his whim, and put in his place exactly the vessel he desired. He had done it with such perfect clarity, that Jared had been forced to face that every escape he’d thought he’d made so far had been a false one; everywhere he'd run had returned him to the labyrinth's heart. And he’d thought being brought to this realization for the first time was a good thing, a healing thing; a sign that he was ready to change, to leave it behind, abjure it, move forward in straight lines and ascending topography; at last arise to plains of joy.  

But Jared had been wrong. Nothing had changed at all.

He is in the void. Blackness surrounds him. All he can feel: the sting of the carpet, on his knees, on his shins; the discomfort in his arms, wrenched behind his back; the curve of his spine, as his head is yanked roughly to expose the fragile throat; the hotness of the flush on his cheeks; the clammy, pricking sweat of fear. There's a voice in his ears, that comes with heavy breath; a hand in his hair, sometimes caressing, sometimes clawing; and the voice is saying:

Do you want to be a good boy for me? 

Jared?  

I won't hurt you. 

Because I don't have to hurt you.  

Because you aren’t anything. 

And you need me.  

To give you shape. 

Jared almost can't distinguish if it's Gavin's voice or just the background noise in his head; if it's the former, there's a certain peace in hearing it aloud, returning to him from outside, in resolution clearer, condensed from the cloud of static that never leaves his brain. Another peace is found in the sequence of relinquishing his body; submission, going limp, an ancient analgesic in which his frame is well-practiced; this is for Jared an area of confidence, a source of security, a firm foundation.

He will not open his eyes. 

Once the more existential humiliation is complete to Gavin's satisfaction, Jared, still on his knees, turns his face toward his second task of the evening. He pauses for a moment, head bowed; barely traces his lips softly upon the most sensitive part of the proffered tumescence; his hands gently slide up the disdainful, domineering straddled legs to hold the other man close. With the wind of a last inhale sweeping through him, he goes down on Gavin; goes down, into a further, warmer dark, made liquid; waves of infantile pleasure propagating through the part of his soul which is called his body. Time is lost, he is lost, dissipated into dream; annihilated; safe. He never wants it to end. 

It does, of course. Brusquely, the hand in his hair makes him aware that this particular service is no longer required; and the voice in his ear informs him what is. Gavin pushes Jared forward onto the floor, his cheek ground into that stinging carpet, as the older man makes ready to enter him. All of Jared tightens slightly, involuntarily tries to knit itself against the burning and blunt, tearing pressure that’s about to come; the doctor has told him many, many times that he can't keep laying damage over damage like this, and Jared thinks: Gavin is the only one who truly understands how much it doesn't matter.  

Now, the voice is in his ear again as Gavin bends over his back; it's cliche really, predator and prey, but Jared still shrinks from the places where Gavin's skin touches him.

If it wasn't me, it would be someone else, you know that.  

You could never survive by yourself. 

The words are more painful than the physical sensations, from which, along with any pleasure, he is removed; reduced to a muffled, rocking, rhythm, the feeling's not much more than a sickening pressure in his insides, that threatens to push his guts out. But perhaps it's the repeated, swallowed pain that sharpens him to perceive it in that moment: Gavin is completely, engulfingly correct. This is what is true, and Gavin can see it, knows it, knew it the moment hapless lame-duck Donald first set foot through his office door. There has always been someone else, someone stronger, bolder, armed with a kind of aggression Jared does not have, someone whose skill is not submission; solid where he is hazy, loud where he is silenced; real, alive, where he is merely an apparition. Jared does need that kind of person to survive; in those brief periods of his life when he has been devoid of such a one, when he lacks this orientating force within a bond that cannot break, when he is not coveted, guarded jealously, when his freedom is so valueless that no-one wants to take it away -- at best, he begins to find he cannot eat, and at worst ends up bloodied or in the hospital. 

You'll never escape.

A lump trickles down from his chest and into his throat. Until Gavin -- he thinks it was Gavin -- said it, he hadn't remembered it was there; the germ of hope, for escape, with which he always begins, the energetic, unfailingly positive person who lives in his head and believes that this time it will be different. The past, learned from, will be left in the past; he'll be careful, he's chosen well; who could possibly make that mistake again. He's an adult now, finally arrived at the fate of liberation he always knew would come; no matter where he was he always knew it, and therefore survived: in attics, in closets, in Uncle Jerry's bedroom; in spare and sterile dormitories with other boys from whom there wasn’t an escape; in courtrooms, social workers' offices, in the kennel with the dogs. And now, always, always trying again, the same surety clutched in his head that this would be the last time, the resolution waited for with geological endurance; a surety demolished, then renewed, and wholeheartedly reenacted with every expectation of the sun; and yet, here, exactly here, is where he always finds himself in the end. In German, he hears himself thinking, there’s a word for it: Wiederkehr, the eternal return.

Jared.

You’ll never escape who you are. 

Afterwards, he showers, and knows that post a dreamless sleep he'll wake up strangely refreshed. Somehow, a certain amount of pain or injury has the effect of holding him together, mind washed clean and unturbulent, at times for as long as a week. All anyone will see is a brisk young man in a high-powered job he inhabits effortlessly, and Jared will be able to forget ever having been anything else; until the next time. Time? In fact, would you look at the time, he'd better get to bed chop-chop. He has to be fresh for the morning; they have that developer from the QA department, the Pied Piper fellow, coming in with his algorithm for Gavin to acquire. 

Jared takes a last look in the mirror. He knows the face is his but it just doesn't look familiar. He has to mentally marshal and reorder planes of flesh and buried bone structures to get it to hang together as a face at all; and the eyes. So wide, and oddly-shaped and staring: perhaps it's to an alien that they should belong.